#i have a final tomorrow but instead of preparing i finally finished this

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 IN PAPER RINGS AND PICTURE FRAMES!

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai has never been a true believer of murphy’s law, not until today at least. he swears the world is out to get him, all he wanted was to give you a nice valentine’s day... and maybe something a little extra special. (wordcount: 6.7k; sfw; very brief mentions of dazai's attempts, fem!reader)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: valentine's day fic for my sweetest boy

“What do you mean I can’t have the day off?” Dazai cries out, staring down at his phone in abject horror. A pillow is flung at his head and Dazai sputters out an apology to you before lifting his phone back to his ear, making a point to lower his voice as he says, “Kunikida-kun, it’s Valentine’s Day. Not even you can be this heartless.”

“Dazai!” Kunikida says, voice stern and sharp, and Dazai knows that the man is serious because he’s not spitting out insults about Dazai’s laziness and lack of drive to do anything but lounge around and avoid work. “Trust me. It brings me no joy to make you come in today—not for your sake, but for her’s. But we have to finish up the final preparations for Tanizaki and Atsushi’s upcoming mission before they leave for Kyoto tomorrow morning. Get to the office now.”

“Kunikida-kun,” Dazai complains, feeling a bit more panicked, “but I-”

“Maybe if you had actually done your work the past few days, I could’ve covered for you,” Kunikida spits out angrily. “But we have double the workload to finish by tonight because you’ve been slacking off the past week. Anyway, you shouldn’t be calling the day of asking for a day off. Be to the office asap.”

Kunikida doesn’t even wait for Dazai’s response, hanging up the phone and leaving Dazai standing in your apartment staring at his phone with parted lips and wide eyes, unable to comprehend what just happened. A noise escapes his lips, something caught between a scoff and a whimper, and Dazai thinks he might cry. He feels like a wounded puppy as he turns his attention over to where you’re still curled up in bed, eyes barely cracked open as you watch him with furrowed brows.

“Bella…” he pouts, making his way over to you so he can sit next to you on the bed. “They’re making me go into the office.”

You only roll toward him, eyes heavy with sleep, barely able to hold them open, and Dazai’s chest feels tight and warm with a lovely feeling that he’s only ever experienced with you. He reaches out to cup your cheek, fingertips grazing your skin—your lashes flutter as your eyes droop back shut, and Dazai doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling of someone seeking out his touch, trusting his hands as if they aren’t rotted and blood-stained.

“Then go,” you say with a yawn, leaning into his touch and pulling the dark comforter back up around your shoulders from where it had slipped down your body.

Dazai pushes his lip out even more. “It’s Valentine’s Day. I wanted to spend the day with you. You took off today too.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him and Dazai wants to tell you that it is decidedly not okay but he can’t tell you that because you’ll ask why and he can’t tell you without ruining everything. “I’m tired anyway. Someone decided to keep me up half the night.” 

Dazai can hardly even muster the vulgar smile and dirty joke that should have come to him with ease, and evidently, that’s proof enough to you that something must be seriously wrong because you crack your eyes back open and peer up at him, concern slowly eclipsing the tiredness. Another thing he’ll never be used to: having someone genuinely worry over him even over the smallest things. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask him softly, yawning again as you reach up to run your fingers through his hair. The comforter slides down from around your shoulders again, revealing the smooth skin of your bare shoulders and collarbone, and Dazai wishes for nothing more than to slip beneath the sheets with you, wrap his arms around you and bury his face into your chest.

Instead, he lets himself lean into your touch for a moment, eyes falling shut as he basks in the feeling of your fingers carding through his dark locks, nails gently scraping his scalp. He thinks he could stay in this moment forever, but alas, the serenity is utterly shattered when his phone starts buzzing again.

Dazai lets out a heavy exhale, dark eyes dragging from you to where his phone is laying on the bed next to him, seeing Atsushi’s name flash on the screen—surely having been told by Kunikida to follow up and make sure that Dazai is actually going to show up at the office. 

“I just wanted to spend the day with you,” he says, a bit of a white lie, but he can’t tell you the real reason why he’s so disappointed. “He’s had it out for me ever since we got together. He’s jealous. This is his way of getting one over me.”

You smile lightly at him, pulling his face down a bit so that you can press your lips against his. Dazai sighs into your mouth, eyes sliding shut again as he kisses you, hand coming up again to cup your cheek as his lips move against yours. The kiss is slow and intimate, but far too short for his liking. You pull your lips away from his and Dazai gives you a wounded look when he tries to chase your lips only for you to dodge with a giggle. 

“Go, Osamu,” you tell him and Dazai lets out a groan, letting his head drop to your chest. You toy with his hair and Dazai wants to tell you that doing that is only going to make him want to stay even more but he also doesn’t want you to stop so he decides against it. “The faster you get there and get your work done, the quicker you can come home.”

Home. Another word he might never get used to, his chest feels warm and fluttery as he tilts his head to the side so he can peer up at you. “Or I can just not go in at all and deal with Kunikida’s righteous fury tomorrow.”

“No,” you say firmly, tugging at his ear and making him yelp. “Go, Osamu. Don’t be ridiculous. Let me sleep.”

Dazai sighs, rising to his feet and letting you curl back beneath the covers. He wants to tell you that it’s not that simple and that he has a whole plan and he needs to follow it strictly otherwise he’s scared that everything will go wrong, but there’s no way of explaining that to you without having to tell you why which would ruin everything. Lamenting to himself, he shrugs his coat onto his shoulders and leans down to press his lips between your brows as you start to doze off again, brushing your hair behind your ear and letting his eyes linger on your face, skin glowing gently beneath the early morning sun. 

It takes all of his willpower to step away from you and make his way out of your apartment, the ring in his pocket weighing more heavily with every step he takes.

•••

Dazai is really trying his best not to let his frustration spoil the night. The sun has already long set. What should have been a short day at the office finishing up paperwork ended up with him working overtime because of an emergency mission on the far side of the city concerning an ability user who could mimic appearances. Everybody else is still at the office trying to finish up preparations for Tanizaki and Atsushi’s upcoming mission in Kyoto but the President had taken one look at Dazai’s abysmal expression and told him to go home and be with you.

And Dazai should appreciate that, honestly, otherwise he’d be stuck at the office until god knows when, leaving you at home alone all day and all night on the one day he was planning to spend the whole day with you, but he’s so bitter that he can’t even summon the appreciation he should feel. You’re taking it in stride, of course, telling him that it’s okay and you’re not mad even though Dazai insists that you definitely should be. He called you while on the train with Kunikida, curled up in a seat pouting as he shot his partner dirty looks and mourned his shitty luck because of course this would happen on the day he was planning to make the biggest decision of his life, and yours.

Not that he could tell you that part, obviously.

Kunikida had been rightfully guilty, apologizing to Dazai for the day taking as long as it did and continuously shooting him ashamed looks, but Dazai couldn’t even bask in the knowledge that Kunikida is actually apologizing to him for making him work because he’s so frustrated about how the day has gone compared to what he had planned.

It’s still salvageable, he reminds himself, glancing down at his phone. The reservations he placed for the restaurant aren’t for another hour and a half. He has plenty of time to walk back to your apartment and change so he can take you out for the night, and the thought of taking you out for the night makes all of the frustration he’s feeling absolutely disappear, entirely overshadowed by the giddiness tingling through his limbs and the nerves that tighten his chest. 

Tonight.

He twists his hands in front of his body, eyes catching on a convenience store at the corner of the block, a wide range of chocolates and flowers on display at the main window. With only a moment’s hesitation, he speeds up his pace, flinging open the door to the convenience store and beelining right to the dwindling Valentine’s Day display, weathered down by other frantic partners who were late to get their beloved gifts.

He lets out a relieved puff of air when he sees that your favorite flowers and chocolates are still available, although he’s a bit irate because the flowers aren’t as healthy as they should be, but he supposes it’s his own fault. Of course they're not going to be in perfect shape after being on display all day—if he wanted perfect flowers, he should’ve bought and brought them to you first thing in the morning.

Which he could have done if it weren’t for Kunikida, he thinks bitterly, deciding to place all of the blame on his coworker instead.

He drops the flowers and chocolates at the cash register, where an older man is working, and Dazai pulls out his wallet, flipping through to grab a few yen and place them on the counter.

The older man lets out a bit of a chuckle as he scans the chocolates and the flowers. “You’re a bit late, aren’t you, boy?” he notes. “Can’t have a happy lady at home, I know mine is angry as a bull. Hope you have more than this to appease the girl.” 

Dazai winces and then mutters, “She’s not angry, I got pulled into work. She understands.” 

It sounds pathetic even to his own ears. The man finds it amusing, evidently, from how he has to smother another laugh as he gets Dazai his change.

“Mine said she was fine with it too,” he says, “but I know I’m coming home to the cold shoulder. They never say what they mean, son.” 

Dazai’s mood falters again, the giddiness and nerves slipping away into something colder because he’s feared since he left this morning that you would be bitter over him having to go into work today. And he knows deep down that you’re not like that, that if you say it’s fine, it really is fine most of the time, but a part of him can’t help but wonder if you’re only saying it because you don’t want to stress him out even more, because he’d made it abundantly clear this morning that he wasn’t happy. 

“There you go,” the older man passes over his change and the flowers and chocolates. “Good luck.”

Dazai can barely even bring himself to give the man a proper thank you, making his way back out of the convenience stores with the flowers and chocolates in hand. His eyes flicker down to his phone again, catching the time before he continues down the street—the pit stop had only taken a few minutes, but Dazai is doubly anxious to get back home to you now. Not just because he’s worried that you’re not quite as okay with it as you’ve made yourself out to be, but also because he misses you and just wants to get back home to you, this day has been too long and it’s been especially hellish and jarring because he woke up this morning thinking he’d get to spend the entire day with you.

He’s ready to get home to you. He’s ready to take you out to dinner. He’s ready to take you down to the gardens and he’s ready to-

God, he’s ready to propose. After all of these damn years, he’s finally ready and he will not let a shitty day at work ruin that for him. He still has the whole night, and that’s what’s important because…

He stares at his hand, where a droplet of water had splashed against his skin. A dreadful feeling arises, dark and slithering as it spreads through him. He turns his gaze up to the dark sky—dark because the sun has set, yes, but he realizes now, with a pit in his gut, that it’s also because storm clouds seem to be gathering above the city. He hadn’t even noticed them in his pitiful spiral, nor had he noticed the way the wind had picked up. 

He hardly has time to react before the rain comes down. Hard. Torrential. He stands on the sidewalk, too riddled with shock and disbelief to even move for cover. He stares ahead, wondering just how much more terrible this day can get. He’s never been a believer of Murphy’s Law or any of those other dubious, paranoia-induced “laws of nature,” but he’s severely starting to question his standing on it because of all days, of course it’s today where it seems that the entire universe must be against him.

He stares at the drenched flowers he had just bought you, crumpled and ruined from the force of the rain—he can’t even bring himself to feel frustrated, if anything he’s starting to feel a bit numb with exhaustion, half-certain that there’s a god up there sabotaging him. He tosses the flowers in a nearby garbage can along with the soggy box of chocolates in his other hand, and almost robotically, he makes his way to stand under an overhang, pulling out his phone to call you.

You pick up after the first ring, you always do.

“Osamu?”

“Can you pick me up?” Dazai asks, voice hoarse and empty.

“... Of course. Where are you?”

•••

The car ride has been damningly silent and Dazai feels bad because you’ve tried to make conversation with him but he can’t bring himself to speak. You’ve given up by now though, resorting to just focusing on the road, occasionally sparing him concerned glances. His head is starting to hurt and he fears that if he says something his voice might crack, so instead he just leans his head against the passenger seat window, letting the cool glass spread through his brain and ease the pain as you intertwine your fingers with his. 

“We’re never going to make the reservation,” Dazai finally decides to speak up, voice sounding cold and distant even to his own ears. He nearly flinches—he would’ve preferred it to crack than sound so frigid and aloof. 

The rain pouring down is torrential, lightning webbing across the dark sky and wind howling outside. Already, there’s been road closures, the twenty minute drive from the Agency to your apartment has taken twice as long as it usually takes and you’re still stuck in bumper to bumper traffic trying to take the long way around to the complex. The reservation is set for forty minutes from now, and it’ll take nearly as long to get to your apartment at this rate, and then Dazai still has to dry off and change from work, and then you have to drive to the restaurant which would've taken another twenty minutes without traffic. 

Not that it matters anyway, the storm has already destroyed his plans for after dinner, which was the whole point of the dinner anyway, but still, he would have at least liked to bring you to a nice dinner for Valentine’s Day.

He wonders if this is all meant to be a sign, and the thought makes his chest ache because of course when he finally thinks he’s ready to take the next step in his relationship with you—one that he knows you’ve been waiting patiently for four years now but his own hangups about himself have stopped him from ever doing anything about it—this happens. And you’ve never pressured him about it, you’ve never even brought it up to him because you know the topic makes him uncomfortable, but he’s seen the way you look at all of the happily married couples who come into the cafe when you meet him there for his lunch break and he’s seen the way you sometimes glance down at your own empty finger and Dazai thinks he’s ready. 

Against all odds, he thinks he’s ready—he bought you a ring, he planned out the whole proposal. Anxiety has been eating him alive all week as the days led up to this and now that the day is here, everything just goes wrong. He was going to bring you to the aquarium, because he knows you love to watch the dolphins and the penguins but that was ruined because of work. He was going to take you out to dinner at Le Normandie in Naka, because he’d seen you looking at the menu all longingly a few weeks ago, but that was ruined because of the road closures and traffic. And then he was going to bring you down into Yamashita Park, over to the flower gardens where there was supposed to be a band playing, because they always do on Valentine’s Day, and he wrote up everything, a long and flowery speech about how you’ve shown him what it’s like to really live, what it’s like to be human, but that was ruined by the storm. 

All the preparations he made, all of the plans he had, all of it gone to ruin. Just like that. 

And now he’s doubting how ready he actually is.

He really does wonder if this is a sign, a warning, even—higher powers telling him not to condemn you to a life with him because what sort of sane person would want a future with someone who’s spent most of his life trying to kill himself? Dazai has more issues than he’s worth and he’s still half-convinced that you don’t know what you’re getting into even though you’ve been with him for four years and have seen some of his most egregious lows. You’ve had to cut him down from the noose, fight him for the blade he held against his skin, and Dazai doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to fully free himself of the dark thoughts tearing apart his brain. 

And you deserve better than a future with someone who’s fickle about living and unable to effectively combat the dark thoughts that plague his mind. This is the world’s attempt at reminding him of that before he makes a mistake.

You draw him from his spiraling thoughts as you squeeze his hand gently, lifting his hand to press your lips against his knuckles and Dazai feels even worse because why are you comforting him when he’s the one who ruined your Valentine’s Day. 

“Let’s order takeout then,” you say easily, giving him a warm smile that should have made him feel more at ease but instead it only makes him feel worse because you shouldn’t have to settle for takeout on Valentine’s Day, especially when he planned such a nice day out. “I’m craving pizza. We can curl up on the couch and watch a movie instead.”

Dazai is unconvinced.

“Don’t give me that look,” you complain, but you’re still smiling and Dazai is finding it hard to keep up his sullen attitude with you looking at him like that. “There’s a new horror movie I wanted to watch, it’s available for streaming now.”

“This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go,” Dazai murmurs, finally intertwining his fingers with yours, rubbing a circle with his thumb over the back of your hand. 

“Let’s make the most of it anyway,” you tell him, giving him another radiant smile, and Dazai feels a bit like a fool—he’s never listened to the warnings from higher powers before, so why the hell should he now? When you give him another reassuring squeeze as you rest your joined hands back down on the console, turning your attention back onto the road, his chests lighten and the creeping doubts start to trickle away. 

He thinks that maybe, just maybe, it’ll all work out anyway.

•••

It takes less than an hour for his slim hopes to be crushed yet again.

Dazai stares at the food in front of him, too numb to even think to go chase after the delivery driver and tell him that he got the order wrong. You’re standing somewhere to the side, looking even more concerned—not because of the food, because of him, and Dazai knows that he should reassure you and tell you that everything is fine but he can’t even muster the strength to speak the words. 

“It’s okay,” you tell him, reaching out to grab his hand. He doesn’t even intertwine his fingers with yours, but you’re undeterred, clutching his hand tightly, and he knows he’s being unfair to you but he just doesn’t even know what else to do. “Osamu, it’s fine, really. It’s just some food.”

“You don’t even eat any of this food,” Dazai says, voice tight and more than a bit frustrated. He’s not sure how much more of this he can take, the morning had started off so nice waking up to you fast asleep on his chest and every passing second since then has just gone further and further downhill. “Not one thing has gone right today, and they can’t even get one order done correctly. It’s not fine, I-”

Dazai’s eyes flutter shut when you reach up to cup his cheeks between your hands, squishing his face gently before leaning in to press your lips against his. He sighs against your lips, the frustration slowly starting to dissipate as you rest your forehead against his, stealing one, two, three more kisses before finally pulling back a bit to speak.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him again, and Dazai thinks he should be the one reassuring you because it’s your Valentine’s Day that has been utterly ruined but he only relaxes into your touch, soaking up all of the comfort you offer him. “I have pizza bagels in the freezer, we can throw them in the oven. Honestly, I’ve been tempted to make them all day, anyway, but I wanted to wait for you. It’s not a big deal.”

“... Yeah?” Dazai asks quietly, and you give him that soft, soothing smile that always puts his nerves at ease. He lets out another puff of air, nodding. “Okay, I’ll put them in.”

He steals another kiss from you, and then another, and the tension in his shoulders finally begins to melt when he feels you giggling against his lips, shooing him away to go put the pizza bagels in the oven.

Just as the thought crosses his mind, that maybe the night is still salvageable, he reaches for the door to your freezer and as his fingers curl around the handle, the power goes out. Thunder shakes your apartment complex, lightning webs the sky outside, and the wind outside becomes even more treacherous. And with it, the ability to use the oven to make the pizza rolls you want disappears.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he. Dazai thinks it should be comical at this point but he can find no humor in it, his throat tight and clogged with a million unwelcome emotions. He swears there must be someone up in the heavens laughing at him, finding entertainment in his misfortune and misery, and maybe he deserves it for all of the sins he’s committed in the past but he wishes that they wouldn’t drag you into this. 

He casts a miserable look in your direction, unsure if you even notice because you’re already at work trying to fumble to light a few candles, and Dazai is so tired that he thinks he might die. All he had wanted was to take you on a nice day out, ending the night with dinner and a stroll through the gardens at Yamashita before finally gathering the nerve to get down on one knee in front of you, showing you the ring he’d been so nervous buying and-

And then he pauses.

Where is the ring?

The thought dawns on him so damningly that he feels physically ill, realizing that he hadn’t felt the familiar weight in his pocket earlier when walking home from the Agency, nor had he noticed it when he slipped his jacket off and laid it on one of the kitchen chairs. He rushes over to where he had left his jacket, panic spreading through him so intensely that he can hardly think straight, ignoring how you call his name, worried.

His chest tightens, blood running cold as he fumbles through the pockets of his jacket trying to figure out which one he left it in only to realize that it’s not snugged safely in any of them. Dazai thinks he might throw up, wondering if it had fallen out when he took his jacket off at the office, or if it had fallen out while he was walking to work, or when he stopped at the convenience store and pulled out his wallet, or when he was walking home. If it was the latter three, the ring is gone and he’ll probably never see it again, and he probably should take that as a sign from god to not condemn you to a life with him.

“Osamu?” you ask, voice soft and cautious as you make your way over to him, obviously sensing his distress. 

Dazai wants to cry. Or maybe he wants to laugh. He can’t tell. He leans his elbows onto the counter, hiding his face in his hands, and then he decides to laugh, or maybe he’s crying, he’s not sure honestly, but his shoulders are shaking and you’re wrapping your arms around his waist. Dazai wants to melt into you and he wants to tell you just how abysmally terrible this day has been but he can’t without telling you what he had planned and that only makes him more miserable. 

You coax his face out from where it’s hiding against his hands as you stroke his hair, pressing your lips to his shoulder, and then his temple, and as soon as he turns his face to you, you’re cupping his cheeks in your hands, thumbs wiping away the wetness streaming down his cheeks, and he realizes distantly that he must’ve been crying. God, when was the last time he cried before this? He doesn’t even remember. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask him, keeping your voice soft as if to not startle him. 

He doesn’t want to answer, so he doesn’t. Instead, he wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face into the crook of your neck, hiding himself from view again. As always, you take it in stride, wrapping your arms around him, one hand coming up to cup the back of his head and hold him close, lips pressing against the top of his hair. And Dazai is still so frustrated—he’s so frustrated and upset with himself and upset with the world, but as soon as he’s wrapped tight in your arms, it becomes increasingly hard to remain focused on all of the negative thoughts.

“I’m so tired,” is all he can say, voice hoarse and cracking, blunt nails digging crescents into your back as he clings to you desperately. 

Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. He’s so tired. He just wanted this to be a nice day, and he wanted to finally push himself into giving himself to you entirely, because it’s what he wants. It’s what he wanted. He wanted to be yours and he wanted you to be his. Officially. But if the world really is trying to warn him against it, he’s thinking that maybe he should heed its warnings for once—for your sake, because he’s sure that anyone tied to him must be cursed. 

“Let’s go lay down,” you tell him softly, carding your fingers through his hair gently. The motion is so soothing that it nearly makes his eyes droop shut, exhaustion seeping deep through his bones. “Os-”

There’s a harsh knock at your door. 

Dazai’s eyes slide shut again, frustration coming back tenfold because he can’t even have a single moment with you without it going horribly wrong. You sigh as you break yourself free from him and Dazai longs to be back in your arms instantly, the weight of the day bearing down on him twice as heavily without you there to share the burden with him.

“I’ll go get the door,” you tell him, leaning up on your toes to press your lips to the corner of his. “Go lay down, I’ll join you in a second.”

“No,” Dazai says, capturing your lips in a real kiss briefly before tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll get the door. You go change into your pajamas.”

“You sure?” you ask him, concern clear in your eyes as you look up at him.

Dazai only nods, pressing his lips to your forehead before ushering you off into the bedroom. You cast him one more worried look but Dazai shoos you away pointedly before making his way over to the door, frowning a bit because who the hell is showing up at your door this late? He thinks that if it’s the restaurant that sent the wrong food, then Dazai might just slam the door in the delivery man's face because the damage has already been done and Dazai is feeling petty.

But no. It’s not the delivery man standing outside your apartment with the right food this time. Rather, it’s an anxious looking Atsushi and a stressed Kunikida. Dazai’s eye twitches a bit—as if his day hadn’t been ruined enough with work, he swears to god that if they're about to bring even more to him on top of dragging him away from you all day, someone might die. 

“Dazai-san,” Atsushi sounds absurdly relieved at the sight of the man but Dazai’s expression doesn’t budge, waiting for them to explain why they were interrupting his night with you. “We were just leaving work and-I wish I’d seen it sooner, I’m sorry-I would’ve come sooner but-I mean we tried to call and text but-”

Dazai has no idea what Atsushi is talking about, so he drags his eyes from the anxious boy up to Kunikida, waiting for a proper explanation. Kunikida’s lips twist when Dazai looks at him and Dazai thinks the man has no right to look at him that way after being the root cause of how awful his day.

Suddenly, Dazai catches sight of the familiar velvet box sitting in Kunikida’s hand, and he’s not sure what amalgamation of emotions rocks his body—fear, relief, apprehension—but he doesn’t like it, reaching out to snatch the box from Kunikida and cradle it to his chest, watching the two of them uneasily.

“You moron,” Kunikida snaps, careful to keep his voice low, but not low enough because horror shoots through Dazai when Kunikida continues with, “why didn’t you say you were-”

“Lower your voice,” Dazai says, panicking, casting a glance back toward where you’re still getting changed in the bedroom.

“Why didn’t you say you were proposing?” Kunikida finishes in a whisper, voice still a sharp hiss. “If you’d mentioned that I would’ve-”

Dazai feels flustered, and he does not want to answer and admit that he hadn’t thought it would make a difference. Luckily—or maybe unluckily, he concedes—he doesn’t have to answer because he hears you making your way out of the bedroom.

“Osamu?” you call curiously, “Is that Kunikida-kun and Atsushi-kun?”

Dazai’s eyes widen when he realizes that he has nowhere to hide the ring as you come around the corner from the hall. He promptly slams the door in both of his coworkers’ faces without even the sparest thank you, ignoring their surprised yelps as panic begins to spread through him, doing his best to hide his hands behind his back when he turns around to face you.

And then-

Then he hesitates. 

The excuse on his lips about last minute mission briefing or Dazai having to sign off on a time-sensitive report dies when his eyes fall upon where you’re standing, dressed in your fuzzy pajamas with your arms wrapped around your waist and a confused expression painted on your face. The only lighting in the room is the few dim candles that you set up once the power went out, and the soft ambience casts an ethereal glow over your face. He thinks, not for the first time, that you might be heavenly, an angel sent to guide him on the path of good because how could he ever allow himself to fall back into his old, tainted habits without tarnishing you as well, and tarnishing you is simply unacceptable. 

All of the doubts that have risen throughout the day wash away as he looks at you, and he wonders, briefly, how he could’ve ever had any doubts? Dazai, for all of his insecurity and fears of commitment, wants to spend the rest of his life with you. He does. He knows it so thoroughly that he can feel it in his bones; he doesn’t want anyone else, he doesn’t want to be alone, he wants you. He wants to wake up to you every morning and fall asleep with you every night, he wants to lounge around on the weekends because you’re both too lazy to get out of bed and do something productive, he wants to be there for your lows when you’re so overwhelmed with work that you can hardly think straight much less properly take care of yourself and god, against all odds, he wants you there for his too, when he feels like he’s being consumed by his own thoughts, spiraling down a dark and never-ending train that might not be as dark and never-ending with you there as a light to guide him out of it. 

“Marry me,” he says, breathless, voice laced with desperation.

You stare at him, eyes wide. He stares back, frozen, unsure of what to do because this was not how this was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be extravagant, romantic, like you deserve, not some half-assed spur of the moment proposal. The words hang heavily in the air between the two of you, but he forces himself to push forward, too far in deep to back out now. 

He fumbles as he tries to shift the velvet box into one hand to bring it in front of him and show you. He drops it. Of course he does. Everything else has gone wrong today so why not this too? But still, he pushes forward, kneeling down to scoop up the ring box and prop himself up on one knee in front of you, throat swollen and tight as he opens up the box to show you the ring inside of it. He’s holding it backwards. Of course he is. So he fixes it promptly, swiveling it around with trembling fingers, waiting anxiously for you to respond. Or even just react. 

You haven’t budged from where you’re standing a few feet away.

What if you say no? God, the thought hadn’t even crossed his head but now his heart starts to sink from his chest down to his feet because you’re not moving and you’re not saying anything and he doesn’t know if you’re just processing his words or if you’re trying to figure out the best way to reject him. 

He starts to fumble out words. “This was not how this was supposed to happen,” he admits, speaking so quickly that he can barely understand himself. “It was supposed to be a nice day, we were gonna go to the aquarium to see the dolphins and penguins, dinner at Le Normandie and then go down to the gardens at the park, and there was supposed to be a band and flowers and I had a whole speech ready and it definitely was not supposed to be like this but everything that could possibly go wrong, went wrong, but I want to marry you and I don’t want to wait anymore, and I’m sorry that this is a shitty proposal, you deserve better than this. And I’m probably making it worse, I should have just waited for another day, but-”

But please say yes, he wants to say, but he can’t force the words out; he can only stare at you, expression more open and vulnerable than he thinks he’s been in his entire life. And he realizes, a bit horrified, that you could ruin him right now—he’s laid his heart out on a platter and it’ll only take one swift motion for you to crush it in hand and he thinks he’s terrified but-

All of the air is ripped from his lungs with a harsh oof. In an instant, his back is to the floor and you’re on top of him and Dazai is staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes, trying to figure out what exactly happened.

“You’re so stupid, Osamu,” you cry out and to Dazai’s horror, he realizes that you’re crying, hands propped up on his chest to brace yourself up, tears pooling in your eyes and streaming over your cheeks and dripping onto his own face. “Is this what you’ve been so upset about all day? I don’t need any of that, all I need is you.”

Oh. Dazai can’t breathe, and it’s not because you’re on top of him it’s because your words are processing and he’s realizing that-are you saying that-

“Of course, I’ll marry you, you idiot.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, a puff of air that he does not have in his lungs, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling—elation, relief, exhilaration, all of the above—but he does know that he’s never felt anything like it before and he doesn’t want it to go away. Ever. Dazai swears he sees a flash of a camera from the window, and he swears doubly that he hears Yosano let out a hoot of a cheer and Kunikida hushing her, dragging her away, but he can’t even bring himself to care. 

 Yeah, Dazai thinks to himself, eyes sliding shut as he rests his head back against the floor, the first genuine smile of the day tugging to the edge of his lips as you bury your face into the crook of his neck, clutching at his shirt, sniffling and hiccuping over each breath. He wraps an arm around your waist, using his free hand to slip the ring out of the box and slide it onto your finger. You cry harder. He kisses the top of your head, wondering how he could ever have any doubts or hesitations. 

He could definitely spend the rest of his life like this.

[mamaestapa]

yes pls omg one with joe 🥺

Baked With Love…|| Joe Burrow x reader

•pairing: Joe Burrow x reader

•summary: You and Joe spend “Thanksgiving Eve” baking together

•warnings: fluff, Joe gets a little frisky, allusions to sex…

“Joey,” you said your boyfriend’s name in a sing songy tone, “It’s pumpkin pie time.”

Joe chuckled and walked into the kitchen, setting his phone down on the countertop of the island and pulling out a chair to sit on.

“Finally,” he sighed out, “you don’t know how long I’ve been looking forward to this.”

Today, you and Joe (well, mostly you) have been working hard in the kitchen, preparing desserts to take to your “friendsgiving” tomorrow at the Wilson’s. You and Joe agreed to make the desserts since neither one of you were too skilled when it came to preparing the actual dinner.

Earlier you made an apple pie and a batch of snickerdoodle cookies, deciding to save the pumpkin pie for last. You had Joe help you get out all of the ingredients that were needed to make his favorite dessert. Once all of the ingredients were spread out on the counter, you pulled out your grandfathers pumpkin pie recipe from the kitchen drawer where you kept the handwritten recipes to some of yours and Joe’s favorite foods. You set the recipe down on the counter, eyes scanning over the instructions.

You walked over to Joe and wrapped your arms around his torso, letting your chin rest on his shoulder as you held onto him.

“I’ll let you decide what you want to do. Crust or filling.” You said, giving him options to choose from even though you knew which one he’d pick.

“Filling.

Yep. You knew it.

“Perfect,” you replied with a sweet smile. You removed your arms from Joe’s body, reaching out to grab his hand instead so you could pull him off the barstool and over to the mixer. You gave him the ingredients needed for the filling, along with the specific instructions on how to make it perfect.

After Joe was situated by the mixer, you began to make the crust. It wasn’t too difficult to make as you’ve made it a couple times before on your own, but it was still a process that included very careful and precise measurements—it’s probably a good thing you’re making the crust and Joe isn’t.

As the two of you were hard at work putting together the pumpkin pie in a comfortable silence, you thought about how you could use some music right now…

“We need some music going right now.” Joe suggested as he opened the can of pumpkin filling.

It’s almost like he read your mind..

“You should play some Kid Cudi,”

You sighed at Joe’s song selection suggestion. It’s not that you didn’t like Kid Cudi because you really did like him and his music. However…that’s all Joe has been playing while you baked. You needed a break from Man on the Moon.

“I agree, we do need music, but can it not be Kid Cudi though?” You asked as you rolled the dough over the floured counter. Joe gasped lightly, sounding slightly offended as he said, “But I thought you liked Kid Cudi?”

You chuckled softly as you turned to look at your boyfriend. “I do,” you said with a nod, “but it’s all we’ve listened to today babe. I need a change.”

“No Taylor Swift.” Joe said, pointing at you and giving you the look.

“How about Tame Impala? We both like them.”

“Deal.”

You smiled triumphantly and clicked shuffle on your Tame Impala playlist that was full of yours and Joe’s favorite songs. Borderline began playing, making you and Joe instantly break out into your own little dances while you prepared the pumpkin pie.

Once Joe was finished with the filling and satisfied with how well it was spiced, he brought the bowl over to you so you could put it into the pie pan lined with the crust dough. You thanked Joe for making the filling before scooping it out onto the crust. You evened the filling out before putting it into the oven to bake.

As you leaned down to put the pie in the oven, you felt a pair of hands cup your butt and squeeze gently before quickly pulling away. You yelped at the contact, slamming the oven shut and whipping around to look at Joe, who was a chuckling mess.

“Joe!” you yelped, “what the hell?” You laughed as you finished your sentence. Joe held his hands up, his laughter only growing when he watched your mouth gape open. His hands were covered in flour, meaning there were definitely two white hand prints on your butt right now.

You let out a laugh before prancing over to the counter covered in flour. You grabbed a handful of flour and held your hand up, “Come here Joey.”

Joe chuckled and slowly made his way over to you, “Lay it on me, sweets.”

You took the flour in your hand and rubbed it all over Joe’s black t-shirt, making sure to leave extra white patches over his pecs and abs. Joe reached over and grabbed more flour, throwing it onto the top of your head. You shrieked and grabbed more flour, doing the same thing to Joe. You were both laughing messes as you had a flour fight in the kitchen for a good two minutes. However, the fight stopped when Joe got a handful of flour, rubbed his hands together, and left two handprints on your boobs. You looked down at the white handprints on your sweater. Joe’s handprints looked huge on your chest…

You don’t know what came over you, but you flung yourself at Joe, kissing him harshly. He seems taken aback at first, but he smirked into the kiss as he realized his idea had worked. It’d been a little while since the two of you have been intimate…

When you both pulled away for Joe, Joe huskily ordered you to jump. You did as he said, jumping slightly as he helped you up and sat you on the counter. The two of you made out heavily for the next couple minutes before you remembered how messy the kitchen was. You pulled away from Joe, glancing at the mess on the floor and countertop across from you before looking back at your boyfriend.

“Someone should clean up the mess we made.”You said, cocking your head to the side and giving Joe a pointed look. He just smirked as his hands trailed up your sides, resting on your rib and cupping the side of your left breast.

“Just wait…” he trailed off as he leaned in to whisper in your ear, “because that won’t the only mess we made that’ll have to be cleaned up.” He bit down softly on your earlobe, tugging it gently before pulling head away from you. Your breath hitched in the back of your throat as you looked into Joe’s intense blue eyes gaze.

A smirk pulled at your lips as you wrapped your arms Joe’s neck, clawing at his back as you harshly crashed your lips against his.

Pumpkin pie wasn’t the only sweet thing Joe was going to be tasting tonight…

hi loves!!

i don’t know why i made this a little spicy? i wanted to do something fluffy but as i started writing, i was like mmmm no i should do this instead😌

anyways, i hope you’re enjoying these thanksgiving/holiday blurbs! i’ve gotten some fun requests to go along with the ideas i had too :) i’ll probably post one more tonight, and do the rest tomorrow…because there’s a lot lol

hope you all have a great day/night😚🤍

[siddyyyyyyyy]

It's All an Act

Actor!AU Bruce Wayne x fem!Reader

wc: 7.6 K summary: Actor!Bruce plays as your love interest in your up-coming movie warnings: afab!reader, both being about the same age, acting sex scenes on set (not real secs for now), reference to the Writer's Strike (2023) please don't arrest me, sassy and smug Bruce, making out a/n: got this idea while scrolling through pinterest, lost my mind somewhere during this, originally wanted to make a single part on it, but I think it's better if I make it a few parts instead. enjoy!

next part

Everyone knew you. Well, it was hard to find someone who didn‘t at least know how you looked like. The same goes to Bruce Wayne, but there is probably a chance that he is even more successful than you.

And that‘s exactly what you are trying to change with your new movie. Casting him as the main character and yourself as his love interest will get the media spiraling. Being a director and actor really does have its charms sometimes. And surprisingly enough, he accepted the role since he auditioned to it in the first place. Now you can finally get to prepare all the stuff for the filming days once you got all the other actors for each role filled, and the script finished.

There‘s no more satisfying feeling you get when everything seems to work out and it‘s time to actually film the movie. The hardest part is to keep it a secret for a few months until the production gets into working. But for now you are pretty satisfied with your work, getting some progress and even getting to test out new cameras for the movie, form a company that supports the production. Only thing that‘s making you a little weary is the actual success of the movie. What if he ends up getting even more popular than you? What if the movie flops completely and you need to somehow cover that up? What if you won‘t have good chemistry on set, even with two talented actors like you two? What if…

»Have you finally got the copy of the storyboard?«

Malva asks, looking to you with her usual strict look, one of your close friends waiting for your answer. She is working with the camera crew, has gone to filming school with you. Has sticked to your side through thick and thin, and she still gets ideas that blow your mind at times. Her ideas are mostly for camera directing, but that's the most exciting part in filming for most, so it really pays out.

At her question, you hand her the copy of the storyboard, getting to discuss some questions and how you actually imagined the scenes to look like, getting invested on talking with her that you don‘t notice your co-star arrive on set and search for the director.

»I‘m guessing you are the director? Sorry for interrupting.«

There is that bright smile in front of you that never fails to make you swoon for at least a split moment. No, actually, you can‘t stand the way he looks so perfect and has more prominent in media than you. Although it is a little weird when he mostly takes on smalled roles as side characters and rarely gets a main role like this.

»No, don‘t be sorry, I‘m glad you made it! We‘re still setting up some stuff, so you can get ready in trailer seven.«

He nods and gets to the trailer that is going to be his while filming, letting you have some more time with Malva and your crew to set everything up and start to film the first scenes.

You settle on filming the scenes in the middle of the movie, only able to use the setting for today and tomorrow, really hoping you won‘t film too long so the landlord of the property won‘t get angry at you.

Once settled, the filming starts and it goes by fairly nice and as planned. Sure, it was a little funny acting out a scene with him, playing a couple who‘s having an argument about their current state of relationship, even when they just met on set.

Either way, the crew and co-director are satisfied with the result after taking some more takes. Maybe this will be better than you‘ve expected. Until you realised what the next scenes were going to be. You hate yourself for writing this script. A sex-scene, seriously? Trying to overshadow your small worries, you get ready in your trailer with some help of your staff before you discuss the ‚choreography‘ of the scene together with Bruce and the intimacy coordinator. This loosens you both up, having a plan and also know what to expect from this scene, since you literally just wrote „They undress and have sex.“ What a creative script writer you are.

You don‘t know what you expected, but you didn‘t necessarily think that Bruce would be so open and chill about such a scene. During your discussion of boundaries and acceptable touching areas, he seemed like he didn‘t have any problem being touched anywhere, really. It was a little strange at first, but you quickly realised he probably just wants to get over with it. And that made you a little sad. He should be comfortable during the scene, not be annoyed and hoping for it to end quickly, considering filming usually takes a few hours. The co-director and you want some close-ups, wide- hots and midshots in order to edit it together as the best verion of the scene in post. Of course it‘s going to take hours and it‘s important to feel comfortable during the long filming hours together.

But he reassured you after asking him again with that charming smile of his, hating how perfect it looks like. You‘ve seen him on interviews and on the red carpet before, but seeing him smile like that never fails to make you wonder if he is actually real.

Finally, with everything settled and with the modesty garments on, you can finally film the ‚Reuniting Scene‘ with your co-star.

Your movie is about two past lovers who find each other gain after a few years, then getting together again. What a classic. The plot is however more than that. The main character, Bruce, or rather Andy in the movie, is a playboy and billionare with a secret identity. His love interest doesn‘t know this though and just wants to get together with him again, and he is way too naive to get in bed with you almost immediately after one cafe date. Playboy activities.

This means that the scene you are about to play is essential for the movie.

First, you start with wide shots. Easy done, getting a camera set up that follows your movements onto the bed. After getting some shots of Andy passsionately and messily kissing you while guiding you urgently to the bed, you already feel a little worn down. So, time for a break!

During the break, he approaches you to discuss the other stuff in the script.

»Just… how did you get the idea of this plot? I mean, a playboy having a secret identity as a hero? How did you come up with that?«

You didn‘t know he was a secret interviewer as well. But putting your slight surprise aside, you start explaining to him briefly what got you into this idea while trying to keep it as brief as possible. Also without telling him about your initial plan of getting more popular than him... In a way.

All the while he listens to the while you explain, listening intently while nodding along from time to time. Unfortunately, you got a little carried away while explaining him your reasons for the movie, having ended up info dumping on him a little about your researches you did for writing the script, which however made him listen to you even more intently.

»So, I also just watched a lot of videos and documentations about gun handling and missions from former private agents, so I can make this as believeable as possible, but I also feel like I still haven‘t mastered it quite well for now, even though I made sure the props are as realistic as possible and we have a good choregrapher for the fight scenes later on – « You ramble on as you get on set again, settling onto position on the bed while talking his ears off in the meantime. It doesn‘t seem like he minds though, listening to your words, while throwing in some small questions and check-ups as he is hovering above you on the bed.

»Yeah, you can put your hand on my thigh – and I also made sure to actually make the small mission Andy is in will be as realistic and logical as possible, but I‘m also a little unsure if the scenario is actually so realistic as it is…«

»You‘re really determined to get the most realistic movie of the year, huh?« He muses back once you trail off, looking to you once you are both finally in position on bed.

»What? How could you ever think of that?«

You retort sarcastically, not having noticed how much you‘ve been talking until the co-director just calls »Action!« for the cameras to roll and you have to act.

Your breath hitches subtly once you feel his hand ride up your thigh before landing at your collar of your shirt and starts to unbutton it in careful but rushed movements. Again, you have to follow the small choreography you both came up with earlier, your brain working quick to actually follow through and act as if this already feels like heaven. Finally, you get your head together and reach for the back of his neck to connect your lips, getting a small moan from both of you. His hands finally pry your shirt off and he disconnects his lips from you to trail them down your throat towards your chest, a small shiver running down your spine against your will.

You both agreed for him to have the upper hand in this, since he is acting as a playboy, and you‘d be lying if you said he isn‘t quite confident in his role. Your thoughts are quickly thrown away as you feel him press kisses against your temple and down to your jaw while his hands roam over your sides. Mimicing his actions, your hands feel across his lean back and press him further down towards you. A low growl escapes him before he takes your thigh in his hand to push it up against his side.

The scene ends for now, needing to repeat it for a close-up shot. You are actually grateful he has expirience in intimate scenes, not needing to give him any more instructions or tips since he has quite a good knowledge in it already. Repeating the same scene for the next shot was easier, actually having had a little time to prepare instead of being pulled away from your rant about your script. Afterwards, you get another break and take your time to actually collect yourself before continuing with the scenes. Your co-director pulls you to her side for a moment to look over the filmed scenes, not having expected for them to actually look… hot? Well, this is good, actually. It‘s a little strange seeing you on screen like this, but you knew you would need to look over the scenes either way.

Once satisfied, you get back to your spot to sit down and scroll through your phone, distract yourself from the scene you just filmed over and over again, feeling how mush your brain feels right now.

This time, Bruce doesn‘t come around to ask you about the plot and other stuff, probably having had enough of your rant earlier. You really tried to explain it to him briefly, but it ended up in a full ramble session.

Filming the last few scenes were a little difficult to master from the last hours of filming, but time came by faster than you‘d expected and it is time to pack up and leave the set for today.

◐

The filming days actually went by rather fast, and your work relationship grew stronger with Bruce. You had some fun actually acting the scenes out with him, even when the first day was just slightly awkward between you two. Currently, you are neck deep in a book, annotating the pages at the side with a red fineliner during your break. The colour matches the book cover. Bruce walks by and the book in your hand catches his attention. Reading the title, he immediately recognises it and steps up to you.

»My son loves this book.« You finally look up from the words on the page and lock eyes with him, being slightly surprised by it.

»Which son?« You ask slowly, being unsure if this question was offensive or not, even though he showed his rather dark humour early on and doesn‘t seem to be hardly offended by something ever. He huffs out lightly amused and answers your question without missing a beat.

»Jason. My second son. He is a big bookworm, I think he read more classics than school textbooks.«

»Well, he isn‘t the only one.« He smiles lightly at that and takes a seat besidde you, his cup of coffee still in hand.

»So, you‘re a bookworm? Or just to pass time?«

Honestly, you haven‘t exactly expected for him to strike up a conversation with you that seems to be genuine at that as well. The first talk he started with you was just about the script anyway and it was more to clear up his curiousness and slight confusion. This actually feels like he wants to talk to you and get to know you.

»I read quite often. At least when I have time, like now.«

You answer him and close your book, setting it on your lap before clasping your hands over it. Bruce takes your answer in, asking another question.

»And you annotate? What exactly do you write down?« That question throws you a bit off guard, trying to answer him without sounding like a total loser.

»Uhm… usually just my thoughts. And sometimes I analyse sentences, if I feel like it.«

Finally, Bruce seems to be a little impressed. Or maybe he is just good at acting surprised, which you wouldn‘t doubt he is doing right now.

»Really? So, you usually just leave simple comments or thoughts? That‘s actually pretty nice, but I wouldn‘t have the energy to do so.«

You manage a small chuckle at his words, not sure if you should be flustered or not. Was that even a compliment?

»Oh, I get it. Can‘t have much time to yourself with this job.«

He lets out a small laugh as well and nods in agreement, fidgeting with his coffee cup in his hands a little.

The conversation pauses briefly, Bruce speaking up again and looking towards you.

»Would you like to go out and get some coffee some time? Get a break from all this, wouldn‘t hurt right?«

Without much thinking you agree on it and set up a date for it, only later realising it sounded a little suspicius. Even if it was just a little suspicious, you won‘t let that go in your mind. He basically just asked you out. And typically enough, you didn‘t even notice it or gave it a second thought until later when he left again.

Was this genuine or was it just method acting? This would be a little too much for method acting, no? Maybe. Does this concern you even more? Yes.

Getting off the break, you continue to film the second act of the movie, already feeling like this will actually pay out in the end.

It doesn‘t really seem like he is method acting, more like acting out the scenes like a normal actor after practicing his lines thoroughly, and being confident in his performance. Besides, method acting has nothing to do with him asking you out. Method acting, also known as ‚The Method‘ is a form of rehearsal where the actors tries to understand his character and analyses their emotions in order to act it out as accurate as possible and to show the audience the depth of the character. While it is mostly common used for theater, it‘s also common to use it for film.

You are really trying to figure Bruce out. In past interviews he was nothing but charming and polite, strictly polite even, but on set he is no different. It‘s strange, most actors you‘ve worked with were at least a little chaotic and different on set, but not him. You hate to say it, but he is not like others. He has something more to him. A certain charm and touch you can‘t quite put a finger on yet. And being with him almost every day because of work is giving you the opportunity to check on it and find it out, but he is hard to reach as well. It‘s not like he is hard to talk to, it‘s quite the opposite. But your conversations have never been more than mere small talk and discussions about the script, that usually ends up with you rambling off about it. So, you are frustrated.

Eventually, you help the crew and technicians with putting the stuff away for today, knowing you shouldn‘t do it, but you can‘t just leave the studio without helping them with the rest.

Bruce catches you however and snatches the heavy camera from you so he can put it in its case without your back breaking halfway.

»Oh, you don‘t need to, I can- «

»None of that. You already work so much, it‘s only fair when someone helps you out. Besides, I like helping people.«

He ignores your words and just smiles softly, as he puts the camera gently into its case, it seeming as if it doesn‘t weight anything in his arms. The he handled it with such ease really hurts your ego a bit, but also makes you wonder what his workout routine is. Because there is no way he just didn‘t break out a sweat while doing that. Unlike you.

»We don‘t want to miss out on our small date, right? Or did you forget already?«

You don‘t see it but Bruce is ready to be rejected and made fun of with how surprised you look at him. But truth is, you really just forgot about the arranged meeting you both settled on earlier in lunch break, because of all the things you had to do today.

»No, sure we‘re still going out. I just… kind of, forgot about it, but I didn‘t! I mean, I just, uh… let‘s just go, okay?«

You tag him along to the exit and he leads you to the café he mentioned earlier, it seeming already cosy enough from the outside. He opens the door for you before choosing a place to sit at and goes to the counter to order you both a warm drink. He sits down across from you at the table again and just looks at you with a small but noticeable smile. It is quiet for a moment before he speaks up.

»What kind of books do you read again? Or any other hobbies you have?«

Is he really trying to just befriend you or are you just another hopeless case of delusional? Quickly putting those thought aside, you answer him and make it short this time. No rambling now. Once he finds out about your passion for thriller, he perks up and shares his own few favourites about thriller and detective stories. Although he tends to love real biographies and real incidents, there is a mutual interest for those gernes in books.

»It‘s a good thing we have something in common. But I‘ve never tried annotating books before like you do. Is it fun?«

You shrug lightly in response, answering him after a brief moment.

»Depends on the person, but I really enjoy doing that. I like reading through stuff and write down my own thoughts. I also underline sentences and just… use the book. I didn‘t buy it for nothing, right?«

He nods lightly to your words, probably not used to someone using a book to actually write in it just for fun. Most people see it as a crime to doodle into the pages fo your book, but you take pride in it.

»Could I borrow one of your books? Especially one that you wrote in already.«

The suggestion takes you by surprise, but who are you to say no to that? Of course you nod without thinking too much about it, already thinking about which book you will lend him.

»Sure, I‘ll lend you one! I‘ve waited so long for someone to ask me this, what book do you want? I can also just take the book I read today. I have read it over three times anyway.«

Now Bruce is slightly surprised but also glad you agreed to this so easily. He nods slightly, not wasting time on responding to you.

»Animal Farm? Sure, that sounds good.«

Even when the novella isn‘t a thriller or detective, he is still willing to read it just to get to know you even more and read through those silly comments on the sides. Reaching over, you hand him the book which he puts safely into his own bag before the conversation continues between you both and you end up chatting about other stuff as well and enjoy your coffee while talking. You don‘t even realise how much time goes by before the staff in the shop are slowly getting ready to close it, cleaning around and making sure you both don‘t want to order anything anymore. That‘s also when you see how dark it is outside, getting out of the shop with him and walk down the dimly lit streets side-by-side.

Once you are both back at the parking lot, he walks you to your car, making sure you won‘t get kidnapped.

»You know, we could read together in my library some time. If that would be okay.«

That thought put a smile onto your facce but you quickly mask it, not wanting to come off as too excited.

»We could, at least I won‘t mind. I don‘t want to be a bother in your home or anything.«

You respond, still trying to be polite but he seems to destroy it with shaking his head.

»You won‘t be, promise. I‘m sure Damian won‘t mind, and all my other kids only visit occasionally now.« Bruce reassures you, smiling a little at you as he stands before you, waiting for your response. Sighing out you give in, agreeing to the invitation.

»Fine. We can meet up some day to read. I‘m sure I‘ll have time in about a week.« Bruce nods and feels glad you will make some time for him to hang out again. Reading together in comfortable silence? There is nothing better in Bruce‘s mind.

◐

The silence is filled with tension while Andy is standing tall, still with his suit and pistol in hand. His lover is standing right in front of him, a look of horror on their face that makes his chest shred into pieces.

»I can explain...« Andy carefully starts and puts the safety on in his gun before placing it onto the table beside him.

»First you are some kind of playboy, now you are… a murderer?! Who are you really, Andy?«

His lover demands, voice trembling lightly as the tension only rises and rises more between them. With a small step, he tries to get closer and make sure his partner isn‘t freaking out totally.

»I am not a murderer, Bell… I‘m...« There‘s a dramatic pause before he continues, taking a deep breath.

»I am Strong Guy.«

Bruce is doing his best not to laugh at his superhero name from the script, clenching his jaw and keeping up his tense glare, waiting for you to say your next line. Even his damn children tease and make of him for accepting such role, but that‘s not really a surprise.It‘s only a matter of time when he will finally crack up, having warned you prior already.

»No way. You… can‘t be. How is that possible? But Strong Guy is basically from space, right? What… have I been dating an alien the whole time?«

You are in complete shock and disbelief. At least trying to seem like it. When you wrote the script, you really had to hold yourself back from writing a better scene than this. But Hollywood is demanding and only wants to please the poor viewers who are seeing the same movie over and over again, but in a different fond every year. At least the Writer‘s Strike is almost over and other, more legendary directors can direct more original and creative movies… well, depends if the WGA and other people responsible for that will actually care about anything other than money.

»Babe, believe me, I am still me. The Andy you know from high school and the same one you fell for all those years back.« Strong Guy, Andy, uses a softer tone with you now and looks genuinely desperate not to lose his partner because of his secret identity.

Your character isn‘t strong for that matter and gives in after a few more weak attempts of arguing, before the tension eases up and you both hug each other tightly, whispering sweet nothings against the other.

Once the scene ends, you have to repeat for another four times to get it in every angle and make sure you get the best takes. By the time that‘s finished, Bruce can already feel how drained he is after the dramatic and less than poorly written scene. Don‘t get him wrong, he likes the way you tell the story, but the dialoge couldn‘t be any more cheesy and… over-cliché in his opinion. Not that he would that say to your face.

Malva approaches you with a glass of water in hand, offering it to you to cool your mind after the rather intense scene.

»I‘m counting the days, you know? When you and him become… a thing?«

She elbows your side playfully, making you almost spill your water and choke on the sip you just took.

»Mal, what the fuck!«

»Fuck! Yes, when is that going to happen?« She inquires and awaits your answer curiously, seeming dead-serious. But you know her better than that. She is most likely just teasing and tries to force another crush on you yet again.

»I‘m not going to answer the question. We barely know each other.« You mumble back finally and sip on you glass of water in attempt to hide your tiny smile, glancing towards Bruce to make sure he isn‘t secretly eavesdropping on you two.

»Look, I‘m just trying to be honest. The way he looks at you? You can‘t tell me you haven‘t noticed. He is, like… so expressive with his eyes and so dreamy...« Malva trails off and sighs out softly, making you cringe lightly beside her.

You hush her quickly once the man you are both fussing over walks by, exhaling wearily and speak to your best friend again.

»Okay, I may have lend him one of my annotated books and he probably invited me to his library to read together. Next week, or something.«

Her jaw falls almost literally to the floor as she listens to you, in disbelief and is actually speecheless for a second.

»Oh, you have to tell me about how it went! You two already look so good together on set, I can‘t imagine — « You cut her off quickly by pressing your palm against her lips, embarrassed and also noticing Bruce being dangerously near your area.

This is going to be a hell of filming and hang outs in the next few months…

◐

You knew his house was big, but… you nearly want to throw up at how big and pretty it is. If there‘s thing you can compliment him, is that he has good taste in almost everything besides coffee. What sane person likes their coffee completely black and plain?

Walking up to the big double door, you ring the bell and wait patiently. Your wait doesn‘t last long as one of the doors swings open and a rather small boy greets you with a judgemental look. That‘s surely one of his sons. Jason, probably? No, he is too old to look this young…

»Hey there. I‘m here to meet Bruce, is he here?« You greet as polite and friendly as possible, always having managed to scare off children without meaning to. Or at least babies.

»Father should be inside.«

Politely enough, the boy steps aside and lets you enter, watching you intently as you take the interior in.

Feeling a little awkward, you decide to ask. »What‘s your name, by the way?«

He narrows his eyes at you and crosses his arms, answering your questioin that was meant to be polite.

»You are not worth it to know my na —«

»Damian! I‘m sure you showed her around a little and were polite, weren‘t you?«

Bruce hurries down the stairs and approaches you both, seeming only slightly tense as he awaits his son‘s answer, running his hand through his hair.

»Of course, father...«

Damian scoffs lightly and averts his eyes away from you to the floor, seeing some similarities between him and Bruce.

The older man smiles and steps beside you, eventually paying his attention back to you.

»Sorry, this is Damian. My youngest.« He finally introduces and gestures to his son in front of you, taking him in again and nod slightly. Damian is doing a poor job in hiding his displeasure on meeting you, grumbling something under his breath as he gives you a sharp side-glance.

»Alfred said he needs some help in the garden, why don‘t you join him?« Bruce uses the code word they settled on in case Damian should be somewhere that he isn‘t welcome to and gets the message, making his way outside to the backyard.

You watch him wander off in a rather moody demeanor, feeling Bruce‘s warm hand settle between your shoulderblades.

»I hope he wasn‘t a bother while I was gone. He can get… pretty angsty at times.«

He apologises but you quickly wave it off, actually being quite amused and not bothered at all.

»No, I get it. I was just as grumpy and annoyed when I was younger, I don‘t blame him.« At your words, he raises an eyebrow while leading up ustairs with him, walking to his library.

»That‘s interesting. I could never imagine you as a grumpy teenager though, what were you like? Also throwing a tantrum for not receiving the latest comic book?«

He teases lightly but also refers to one of his kids when they were a little younger and spoiled, all to his fault.

»No, I was more of a… rebellious kind? I hated it when people wouldn‘t take me seriously and protested a lot. Over the right stuff, though! Maybe you could call it a punk phase, but I really just wanted to be taken seriously and be understood, you know?«

Bruce listened to you explain while entering the library after passing the hallway, looking to you once again with a fond expression.

»You and I may have more common in that sense, then. I also tried to prove myself to others and threw myself into… some situations. But all for the right reasons, right?«

Maybe Malva was right. You should hurry up and claim this man for yourself.

Snapping your gaze away from him, you take in the big library you are both in, it being a spacious room with tall shelfs, full with books that go up the ceiling, and some couches around in the middle to lounge on. You genuinenly haven‘t expected for him to have this whole area as a library that‘s actually filled with so many books, being literally surrounded by them.

»So? Have you got a book to read? If not, you can always lend one from here.«

He claps his hands once and walks to one of the larger couches before sitting down on it, the book you gave him from your earlier hang out in his hands.

»Oh, I came prepared, I have my own book with me.«

You answer back and take a seat beside him on the couch, taking out the book from your bag as you lean back and start to read where you left off.

He shares his last glance at you before he foccuses on his book for now, feeling joy at the small comments you left on the sides of almost every page, being content just reading in silence for now while sitting beside you.

Some time passes and you both have read quite a lot over the time-being, itching for a small break. Alfred, his butler apparently, had got you both some warm tea and cookies onto the coffee table in front of you and left after saying his usual polite words.

Tasting the cookies, you have never eaten such delicious and not overly sweet cookies before. You need to steal his recipe later and make them yourself at home. The tea is just as good, still warm and having a comforting effect on you. Bruce speaks up, his body turned more towards you on the couch as he has his arm around the back of the couch, sipping on his cup of tea.

»What do you think of your book so far?« It seems like he always asks these questions on purpose, just to hear you talk his ear off about a random topic. But you answer truthfully anyway, looking to him now as you take a break from munching on those cookies.

»I really love the way Pushkin wrote about his wife in his novels, every female character he inserts seems to be his wife and he won‘t waste any time on sweet talking everything. But his works actually represent a path from Neoclassicism through Romanticism to Realism, or whatever they say, so… I just love how easy his rhymes are in some passages and how obvious that is that he was such a hopeless romantic...«

You glance around the library as you talk, eventually trailing off and checking in to see his reaction. He leaned his head against his fist from his arm that rests on the back of the couch, eyes ever so tender and nonjudgemental. Almost loving.

»You okay?« You ask finally, unsure because of his quiet demeanor and how he just stares at you. How long has he been staring for?

»Yeah. Just wondering if you could use that mouth for more than just talking nonsense.«

Now you feel offended, no matter how much he‘s flirting with you right now.

»Nonsense? I think you just lost your mind, I never talk nonsense, especially not about my favourite writer.«

Bruce can‘t help but smile at that, glad you didn‘t react badly to what he just blurted out without actually meaning to.

»I‘m sure everything you say is logical and accurate, but I —«

»Oh, so you weren‘t listening the whole time? Why do you even bother asking me about those —«

This time, you are the one getting interrupted and he puts a gentle hand onto your knee to try and soothe you.

»Because I love the sound of your voice.«

Oh, you froze. Bruce is panicking, he never thought he would be so straightforward with his feelings towards you, but something about you just lets him let loose and be himself. It‘s almost scaring him.

But you didn‘t freeze because you were startled or shocked, but because you never expected for him to compliment you in such a genuine and nice way. And his hand on your knee is only making your case worse. As he is about to get his hand back to himself, you move closer to him and hug him as tightly as you can. Bruce stumbles slightly back into the couch because of the force of your hug, but doesn‘t waste any time on hugging you back. He is instantly relieved at your reaction, letting himself melt into the hug and rub your back lightly in return.

»Not good at taking compliments?«

You scoff at his teasing comment, leaning a little off of him to look into his eyes again.

»At least I don‘t tell people they talk ‚nonsense‘ just to compliment them later.« He rolls his eyes at your light jab, loosening his grip around you as he is unsure if you want to stay in the hug for longer or not. When you don‘t let go, he decides to follow your lead and just let you stay half on top of him with your arms wrapped around his neck. It could come off as friendly cuddling, almost, but there seems to be still some light tension between the two of you.

The fact that Bruce has invited you to his Manor to simply read together says a lot. It is well known to the media that he hasn‘t really been in a relationship, and that he doesn‘t go around dating or hooking up usually. Bruce Wayne is mostly a mysterious person to the media, talking and responding politely and patiently to the interviewers or reporters, letting his guard down only rarely among other people he doesn‘t really know.

Working together with him has shown you that he can warm up to people, especially when they share interests or just seem good-hearted. Like you.

You have shown him how coorperative and kind you are to all your staff and co-actors, he has seen some of your interviews as well. Being kind and bringing a positive message is important for you, and you‘ve made sure to show it. Either through films or other actions, you managed to let Bruce believe there is still good in this world and genuine people. You aren‘t full of money, your beliefs are similar to his in that sense.

He hasn‘t realised it yet, but his hand traces mindless circles around your back as you two stay in the hug, your own hand lightly fidgeting with the back of his shirt collar.

As time passes and you two talk about whatever, the evening rolls by quickly and it becomes dark outside, making the atmosphere more relaxing. By the time you two have talked, you both adjusted your position more, his arms still around in a way while your body is laying mostly across his lap with your head resting against his chest. You didn‘t realize how comfortable it would be to lay almost completely on him, and you‘re trying to make it last.

He uses the opportunity to talk more about himself since you didn‘t really get the chance to get to know each other that much with work. Bruce mostly talks about his sons and daughter, describing their personalities as best as he can, telling a few funny stories here and there from their younger years, knowing they would kill him if they would find out he told you about it.

It‘s endearing hearing him talk about his children, listening to him with heart eyes as you stay in his arms, melting against his chest.

His voice smooth and low, a subtle rasp to it while he eyes dart around the room from one spot to the other until they land on you from time to time. He started to play with your hair at some point, twirling some strands around his finger before letting go and starting again, his hands always busy with something.

»Did anyone ever tell you how soothing you are? Like, I never expected for you to be so calm and kind until now. What‘s with the persona for the press?«

He looks down to you and continues to play around with your hair a little, adjusting his hold on you to let you stay comfortable against his chest.

»Everyone has an online persona. Like to stay more private about my stuff.«

He shrugs lightly, letting his arms stay loosely around you. That response makes you smile, leaning up a little.

»Does that mean I‘m special?«

Bruce can‘t help but smirk at that, shifting to make you face him more.

»I guess you are, yes.«

His warm expression makes you contemplate wether or not this has something more to it, if you both just really good friends already or more. The tension in the room seems thicken, especially with how close you both are right now on the couch. The library falls into a comfortable silence again, this time with both of you staring at the other. You study his features, realising how much prettier he is from up close. From this proximity, you can barely make out the faint freckles across his cheeks, making you want to study him more and find out about all the other faint or small features he has, taking pride in seeing such details.

He also focuses on your face, the way your eyes flit around his face and are soft in the warm light of the room. His hand carefully cups your cheek, feeling the soft and warm skin under his palm. Without thinking, you lean into his hand, looking back into his eyes.

It almost feels magical and surreal how close you are to him, realising you are both about to get even closer. Your heart starts to pick up its pace, but you don‘t pull away. Bruce‘s thumb brushes against your cheekbone, his adam‘s apple bobs briefly before he leans in, seeing how willing you are to stay close and closer.

Eventually, your lips meet and it feels better than any cinematic movie could ever potray a romantic scene. The kiss lingers before you break it, but stay close, your noses barely brushing together.

He trails his hand from your cheek to the back of your head, threading his fingers into your hair.

»Please tell me you wanted this just as much as me.« His voice is quite, careful. Warm.

»Genuinely? From the moment you invited me to your library.«

He smiles at your response, freely with his perfect teeth showing. Without further discussion, he presses his lips against yours again, making sure to be gentle, as if he could break you by being too harsh.

You tremble lightly in his arms, too enrupted by the sensation of the soft kisses to care about anything else. Getting the courage, you wrap your arms more around his neck and lean more into him, making him melt from the inside and become weak for you. You could do anything to him and he would happily let you. Is it a little too early to be so trusting? Maybe. Does he care or want to waste this time with you? Fuck no.

He sighs into the kiss and leans back further into the soft couch, making you follow and press yourself further against him. It becomes overwhelming, getting to sit properly on his lap, your hands on either side of his face, his hands resting contently at your thighs. And it happens.

You can‘t help it, you want – need friction from him, and buck your hips against him, earning a low groan from him.

His grip on your thighs tightens, breath starting to get shallow the longer you kiss. At his subtle reactions, you do that again, starting to grind lightly against him, your own breath growing heavier.

Bruce feels his head spin because of you, the way you are so eager to continue, to feel him more and to get more is making him fall even more for you. The fact alone that you are willing to trust him with your body is enough to get him going more, but he hates that you are both in his library at the moment and you are both nothing official yet.

He does what he thinks is logical and wants to be the responsible from the two of you.

His hands grab onto your hips, stopping you from picking up the pace or apply more pressure against him.

»Hey, easy… easy, we have all the time in the world, just...« He sighs out, loosening his grip on your hips once you simply sit on him.

»Did I do something wrong?«

You panic and look him over to see if you hurt him or made him uncomfortable.

»No! No, no, no, you never did anything wrong, I just… I don‘t want this to be our first time.«

As soon as he drops those words, you slump your full weight on him, slightly confused and disappointed.

»I just want you to have something better than having it in my damn library. You deserve more than that. It needs to be special.«

His hands settle on your waist, his hair slightly tousled and face flushed, chest heaving lightly as he catches his breath, but still feels breathless because of you.

You stay quiet for another moment, processing his words. It‘s difficult to do so, that sight in front of you is making you feral but he doesn‘t want to do anything more because… he wants to treat you better?

Now you are really starting to wonder if he is real. There is no way someone would be nice enough to actually stop making out before it escalates, just because he wants to make it special in another time.

»Oh… okay, then. I won‘t force you anyway.«

You shrug lightly, feeling disappointed. But you would hate to force him to something more. Bruce seems glad you agree on it so easily and lets his hands trail up and down your sides more until he sets you down beside him, a shit-eating grin on his face.

»Sorry for cock-blocking you, dear.«

He murmurs into your ear, making you flush and groan, elbowing his side annoyed; all the while he laughs amused.

←MASTERLIST

a/n: let me know what you think about it, hope you enjoyed it!

[yanderenightmare]

Bakugou Katsuki x darling

NSFW ABC's

TW: NSFW, a little yandere, bondage, breeding visualizations,

Aftercare

what are they like after sex?

Katsuki is spent after going at it.

He doesn’t really do things halfway – so when he starts mumbling into your neck in curt, growling groans while messaging your hips with warm hands – crotch against your rear – you take it as a warning to prepare yourself to get wrecked.

He’s cute like that – telling you without telling you.

And aftercare isn’t much different – not caring for you in appreciative words so much as in small affectionate gestures instead. Holding you in his exhaustion – big spoon – heavy arms wrapped around you snuggly as he places soft kisses on the back of your neck.

You’re both so sticky with sweat but too tired to feel icky – falling asleep – thinking it’s tomorrow’s problem.

Bondage

is there a rope-bunny? if so, which of you? what’s used? how and what is tied up?

Pent up after work with only a couple of hours to spare between eating dinner and going to bed – the two of you don’t always have the time to plan anything too kinky. Often, you’ll have to start in the shower and finish in bed before saying goodnight.

And besides, it’s not always Katsuki has the patience to bother with ropes, even if you do have the time. 

He’s tired when he comes home, but horny all the same – and all he’ll want is to find enjoyment by using just his own two hands. Pinning you and feeling you between his fingers – raking in your soft flesh after a long day – groping you and manhandling you until you tap him with that specific look – telling him he’s being a bit too much… 

Clingy isn’t the exact word you’d use as it doesn’t really describe the feeling of how weighty his muscle mass is when topping you. It’s rather something between over-eager and clumsily desperate.

Heavy-handed.

But other times… 

If the two of you have the entire day together, and you’ve decided you’d rather have a stay-at-home date rather than go out – then he’ll insist you do something a tad bit more choreographed.

And fuck knows, he has all the equipment to make it happen. 

Cum

how fast are they? where do they like to shoot it? what’s it look/feel/taste like?

You’re not entirely sure what to blame it on. Stamina or orgasmic constipation, or whether it’s due to his own hard-headedness – if he’s playing some bet on himself to see how long he can last. All you know is that when he finally releases, it’s like new year’s. 

All anticipation and desires weighed on one final firework – drunk off champagne and consumed by the thought of bedtime straight after. 

He likes being buried to the hilt when he blows – likes feeling it cream hot inside you and how you clench around him tightly as though you also love it when he gives it to you raw. Even though he knows you allow it only because he asks it of you.

You would probably say no – but Katsuki has a way of being really cute when he wants something. The way he’ll mouth kisses on your cheek and almost beg for it, asking you sweetly and breathlessly, “can I?” – you don’t really have the wits with you to tell him to pull out.

You find yourself wearing pads even when you’re not on your period. 

Dynamic

who’s in charge? what type: dom/sub, sado/maso, etc…? 

Bakugou’s domestic more than he is dominant. Almost motherly, he does the cooking and the cleaning – while also assuming the role of the man in your relationship with his round-the-clock profession – leaving for work after making breakfast for the both of you, kissing your cheek before walking out the door.

But as someone who, through pure habit, does everything without thinking twice about it – he’s absolutely stunned into a pleasant surprise when, in those moments, you decide to do something in his stead. 

And the same counts for pleasures in the bedroom. 

As in, he’s quick to roll over if you want to take the lead – if and when you place your hands down flat on his chest and push him down – mounting him with that very dauntless look in your eye – spirited and brazen – when you lord over him like something between a hovering angel and a demon bearing down on prey. 

He can feel something in his gut rumble and yield as you roll your hips in exactly what tempo you’ve set – his hands held loosely at the swell of your haunches, doing nothing but encourage your reign.

But even though he may like and even want it, he’s not one to ever request such a thing – so aside from those times you take the initiative all on your own, he gladly takes care of the both of you all by himself as though it’s the only obvious thing to do.

Expertise

are they any good?

Precision and expertise are as though written in Katsuki’s constitution.

However… 

If there’s a time Katsuki’s ever clumsy, it’s when he’s drunk with lust for you. When he’s got his hands on your waist and his mouth on your face – when he’s grinding himself against you and only has the mind to focus on how lucky he is to get to be the one that fucks you every night. 

But a little clumsiness doesn’t mean he’s bad at it. 

Albeit he’s a bit overbearing – being dizzy with overwhelming arousal – he’s equally concerned with your pleasure as he is his own. And though he’s not one to ask if he’s making you feel good, he’s always looking out for your little mannerisms to answer the question – and usually, your reactions tell him he’s doing a good job.

Face

what do they look like during? what expressions do they make?

He seems to always have this curl between his brows. Furrowed as though in deep focus or in a struggling strive to reach his goal – in slight irritation of how on the brink he finds himself – chasing the full feeling. Teeth grit in those moments he’s not moaning when you bite his neck in retaliation to his harsh thrusts. 

Sometimes he’ll even be so cute as to bite his tongue in his concentration – rhythmically swaying your hips back against his in his pursuit – as though he’s trying to feel every little ridge of his catch on yours and how you squeeze him tight when he’s got his cockhead nudged snug against your cervix.

And his eyes will close – teeth sinking into his lip as a soft shuddering hum of a moan leaves him – closing in on it. And when finally reaching it – he’ll bow his head and take refuge in your chest – his hips shaking against you – panting hot dewy breaths onto your skin until fully collapsing in the aftertaste.

Games

do they like to play? if so, what?

He likes chasing you down and tackling you. And he’s not shy off a tickle-fight. He absolutely loves having you pinned in a burst of unfiltered smiles and laughter as you cry for him to stop while splashing like a fish out of water beneath him. 

It’s as though your thrashing reaches his heart, riveting his entire body ablaze. 

You make him feel the same way he feels when he’s using his quirk – sparked on fuel, eager to explode, and just bursting at the seams.

He thinks you’re so beautiful then – and all other times, but especially then – when you have a few sprinkles of tears in the corner of your eyes from the force of your giggles, all your walls down in trust of him even though his arms are scarred beyond repair with evidence of his brutal nature.

That’s the moment he thinks of knocking you up. 

He wants you to be a family – a complete family with a couple of brats running around. He wants to blow raspberries on their bellies and make them giggle the way you do. He wants to see you play here-comes-the-airplane when tricking them into eating. He wants goofy family pictures lining the staircase and the mantle, and the desk in his office. He wants childish celebrations – Christmas, Halloween, April Fool's Day. He wants it all. 

And he wants it all with you.

Horny

how horny are they?

Winning makes him horny. His work – investigating, patrolling, fighting, exploding. Every win, big or small, celebrated with you – his cheerleader, his prize. It goes straight to his head, and what goes to his head goes straight to his dick, and his dick leads straight to you.

He always comes home in a winner’s high, grinning that devilish smirk while he lifts you off the ground with greasy smokey hands, rubbing his face into the nook of your neck until you giggle – asking you if you saw him and how he kicked ass on the news. 

You tell him yes even if you haven’t – you know you’ll get a full recap over dinner anyway.

He’s in the best mood those days – brazen and handsy with you, smiling and talkative – bragging about his takedowns and sharing the funny office shenanigans Kirishima and Denki get up to. 

Then he’ll make an effort to act invested in you, asking you about your day – but you only look at him knowingly and tell him it was nothing special – recognizing his interest as just that – interest.

There’s no smooth segway from boasting about his achievements to asking to fuck you, but you help him get there – putting your dishes in the sink, you come back and drape your hands around him, giving his neck a kiss, blowing on his ear while telling him to come and claim another victory.

Intimacy

how lovey-dovey are they?

He’s connected with you, with a focus on your movements, taking in all your little reactions and kissing you when catching you doing something unreasonably cute.

But he’s the cute one – trying not to leave any bruises on you despite you having told him it’s okay. 

He doesn’t like seeing his transgressions marring your skin as unseemly reminders of his short temper and vicious strength – and how completely at his mercy you would be were he to exercise it.

He fears he’d start thinking differently about your relationship if he did. He fears he might come to use it against you to get his way like he’s done in the past with others that have made the same mistake of caring for him.

The thought of your face twisted with betrayal – looking at him like he’s nothing but a villain – that’s what keeps him in check. He understands that the day he breaks your trust is the day he loses you – maybe not in the physical sense if he can help it, but he would be helpless to stop you from never loving him the same way ever again.

But even though his thoughts disgust him while he swears to himself that he won’t ever make you feel in any way inferior – he still regards it as a ticking time bomb. That you one day will realize that he’s not as good as you think he is and try to leave him – and that on that day, he just won’t be able to let you go.

Junk

what’s their private look/feel like?

He’s thick and heavy-hung. Ripped the same way the rest of him is – muscular – with fat veins like cables pumping power. High-strung with a sturdy spine, lifting it up like a cannon ready to fire. A plump tip with a deep slit shaping it where beads of white pill – like fine pearls running down the length of it into the ash-blonde wisp bearding the beast – growing lightly upward in a happy trail towards his navel – upon finely cut muscles, steering clear of his larger scars, and spreading even further upon his pelvis to his chest in short circular curls – contrasting the tan sand color of his skin the same way the stubble on his chin grows – scratching you every time he gives you a kiss.

Kinks

what turns them on?

Katsuki's kink is consent – hearing you tell him to go faster or harder or deeper – feeling you claw your nails into his skin while your legs pull him closer, wrapped tightly in a lock around his torso – how your own hips move impatiently against his – desperately begging for more of him.

He also likes hearing you tell him to be gentle, to go slower, to make his digs longer – how you moan sweetly for him and caress his body with gentle touches, all smoothly in soft small hands – how your lips press against his neck and blow on his ear – when in the absence of skin harshly smacking skin the two of you hear the schlick all to well as you mold into the other’s embrace.

Really – just anytime you ask for anything – when you show him you want him. When you ask to ride him and when you tell him to take over. When you tell him to kiss you and when you’re too caught up in it to understand what or how to ask so you instead just say his name with a moan.

Location

where do they like doing it?

Katsuki likes going at it anywhere at home in the comfort of your shared house – with the exception of his car if he’s feeling impatient – his sofa, his kitchen counter, his dining table, his tub, his shower, his windows, his home-office desk, his bed, on a pile of his dirty laundry. 

It’s in those intimate places that he can really let loose, leave the worries of the world outside and keep his focus on you and all those innermost personal ways he wants to ingrain you in his life – root you in his privacy – tattoo you into his skin.

Though there have been times when you’ve visited him at his hero agency – bringing lunch – where he’s been too riled up and tattered from huge wasteful meetings with other pro heroes who’s all had their head’s too far up their asses to come to any agreement regarding anything – when seeing you has been such a blessing that he just hasn’t been able to keep himself from grabbing at you – desperate for comfort and some consolation in burying his frustrations deep inside your tight cunt. 

Where due to his occasional raging fits and his own personal need for privacy – his office is both soundproof and fitted with airtight blinds – therefore, nothing to keep him from making you scream when he takes you hard against his desk.

And aside from the office, there have been times you’ve stayed with his parents where he’s not been shy of getting friskywith you in his childhood bedroom.

So, in correction, maybe it’s closer to anywhere he feels at home – and not restricted to the house.

Masturbation

do they? if so, how often? to what?

Katsuki masturbates only on one occasion. And fuck knows it’s on those nights he’s fucked things up with you enough to be banished from the bedroom to the sofa. 

He knows that he should be lying awake feeling guilty about other things regarding the reason he’s sleeping alone in the first place – but he can’t help it when his blood’s pumped up on adrenaline after your fight, and how the frustration still lingering in his skull only has one fix solution which is to rub one out and fall asleep so he can be calm enough to apologize to you in the morning.

He just needs to remind himself of how much he loves you, and though it isn’t the most dignified or romantic way – imagining you in compromising positions with filthy words on your lips – it’s proven to be the most efficient way for him to forgive and forget the fact that he thinks you should be the one banished to the sofa and not him.

Which is another thing fuck knows – that the two of you never agree to who’s in the wrong and can only ever agree to disagree after a long night's sleep without each other.

Nos

turn-offs

Katsuki’s main turn-off is losing. 

His performance in bed is tightly knit with his performance at work – so if things are going poorly in either field, things are bound to be going poorly in the other. 

Slumps ruin his confidence, making it but a brittle thing – an absolute insult to his normally unshakable self. 

It’s the stress; it makes him both tired and restless at the same time. He’s the type to scratch at his scalp and pull his hair out – only withholding screaming so not to scare you.

In such periods all he wants is your gentle touch rubbing his sore muscles while you cuddle and kiss his forehead and cheek – telling him that everything will work out and be okay. 

In those periods, the nights are spent with his head buried in your bosom and his hands balling your nightie in tight fists – struggling to keep from crying – while your hand smoothly runs through his hair – only continuing when he finally breaks and starts to jostle with silent sniffles and wet tears staining your chest.

Oral

do they give/receive? how are they giving/receiving?

Katsuki gets lost in you – humping the sheets as he gorges himself. 

Your scent turns him in – your taste turns him on – the soft squishy flesh of your cunty lips kissing him back turns him on – how your thighs quake around his face turns him on – how your hips buck against his jaw turns him on – and the hand you have riddled in his hair, tugging on him in desperate demands as you spill and shake in aftershocks against him turns him on.

It riles him up so much he sheathes himself inside you to the hilt in one fell swoop, once crawling on top of you with hands still buried into the squeezable fat of your thighs, spreading you into a wide-open invitation – groaning against your mouth with your undoing glossing his chin and lips and his breath the scent of your raw arousal.

With your essence on his tongue, he cums almost embarrassingly quickly.

Position

what’s their favorite position? what position are they best?

Katuki’s favorite position is you – flat on your back and belly-up beneath him in a tight sticky mating press. 

Sticky forehead against sticky forehead, sweat sprinkled dewy across your cheeks as you look back up into his eyes with lust and plead – all pooling into one mesmerizing mixture he can’t stop himself from drowning in – his mouth open with heavy huffs and puffs, drool dribbling into your mouth where you pant on beat with his humping. 

Thighs spread wide under the pressure of his hands where he has you folded neatly against the pillow beneath you – lifted from the mattress to meet every single dig of his cock – pulling all the way out before storming your ribs with a deep swing of his hips, slapping against you and filling you all the way up again.

He loves how your thighs quake when he pushes into the very deepest part of you and how your moans lose all energy and devolve into nothing more but pretty pitter-pattering – your eyes glossy and doe-like, wet lashes blinking slowly while looking up into his. Loving how your cunt clenches as how you hold your breath – in anticipation of receiving more of him – how your velvety walls flutter upon the length of him – a sopping wet hot welcome allowing him to burrow deep with ease. 

Reaping what he sows he takes you fully as you are – convinced you were made for him.

Question

do they ask for sexual pleasures? if so, how?

He’ll give you a heads-up rather than a request – a little threat on your phone telling you to do whatever it is you feel you have to do before he comes home because the second he’s home, he’s going to have you up against the nearest wall.

Other times, his warnings come more in the form of the hungry look in his eyes as he silently leers at you from across the dinner table or the other side of the couch. Looking at you like he’s hunting prey – claws coming out to play soon after in how they paw at you right as he lounges to capture you.

He does that – silently attack you – with touches and lips and needy dry-humping until you cave and tell him to take you up to the bedroom instead. He only barely listens – tugging off his belt and pulling his pants down before wrapping your legs around him and lifting you up. Sometimes the two of you don't even make it all the way up the stairs.

Sometimes however, he’ll come after you in softer ways. If you’re already in his arms, and he’s just noticed how close the two of you are – getting so very hot and bothered by the mere realization. 

In moments of downtime… 

When you’re standing there in home attire, plush loafers, and a pretty apron – cutting vegetables for dinner – and he just wants a quick crotchdance as an appetizer for what desert he’ll want after dinner. 

Or, following a long day, when the two of you are snuggled up with a movie in bed hours after the sun’s set – when you’re in his arms, and he’s just incapable of focussing on the plot. 

And other bedtime routines where the two of you’re doing your skincare rituals and getting ready for a shower – and you’re standing there in cute pajamas he knows will be on the floor soon. 

Role-play

do they? if so, what roles? dress-up?

Sometimes he likes to roleplay you as a silly little villain. 

He doesn’t really understand why – but seeing you look all cute and catlike in a black robber’s mask – acting as though he’s arresting you – really riles him up. 

Your initial thought process led you to believe it was a way for him to somehow justify being a bit rougher with you – but later, you found that the fault rather existed in that certain intoxicating sensation of authority he feels when he is in his hero suit – when he has you face-first against a wall with your hands behind you back – cuffing them before kicking your legs open for a search. 

He'll warn you to refrain from resisting as he drags his fingers over the little black costumey spandex you’re wearing to fit the role of a cat burglar – tight booty shorts leaving the crease of your asscheeks exposed, same way the deep dipping slit of the top lets your cleavage almost spill over.

He'll yank your head back with a fist riddled in your hair – looking down at you with that crazed smile you often see on the news, making your chest tight and breath thin – knowing you're in for a hell of a ride.

While other times – mostly to make you giggle – he’ll be the one impersonating a villain. But he’s only silly and cute when pinning you, poking fun with a smile while play-biting at your neck – telling you what shit luck you must have to find yourself in such an unfortunate situation and that he’s going to make you regret walking around without your hero-boyfriend to protect you.

You know it’s not all fun and games, though. You know there's some truth to it for him. You're not blind to the way he sees you as something in need of protecting. It's not exactly as though your supposed weaknesses, along with Katsuki’s temper, aren't two of the most argued subjects the two of you disagree on.

Secrets

impure thoughts/feeling/fantasies they have of you

He has many impure thoughts about you, but he’s all very shameless about expressing those. Ever the honest man, he’ll talk dirty like it’s nobody's business – whispering ever the salacious raunchiest desire right at your ear with a sharp smirk playing on his lips, so sharp you get snagged on it each and every time.

But, there are things he’ll keep to himself – certain stirrings in his stomach that confuse him. When your voice slips into that oh-so seductively sultry tone with your hand filtering through the spikes of hair atop his head, looking down at him with eyes full of love and this other something he’s not sure why makes him so quiet.

His heart goes absolutely feral with fluttering pounding then – even though he knows you’re just being silly – even though he knows you’re just out to pull his leg… He can’t help the chills of goosebumps that spread throughout him when you level him and say something along the lines of good boy~

You fluster him with that, and it’s all too clear with how he blushes bright red and adopts that sheepish look that’s so unlike him – and in the way his voice wavers when he tries and tells you to stop it with that shit.

Toys

do they have? which? when/how do they use them? on who?

One of the drawers in the bedroom is dedicated to Katsuki’s little collection. 

Fluffy cuffs, silken ropes, chains, and tape – all meant to restrain you, as well as other complicated confinements such as spreader bars and armbinders and the like – along with other subjugating toys like leashes, collars, blindfolds, and gag balls – all heavy-duty hardcore means of bondage.

You couldn’t stop blushing the first time he introduced you to the kink – eyes wide and face heated – it actually robbed you of breath. Sure, you’d seen it in porn and felt sticky feelings of pleasure upon what you saw, but you’d never truly imagined it for yourself, at least not to the extent Katsuki was offering.

But he was asking so nicely – in such a sweet way you hadn't ever witnessed him do before – softly reassuring you that you could trust him and that he wouldn’t do anything without making sure you were comfortable with it first.

You couldn’t very well tell him no when you hadn’t even tried it first.

You don’t know what about it he enjoys so much – if it’s the fact that you’re completely pressed beneath his thumb or that you trust him enough to let yourself be – all you know for sure is that Katsuki has a smile on his face every time you have your body in a bind.

Sometimes you giggle and put the cuffs on him – and he’ll do a little muscle dance for you to keep you smiling, looking at you with that very deep red and playful look, watching you try and tease him with feather-light touches and chaste little pecks – waiting for him to snap, break free and punish you hard for being a little brat.

Underwear

on/off? normal/lingerie? naked? colors?

Of course, you make him groan when you wear those spicy intricacies of red lace and mesh – those fiery and flowery patterns of expense that leave little to the imagination and are better left off on the floor after he rips them off you.

But on the other hand – he thinks he finds you sexiest when you’re wearing comfy cotton boxers and no bra but hissignature black T-shirt with the skull print.

When you look like the very epitome of at home. 

There’s just something about seeing you in comfy clothing – be it pajamas or his silly merch, or one of his shirts that just dwarfs you – it’s nice seeing you so natural around him. Clean of all makeup with a pair of fuzzy socks on your feet – looking goofy and cute as you shuffle over to him. 

And there’s something very soothing about it, too, in how it feels so trivial and personal and right – reserved only for him, as though something you’re only comfortable with him seeing.

Volume

are they loud? what sounds do they make? or do they prefer your sounds instead?

It comes as no surprise that Katsuki’s a loudmouth even in bed when he is one everywhere else.

He’s full-throated, with rusty growls and groans, hunting your insides like a wolf chasing down prey – only getting louder the closer he comes, rutting against you hard and fast with his face buried in your skin, softly biting and panting out damp breaths while his hands clutch you tighter.

He likes the sound of your moans too. They drive him wilder – fueling the beast within – making him go rabid. A hand closing around your throat, feeling your noises strum against his palm. Mouth his name, and he loses all composure – hearing it drip, sticky sweet off your tongue, along with drool and a whine. 

His head gets so hot and cloudy it becomes hard to think, only feel the pressure way down low in his pelvis, wanting to burst and bloom and spill and fill you up so good you get hearts in your eyes at the milky warmth.

Wild-card

something sexually specific to this character

There’s a lot of sweat. It’s a slippery sport for the two of you, and it’s only ever more wet come summertime.

But it’s quite a pretty site – the way it becomes like steam pilling and rolling off his tough glistening muscles, sparkly in droplets sprinkled on his tan sand-colored skin, dripping from the spikes in his hair like he’s melting.

It would have been more of a problem if it didn’t smell like sweet honeysuckle and caramel. Sweet yet somewhat burning to the taste, it’s almost like syrup and chili – and quite addictive, you confess while dragging your tongue over the dew on his chest, kissing the scars which paint him like a canvas, and licking your lips clean of the oils as he tugs you by your chin to look up at him.

You can tell he thinks it’s kind of gross – the way he leaves a damp print on the sheets after every sleep – or when the two of you walk together, and he doesn’t want to hold your hand. But you make sure to take him between your fingers, placing kisses to his knuckles – over those places where he’s split his skin on punches or torn and worn them on his quirk. 

He’ll tell you that you look like a pet

X-rated

dirty talk

Curse words, grunting, and filthy little nothings make up most of Katsuki’s dirty talk – plus curt encouraging exclamations of yeah groaned breathily against your neck as the two of you melt against one another.

But it’s when he’s tipsy that his tongue really loosens.

Unknotting into something truly unlike him – lovey-dovey confession just pouring from his lips, mouthing at your skin with his head bowed. 

And it’s not just him telling you how much he loves you – but much sappier stuff – angsty and almost just a little bit worrying stuff… 

How he needs you to be his forever and never leave him, how you should just get pregnant with his kid already, quit your job and be his beautiful housewife who stays at home with the kids, waiting for him to come back from work and fuss over him when he finally walks through the door.

You giggle at him come morning – teasing him for all his silliness while he lies with his head drowned in a pillow and a hangover. You stroke his hair and ask if you should be the good housewife that you are and go bring him breakfast in bed – and he’ll groan at you to shut up.

Yandere

toxic/yandere traits

He knows he’s being insane, and he scolds himself for it – trying his best to keep it to himself and find ways to cope with it without burdening you.

But the truth is he finds your life outside him annoying.

He wished you’d leave all of it behind you once you moved in with him – but you’re still leaving for work on days he’s off duty and out with friends when he comes home. You still have people calling you when you’re eating dinner and others texting you when you’re having sex. You’ll bump into people you know when the two of you’re out and give his arm a little punch afterward, telling him how you wished he’d be a little nicer.

But the thing you don’t understand is that all those pesky friends of yours – all those old classmates and boyfriends and girlfriends and coworkers – they’re all competing for your attention. And it doesn’t always feel like he’s the one winning when you blow him off to hang out with them instead.

And aside from people, it’s your job that keeps you from him. 

Some days he wonders if you’d say yes if he asked you to move out of the country with him. But you’re always going on about your carrier and your dreams, and he fears you’d resent him if he asked you to give it all up.

It bothers him to no end – hurts him – because if it were a choice to hang out with his friends or you, he’d pick youevery time. And when it comes to his job… he honestly thinks he’d give it all up if it meant you’d only ever look at him for the rest of your lives.

Zone

what part of you do they love the most?

Your voice and the look on your face when you say his name. 

He hopes you always look at him that way. Softly yet vividly with a gentle smile shaping your lips – one which only widens the longer you look until fully blooming into something that tugs at his heart, giggling out something silly, like calling him a creep for staring at you for so long.

If only you knew… He could stare at you all day until sleep forced his eyes closed. 

He gets so upset when he doesn’t get to see you. He pulls up his phone with a pout to FaceTime you, growling out a curse word if you don’t pick up – opening up photos for comfort instead. 

He has no need to create or pick any album – he only ever takes pictures of you. 

It’s mostly goofy pics of you eating food he’s made for you. Others where you’re sleeping – especially if you’re sleeping on or next to him. And a few more risqué shots, where you’re either dressed only in underwear or nothing at all. Plus, a couple of photos you’ve told him to delete – those where you’re sweaty and messy – with his cum drooping shut one eye, dripping off your cheek like glaze, running down your plump lips into your gaping mouth, landing perfectly on your welcoming tongue.

Still looking up at him with those eyes.

Those soft yet vivid eyes he can stare into forever. 

tip-jar: Kofi

[boyfhee]

ALWAYS ⋆ lhs

prompt · “this—” [ points at their chest ] “—belongs to you. always,” requested

g · fluff warnings · vegetable mentions lmfao wc · 0.6k

note · i tried something new ( sticking to the point instead of over explaing the scenes )

“you’re upset,” heeseung finally says after a series of sighs dancing off his lips, walking up from the couch to the kitchen, taking a seat opposite to you by the counter as you start preparing dinner. “what happened?” 

you start putting vegetables in a bowl to wash them, taking an onion from his hand as he passes you one, eyes lost amidst the unreadable expression on your face, looking for answers. “nothing,”

“did i do something?” he asks again, voice softer than before. 

you shrug, “perhaps,”

“you need to be more specific there, love,” 

you pause, wondering if it’s actually worth telling him— the reason is quite embarrassing, honestly. the look on his face resembles hesitation, you can tell he’s thinking if he’s doing something wrong, along with the slightest of guilt with panic that gleam in his eyes. on other days, you would cup his face and discard every second thought intoxicating his mind, but not today. 

“i went to jake’s aunt’s flower shop to see how you and the boys were holding up with volunteering,” so, you get back to your vegetables, letting the words fall off your lips ever so nonchalantly while heeseung listened with extreme care. “and i saw you being all smiley with a certain someone,” 

“oh,” and you understand that he has gotten the hint in the way his lips curl into a smirk, knowing how you are referring to, and the way he gets up and walks next to you, putting his arms around your waist to pull you closer. “do tell me more,” 

“and i wanted to have a little talk with you guys but,” you continue, as per his request, the frown on your face fighting back to morph into a smile at heeseung’s playful gaze that lingered upon you while your own is busy travelling walls and ceilings. 

“but?” the smile on his lips grows wider. 

“but—” 

“but, you got jealous and left,” he finishes your sentence for you with a mocking smile, knowing exactly the direction this conversation was heading in. “is that right?” 

it isn’t wrong to be jealous, neither is it wrong to accept that you’re jealous, but you know better than saying yes and giving him yet another reason to tease you. “no, heeseung, i was not jealous. i was just concerned,” 

“i see. i was too, about the sales,” he explains, pressing his lips into a thin line. “she was getting lilies, and jake’s aunt particularly told us to smile and greet customers to make them feel welcomed so that they visit again,” 

it had become a saturday routine for heeseung to lend jake’s aunt a hand or two at her shop, along with jay and sunghoon. the boys had been hunting for part time jobs and she offered a perfect deal after her previous employees left almost three weeks ago. it was surely difficult to assist everyday due to classes so they settled for tuesdays and saturdays, with sundays if there is ever an influx of customers. 

“and what if she gives those flowers to you tomorrow?” your question makes him look at you with a blank expression as if he was to say, not again, sweetheart. “c’mon, hee, we both know iseul likes you,” 

“well, that might be true but this—” he points at his heart, looking at you with eyes full of all the love present in the universe, as if you hung the stars in his sky. “—this belongs to you, always,” 

“oh, then i must be the luckiest person in the world,”

you laugh at his corny and yet sweet words, getting lost in his gaze as if nothing else is worth looking at, getting caught up in surprise when he leans down to plant a soft peck on your lips. “i think i’m luckier to have you own my heart,”

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 17, Unanswered - Pt. 5*

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, Explicit Dream!Sexual Content - Minors: GTFO; I don’t serve your kind here. (dream!oral (f-receiving))

Word Count: 1.3k

Previously On...: A conversation with Steve informed you that Bucky was fine, and on his way back to the Tower. He just couldn't be bothered to contact you, it seems. Cool. Coolcoolcoolcoolcoolcool.

A/N: Yay, look at that! Some more smut! Finally! Last part of Chapter 17. You know what that means, friends! BETRAYAL IS AROUND THE CORNER!

NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when I update, please enable notifications from my Blog page!

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc

You went about the rest of your evening and night as normally as you possibly could to distract yourself, checking up on the work emails you’d missed while you were ill and approving some requests for PTO. You’d listened to some back episodes of a True Crime podcast you’d been meaning to catch up on and aimlessly browsed Reddit, making some anonymous posts debunking some of the more outrageous relationship theories that were popping up concerning you and Steve. You were most definitely, for example, not having his super soldier baby.

Fortunately, you only threw up once during that time, and you were optimistic when, after you did, your stomach growled with hunger. You headed to the kitchen, considering potentially grabbing a plate of Thai leftovers from the other night, but remembering your reaction to Nat’s to-go plate, you opted instead to just make yourself a turkey and cheese sandwich. Best not to risk a repeat performance.

Once you made it back to your room, you decided you’d been awake long enough and called it a night. Checking your phone one last time, you were disappointed, yet not surprised, to see you still had no new messages from Bucky. As you put your head down on your pillow, you could only hope tomorrow would bring better tidings, and soon, you were asleep.

You were dreaming. And oh, it was a very good dream, indeed. You weren’t exactly sure what you were dreaming about, you just knew that delicious tension was building low in your stomach and, fleetingly, you hoped it was the kind of dream where you actually got to finish, and not the kind that left you frustratingly hanging over the precipice without actually falling. Those dreams were the fucking worst.

The dream slowly came into focus, Bucky’s head between your legs, his soft hair brushing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs as his tongued fucked you, the hardened muscle working its way in and out of your cunt as if drawing life from it.

You moaned in your sleep as his tongue slipped from your weeping hole, only to latch onto your clit, dancing circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves. You felt your back arch off the bed as his thick fingers found your entrance and began working their way in and out of you, the pace growing faster by the minute. God. This dream was so fucking good, you never wanted to wake up. Your orgasm was so close, you could practically taste it.

“Bucky,” you moaned in your sleep. Even as a figment of your imagination, he was good enough to elicit sinful sounds from your lips. The pressure was building. You were nearly there.

“That’s it, doll,” Dream Bucky said, his nose rubbing against your clit. He added another finger, stretching you so damned well. “Almost there, baby. You can do it. Come for me.” His mouth returned to your clit, suckling from it and driving you over the edge. 

Your breath was coming in ragged gasps, the noises you were making positively pornographic without your conscious mind awake enough to dampen them. But Dream Bucky kept working you through your release, rhythm never faltering.

“I think you can give me another one, pretty girl,” Dream Bucky said. He increased his pace, and soon you were falling again, your arousal coating his hands.

When your aftershocks had subsided, Dream Bucky’s hands pulled away, and you whimpered at the loss of contact. But then, you felt your bed dip, felt the solid, comforting presence of Bucky’s body as it crawled up alongside of you, felt his arms wrap around your waist.

You weren’t dreaming.

“Buck?” you rasped, voice still thick with sleep. “Is that really you, or am I still dreaming?” You reached out and touched his cheek, feeling the unmistakably real sensation of his overgrown stubble against your palm.

“I’m sorry sweets,” Bucky said, a devious smirk plastered across his face, “did I wake you?” He was already divested of most of his clothing, down to just a pair of tight, burgundy boxer briefs.

You yawned and raised your arms over your head, stretching out like a cat. “Was I supposed to sleep through that?” you asked him.

“Mm,” he said, kissing the side of your neck and making you shiver, “I’d really hoped you wouldn’t.” He shifted and you could feel the hard outline of his cock pressing against you. It woke you up immediately.

“Why the fuck haven’t you called me back?” you snapped suddenly, all traces of sleep having gone, leaving you with only your anxiety and unanswered questions. “I’ve been worried fucking sick all day long and I haven’t heard a peep from you! You think you can just give me 24 hours of radio silence, not knowing if you were dead or alive, and come waltzing back here with that magic tongue and I’d just–”

Bucky silenced you with a bruising kiss. “Magic tongue, huh?” he said when you broke for air. You nodded dumbly, currently unable to form a sentence with the way he’d just kissed the shit out of you.

“‘m so sorry, sweets,” Bucky said, his hands slowly making their way to the hem of your sleep shirt and pulling up, exposing your breasts to his lingering gaze. “I never meant to make you worry.” He slipped the shirt over your head, and despite your ire, you helped him do it. “Forgot to pack my international adapter for m’ phone.” He began placing gentle kisses to your breasts. “Battery died.” He took one nipple hungrily into his mouth, sucking and nipping at the peaked flesh. “Couldn’t charge it.” Then the other. You carded your hands through his hair. “Think you can find it in your heart to forgive me?”

His hand snaked down your belly to cup your heat. God, he had a way of making you feel so fucking good.

“I might be able to be persuaded,” you breathed as his fingers began toying through your slick folds. But logic soon smacked you like one of Natasha’s “love punches,” and you reached out a hand to stop his movements. “We should probably talk first.”

A flash of panic crossed Bucky’s face, and you wondered if he was worried about the articles. “Did you get my messages?” you asked him nervously.

Bucky nodded. “Plugged my phone in back in my room as soon as I got home,” he said. “Hadn’t seen the articles, but even if I had, I know you of all people would never do somethin’ like that. I’d have to be a fucking moron to think so. I know you’d never hurt me.” He had a far away look in his eyes for a moment, and you wondered if he was imagining you and Steve together.

You reached up to cup his face. “But did you see the other part?” you asked him.

“The part about you being ready to try us again?” he asked with a smile. When you nodded he leaned in and kissed you, a quick, sweet peck. “Darlin’, why the hell do you think I rushed over here to wake you up like that? Couldn’t stand to waste another second.”

“Well, then we better make up for lost time,” you teased, reaching down to slide your hand under the waistband of his boxer briefs.”

“I like the way you think,” Bucky grinned as he rolled over until he was lying on top of you. “I hope you’re not tired, sweetheart, because I got plans to keep you up all night long.”

“You talk a big talk, Barnes,” you smirked as you stroked him, firm and slow. “I hope you can back up your words.”

The look Bucky gave you was absolutely sinful as he reached down to free himself. Pressing the head of his cock against your swollen clit, he kissed you again. “Hold on to something, doll,” he said, nipping at the skin of your pulsepoint. “Cause you’re gonna have to beg me to stop.”

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[tteotlma]

Brewing Emotions

- tension and unspoken feelings finally come to a head.

Sam Winchester/Reader 2.1kw

a/n: i wrote this after finishing spn over the summer. can u tell i love tension.

tw: mild violence mention, mild sexual content (kissing), emotional distress

The drive back from Wheeling, Illinois to the Bunker was an excruciatingly silent drive. It seemed as though everyone was steeping in their misery, and it was gonna be hard to shake off.

A family of Djinn’s were plaguing the city with missing persons for the past three weeks, and by the time the three of you showed up – there was more bloodshed than expected. Turns out the Djinn were running this operation for way longer and tens of lives were lost.

The three of you tried to save the remaining five survivors but because they were so weak, not all of them could be saved. Much to Sam and Dean’s dismay, only two walked away.

Of course, you were devastated as well but having been a solo hunter far longer than teaming up with the boys – you learned the hard way that losses were inevitable.

You were also less emotionally constipated than the other two, so you knew the better way to feel better was to surround yourself with things that bring you joy. But tweedle dee and tweedle dum here like to sit and stew in silence.

You were able to get them to talk here and there for the first few hours but your efforts ultimately fell short and silence took over. Exhaustion took over and you just let the silence be. During the car ride, you stared at the back of Sam’s head trying to stop yourself from reaching out and touching him in some way. Especially running your hands through his hair. You didn’t know if it was because of your feelings for the man, or because the act of petting lowered stress levels but whenever you found yourself feeling troubled you always found your hands in the man's hair, and vice versa.

Sure the science article was about animals but – potato, potato.

Instead you just crossed your arms and tucked your hands into your armpits, closing your eyes to try and get some shut eye.

The first person to say something was Dean, when the car pulled up to the Bunker.

“I’m gonna wash up.” He huffed, as his leather jacket squeaked against the leather seat while shimmying out of the car.

Perfect, you and Sam could prepare a meal while Dean washes up. You were about to reach out to Sam when he sprung out of the car.

“Hey Sam-” you rushed, following his steps in unloading the car. “Why don’t we-”

“Actually, I’m feeling a little grimy so I’m just gonna wash up too.” He mumbled, lugging the duffel bag over his shoulder, and walking away.

“Oh, okay.” you whispered, trying not to sound dejected. You entered the bunker and everyone made a B-line for their bedrooms.

Throwing your backpack onto the ground, you started undressing wanting nothing more than to just step under hot water and let it burn the tension away from your shoulders.

—

By the time you were done, you were already feeling much better. Your pajamas felt softer and cleaner than the stale outfit you had been wearing for the past two days. Your hair no longer felt stringy and greasy, and your skin felt exfoliated. Now to top it all off with a nice warm cup of tea.

You startled, seeing Sam standing in the kitchen.

“I thought I wasn’t gonna see you until tomorrow.” You said, giving him a soft smile as you walked up to him.

“Uh, well we hadn’t eaten anything since that rest stop about seven hours back.” He returned the same smile, before beginning to chop vegetables. You nodded, placing a swift hand on his shoulder blade as you passed him, to let him know you were walking behind.

He cleared his throat, and a small smile spread on your lips.

“I’m making tea,” You started, “would you like some?” Opening the drawer in front of you, an array of colored boxes splayed out before you.

“Sure, I’ll just take a cup of whatever you’re having.”

You took the small red box out the drawer, placed it on the counter and opened the cabinet above you to get your mugs. You grabbed your favorite, and when you went to grab Sam’s you realized it wasn’t in the usual spot next to yours. Pushing around the mugs, all that could be heard was the ceramic clinking together.

“You need help there?” A small scoff escaped his mouth.

“Your mug isn’t here.” Ceramic still clinking, standing on your tippy toes to try and get a better look.

“That’s okay just grab any other one.” He said, throwing the chopped vegetables in a large bowl.

“But you like that mug,” He turned to look at you. “I swear I put it here when I did the dishes.”

“Maybe someone used it.” He obviously wasn’t convincing you that another cup could be used so he put down the knife with a chuckle and walked towards you.

You could feel his presence loom over you as he stood behind you – barely able to feel his warmth on your back. You tried not to move a muscle.

“Yeah look it’s right here,” He said, reaching into the only shelf you couldn’t reach, and behind a large bowl he pulled out a dark blue mug. He looks down at you as you turn to grab the mug.

“Well, that’s not where I put it.” you mumble, taking the mug from his hands.

Inspecting the mug, to make sure it’s clean you notice Sam falls silent. You look up at him and catch him looking at you – quite intently.

Heat rushes up the back of your neck, and you give him a little smile hoping to god this tension building up isn’t just your imagination.

“Are you okay?” You ask under your breath. Sam blinks and shakes his head clearing his throat.

“Uh, yeah, yes I am.” He spits out, and he steps away. The cool air swooping in and taking place where he previously stood. He goes back to chopping vegetables in silence. His kurt answer leaves you thrown off, so rather than respond you choose to join in the silence and fall into a sort of rhythm beside Sam as he preps the salad he’s been working on as you work on the tea you offered.

As Sam shakes the bowl to mix the dressing, you could feel his warmth and you wanted nothing more than to step closer, under the impression that maybe his warmth could take away these remaining forlorn feelings.

"How'd you like your tea?" you ask, steeping the leaves.

"Like I said, whatever you're having." He puts down the bowl and turns to look at you. You shift your eyes towards him, then away when you feel his gaze boring into you.

As you grab the honey and a spoon, you turn to get some oatmilk from the fridge. Suddenly, you realize Sam is no longer behind you but beside you, his chest at eye level. You startle and look up.

"You okay?" His eyes never leave your face.

"Yeah," is all he says, his gaze unwavering.

Shifting uncomfortably, you begin to look anywhere but at him. An unbearable longing aches within you to touch him—to feel the rough texture of his shirt beneath your trembling fingers, to inhale the faint scent of his cologne mingling with his skin's warmth. You yearn to be enveloped in his embrace, to feel his strong arms wrap around you, pulling you close until his steady heartbeat thrums against your chest. Every fiber of your being screams for that connection, that solace, that undeniable closeness.

Your hands clench and unclench at your sides as you look down, the weight of his gaze becoming too intense.

"What is it?" Your voice barely rises above a whisper, afraid to break whatever spell he might be under.

He remains silent. Instead, he steps closer, fingers trailing lightly along the hem of your shirt. He moves even nearer until his chest is mere inches from your face. His hand circles around to your lower back, slowly pulling you in. The movement is so gradual you're barely sure you're moving at all. It's not until you feel Sam begin to lean in, his arm wrapping fully around your waist, that you realize he's been wanting to touch you just as badly as you've been wanting to touch him.

Your breath catches in your throat as Sam's arm tightens around you. Your already small world narrows even more to just the two of you—the warmth of his body, the sound of his breathing, the faint thrum of his heartbeat. You finally allow yourself to raise your hands, letting them rest tentatively on his chest. You slowly look up at him.

"I-I'm sorry, for brushing you off earlier," he says, a glint of remorse in his eyes.

Your hands move to hold his face, thumbs gently caressing his cheeks. "It's okay," you whisper, maintaining the intimate atmosphere between you. "You don't have to apologize."

You watch as Sam presses further into your hands, his eyes closing. A breath of relief leaves his lips, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. The vulnerability in this moment strikes you, making your heart swell with affection.

Studying his face, your hands glide into his hair, gently pulling him close. As if by instinct, Sam buries his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. His hands, initially at the middle of your back, slide down to your hips. He tries to bring you closer, but you're already pressed against him. Instead, your hips align more firmly with his as he holds you there.

The sound of your shaky breaths mingles with the scent of his cologne. The warmth of his body envelops you, and the gentle tickle of his breath against your neck sends shivers down your spine. Time seems to slow, each sensation heightened in this intimate embrace. It all feels like a dream—a long-awaited, exquisitely real dream.

Sam's fingers flex slightly at your hips, as if reassuring himself that you're truly there. You respond by carding your fingers through his hair, relishing the softness beneath your touch. The world outside fades away, leaving only this moment, this connection that you've both longed for.

Sam pulls away to look at you, his eyes searching your face. You lightly tug at the hair entwined in your fingers, a silent gesture of affection. Without a word, Sam begins to lean in. His lips brush against yours, feather-light and questioning. Your stillness is all the encouragement he needs.

Years of unspoken feelings finally come crashing down as Sam captures your lips in a proper kiss. He pulls you impossibly closer, one hand cradling the back of your head as if afraid you might slip away. His lips part slightly, and you seize the moment to nip gently at his bottom lip. Sam responds by deepening the kiss, and you meet him willingly, your mouths moving in perfect harmony.

A soft noise escapes him, echoed by your contented sigh. The kiss grows more passionate, your shared breaths becoming ragged. Sam's hands, which haven't left your body, slide down until his fingers find the bare skin at your hips. He kneads the flesh there, his touch both tender and desperate.

The intensity builds with each passing second. Sam's kisses grow more insistent, more passionate, mirroring the longing you both have harbored for so long. The forgotten tea steeps on the counter, the abandoned salad wilts - neither of you notices or cares. There's only this moment, this long-awaited connection, consuming you both entirely.

"Hey, did you guys make any—" Dean's words cut off abruptly as he entered the kitchen. "Well, alright Sammy!"

You and Sam spring apart, both flushed and breathing heavily. Dean stands in the doorway, his eyes wide with surprise before a knowing smirk spreads across his face.

"About damn time," he chuckles, shaking his head. "Don't let me interrupt. I'll just grab a beer and go."

As Dean rummages in the fridge, you and Sam exchange sheepish glances, a mix of embarrassment and barely contained laughter in your eyes. The spell of the moment is broken, but the warmth of it lingers.

Dean grabs his beer and heads out, but not before throwing a wink over his shoulder. "You might want to take this somewhere more private next time. And Y/n? Your tea's probably over-steeped by now." He chuckles.

As Dean's footsteps fade down the hall, you and Sam look at each other trying not to laugh, the tension dissipating. Sam reaches out, taking your hand in his.

"So," he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, "about that tea..."

You squeeze his hand, your heart light despite the interruption. "I think we might need to start over," you reply, unable to keep the grin off your face.

As you move to prepare fresh tea, Sam's arm wraps around your waist, unwilling to let you go just yet. You lean into him, savoring the closeness. The night may not have gone as planned, but it's ended better than you could have imagined.

—————

pls leave comments/feedback! i luv hearing ur thoughts!

[jasminsstories]

How finals week with Zayne by your side would be…probably:

gn!reader x zayne / fluff; just for fun, don’t take this seriously pls

will try to support you as much as he can, since he knows best how hard studying is

“I told you to start earlier than to cram the material in the last minute. It won’t stick in your long-term memory this way” “Zayne, I don’t care if it sticks in my long-term memory as long as I pass this exam”

“Come here and eat this before continuing”

Basically drags you daily to the kitchen table where he prepared healthy meals

“But why do only I have carrots in my salad?” “Because you need Vitamin B to stay fit for your exams” “Just say you gave all of your carrots to me, because you don’t like them!”

“If you continue to drink so much coffee, I am afraid I will see you in the ER soon because of arrhythmia… and I don’t want that” “Zayne, you can’t just hide my coffee machine!!”

opens the windows regularly to help you concentrate and makes sure you stay hydrated

definitely will try to lure you out for walks to get some steps in

“Didn’t you say you wanted to see the sunset?” “I do, I really want… but I have to get this done today” “Let’s go, you need some Vitamin D” *suddenly lifts you up bridal style* “Hey, let me down!!” *acts like he doesn’t hear you*

the more time passes and the deeper the night gets with every passing minute, you can’t stop yawning and rubbing your heavy eyelids; still you try to focus them on your bright notebook screen

“Go to sleep. You have to get enough sleep to function tomorrow as well” “I can’t afford to sleep now. Sleep can wait, the deadline for my essay won’t”

tries to get you to bed through various methods

first tries to make it less obvious and wants to make you jealous through your plushies

“Then Mr. Snowman will have to cuddle with me today..” “Mhmmm”

But quickly realizes that it doesn’t work and you don’t react to it

for his second try he sneaks up to you from behind and puts his hands on your waist, pressing a lingering kiss on the shell of your ear, whispering a tempting “Come to bed with me”

you try to stay strong though and ignore his attempt with the last endurance you have

the next time he comes up to your desk for his third attempt, he finds you asleep already, your face planted on the surface of your desk

he can’t hold back a chuckle and a fond glow is in his orbs as he gazes at your face; just looks at you for some minutes

carefully picks you up and carries you to bed, trying his hardest not to wake you up; whispers a “Good night, my angel” and gives your forehead a small kiss

tucks you to bed and will lay down beside you to watch you sleep

when you wake up the next morning you begin to panic because you weren’t able to pull the all-nighter you desperately needed to finish on time

“Breathe, Love. Don’t worry. You can do it, I know it”

“I look kinda like a Panda now with my dark circles, don’t I?” “Yeah…kinda. Maybe more like a raccoon”

when you are finally done with all of your exams and your essays, he will pat your head and smile proudly; “Good job, I knew you can do it”

with a relieved sigh you press a loving kiss on his lips

and now you can finally get revenge for the times he teased you

just the brain rot i have in my finals week. i am quite literally losing my marbles right now, so i needed some zayne fluff. did i write this instead of studying…maybe. i need this man so bad. actually working on a smut atm but since its been so long since i wrote one, it’s hard for me to get into the flow right now.

[formosusiniquis]

have your cake

So way back in August 2023 the steddiemicrofic challenge was Cake and 311 words, my head empty brain came up with one thought and it was Steve Munson having a bakery called Mun's Buns and so many months later I finally got around to finishing my vision

Ships: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson; Tommy Hagan/Carol Perkins; implied/past Tommy Hagan/Steve Harrington/Carol Perkins WC: 6408 | T | tags: Future Fic, the lightest of post homoerotic friendship breakup angst, fluff, Tommy POV AO3

The bakery has a stupid name, is the first thing Tommy thinks when Carol tells him where he's supposed to meet her on his lunch break. He’s still thinking that, when he sees the place for the first time through his rain speckled windshield. It's a modest storefront, small for what Carol says is a booming business, tucked in next to a used bookstore and a music shop. There's a baby yellow awning hanging from the front just underneath a sign lettered in soft blue that reads Mun's Buns.

He's late, is the second thing he thinks after pulling up. Caught up in some stupid bullshit for his dad he hadn't managed to slip away until 12:30. Even then it had only been because Tommy had told him he was going to be late for their cake tasting. He'd rolled his eyes when his father and Greg, a guy that Tommy only considers a co-worker in the sense that they are technically on the same payroll since Greg in every other aspect is incompetent and an idiot, had winced. Shooing him away like a kid who'd just admitted that he's already twenty minutes past curfew. But catching sight of the way Carol has her arms crossed, tapping her foot fast enough to kickstart a motor, while her hair hangs limp in a way that it hadn’t this morning a third thought crosses his mind: maybe he should have been a little more worried.

Waiting isn’t going to make things any better. So he steps out of the car, let’s the misty damp cling to him in a way that makes his dress pants and button down feel like a poorly tailored second skin, and takes his licks like a man. "Late, thirty minutes late. Christ, it's the only thing I've asked from you Tommy." Her right hook stings just as badly as it did sophomore year when she punched him for asking out Erin Murphy instead of her.

Shit like that is probably why no one expected them to make it this long or this far.

When they went away to college; different schools, hours apart. His parents had been gleeful as they'd warned him that high school relationships didn't always last. That he should keep his options open, he didn't want to miss out on the love of his life just because of comfort. He didn't get offered the family ring when he decided to propose right after graduation. Carol has always been particular. Wanted the house to come back to before the wedding could happen, wanted a long honeymoon. That meant saving, a lot of it. Tommy knew and Carol did too, they'd overheard his mother and aunt gossiping in too loud voices after too much wine that they hoped the long engagement meant they were both trying to figure out a good way to break it off with one another. 

Still, over the course of their now five year engagement no one's asked once if they wanted to trade for it.

Carol thought it was horrendous anyway. She’d had her ring picked out since ‘85, styled her class ring so it would look like the oval cut diamond she wanted. Had him slide it on her finger the second it came in.

Cause in the politest of terms, Carol could be a raging bitch. She was Tommy's favorite person in the entire world.

There’s going to be a bruise on his shoulder tomorrow, even if she’s guiltily smoothing a hand down his arm now. Thrust toward the door first in offering, Carol is sorry she hit him but she’s not apologetic. “I’m serious, Tom, if we lose this appointment and have to go with Sweet Treats for our cake I'll- I'll-"

Whatever threat she was preparing is drowned out and then cut off by the echoing TONG of the door chime. A light in the back shifts color for a second, out of place enough that he wonders if he even really saw it. Head tilting toward Carol, his question catches in his throat when he notices her pinched off appraising. Better not to add to the ammunition she might already be building.

And if Carol is looking he better do it too. She'll want to debrief when they're having dinner tonight, just like they did with the florist, the caterer, the three wedding planners they'd met with, and each of the venues that they'd visited. And it wasnt because she was demanding, fuck you Greg. It wasn't because she was being nitpick-y, alright it was a little bit because she was but he liked being particular with her. He liked being involved in his wedding.

So he looked around.

The way they utilized their space -- a building that big and there's barely enough room to stand, we want someone who knows how to work with limited space for the venues we're looking at -- was the reason their first wedding planner hadn't gotten hired. Small, but not cramped. There are a handful of tables scattered in the open space in front of the counter. It’s the kind of small town cozy that Hawkins had tried for and he doesn’t see very often anymore now that they’ve moved out to Indianapolis.

It’s lunchtime, still too early for people to be seeking out the rows of deserts in their neat glass counter and too late for the breakfast crowd. But one of the tables is occupied by a teenager with long, black braids scribbling in a notebook while a slice of ice cream cake melts on a plate by her elbow. 

Everything was neat, organized, and compliant with health code regulations -- they hadn’t even made it in the door of the first caterer’s when she noticed a trail of ants and roaches marching into the open kitchen door.

Carol had always been quick when she was making up her mind about something. Like those Sherlock Holmes stories they’d had to read in school, in a couple of seconds she could spot everything she needed to make a decision. After a decade Tommy still couldn’t keep up; but he was always best at following someone else’s lead.

The smile she’s got frosted across her face is as sugary and fake as the roses on the cupcakes he can see behind the low topped counters as she approaches the only visible staff member. A girl, young in the way that nebulous way anyone younger than him was now, with thick squared glasses that magnified two distressingly blue eyes. The counters looked like they were designed to sit low enough that she could easily see over the top while in her wheelchair.

“Welcome to,” her customer service tone borders on bored. Two words into a clear script and she sighs, as if saying the name physically pains her, “Mun’s Buns. We’ve got a special series of summer flavors: Strawberry Lemonade, Lavender Mint, Chocolate Fudgsicle, and,” she sighs again, “for the grownups a boozy Blue Moon with orange zest.”

“How about a wedding cake.” He’s impressed. Carol made it through the speech without interrupting.

“Do you have an appointment?” the girl raises her voice, enough to make them both flinch back. Customer service isn’t a requirement for this part of the job necessarily, but Carol had bailed on two venues because the staff hadn’t been polite enough.

Her smile doesn’t crack though, “Yes.”

Even though he’s pretty sure this girl has to be basically blind with the inch thick frames, she levels Carol with a lethal stare. “Not you.”

From the open entryway behind her Tommy had been able to make out what sounded like the highlights of yesterday’s game. He assumed that space had to be the kitchen where these rows of deserts were made. He’s still surprised when a guy’s voice is shouting back, “I don't know, Max, do I? Why don't you check?”

“How am I supposed to do that?” Max shouts back, glowering at then in stand in for her mystery boss.

“With your finger, asshole. It's in braille. When I gave you this job you said you were actually gonna work.”

“Douchebag." Her eyes never leave them, while her hands rummage around in a space beneath the counter where the cash register sits. Max offers no explanation or apology for her shouting or for her boss. A large red appointment book gets slammed down on the nearest counter, making Carol jump but the neat two by twos of chocolate frosted cupcakes don't budge. He watches, a little fascinated by the way her finger scans the page before slowing. "Did you write this or did Dustin?"

Carol has always valued gossip over professionalism, he thinks that’s why she’s done so well as a hairdresser even though she was always awful at chemistry. It’s also why he’s held off from pointing out that they could solve this a lot faster if this guy would come out from the back. "Why?" 

“Cause one of you can't spell and one of you is trying to invent braille shorthand. So I'm not really sure what to do with TomGan Wed.”

“It might be Thomas and Wedding.” Carol leans over the appointment book as she says it, using a tone of voice he has never once heard her use in the entire time he’s known her. He thinks it’s supposed to be helpful.

“Wedding sampler.” The girl calls toward the back, “It's getting late.”

“I’ve got it,” the voice from the back shouts back.There’s an effortless assurance Tommy can hear from where he’s standing. It hits him with a wave of nostalgia so strong he grabs Carol’s arm on instinct.

“Really,” she says, cutting her gaze over to him. He’s not sure what she sees. “If we could hurry this along, it's just we've only got an hour.”

“You're late.” The glare she gets shuts Carol down faster than he’s ever seen.

“Right.”

“Okay I've got it.” The voice from the back is now the voice in the doorway. Hidden for a second by a serving tray loaded with samples of rich looking cake, it’s the first time since arriving that Tommy has actually wanted to be here. Not just because he can make out strong shoulders and a body of a man that’s still very fit but clearly enjoys his work too; the hint of love handles above strong thighs. Only then that tray dips, and for the first time since 1985 Tommy finds himself looking at the shocked hazel eyes of Steve Harrington. “Oh.”

Carol reacts for him, taking in a breath sharp enough she might puncture a lung. They’ll both wind up suffocated on the floor of this stupid bakery with an awful name, because Tommy can’t manage to breathe at all looking at Steve. Still unfairly handsome, faintly pink at the shock of seeing them too he imagined.

His hair is long, is the first real thought his half fried brain manages to put together. Soft looking even where it’s damp at the temples where sweat has pooled. He has it pulled back with a couple of the same butterfly clips that Carol likes to use.

His second, somehow more hysterical thought: this wasn’t how Steve Harrington was supposed to be included in his wedding.

Tommy was six years old and knew he wanted to marry Steve. When he’d told his mom -- to ask for her ring, Steve thought it was romantic like princes and princesses that they had a special ring that they got married with -- she’d grabbed by his arm so hard it’d left finger shaped bruises. So he’d held that certainty quiet in his heart until he was ten, and suddenly it was okay to want to play with girls on the playground -- he thinks it’s because Steve got tired of there never being an even number when they tried to play kickball, he had a way of making everyone want to do the thing he was. Carol wasn’t afraid to tell Tommy C. that he was dumb or to tell Mark L. that he hadn’t actually made it to the base, Steve liked her fast. Too fast, and Tommy had to tell her that one day he was going to be able to keep Steve all to himself. But he knew that it wasn’t right to say that now, even if he wasn’t all the way sure why it wasn’t. He was ten, but he would be eleven soon, and he took this part of him that he’d kept secret for so long and he whispered it to Carol under the slide while Steve tried to convince Brad P. that he could too pick two people for his kickball team first.

He was ten and Carol said they could share. Boys can’t marry boys, but girls can. So they could both marry her and live together forever.

It became a joke when they finally shared it with Steve, thirteen and boys going out with girls wasn’t funny the way it used to be. Sarah Jane asked Carol if she had a chance at going steady with Steve. She told Tommy about it later and they both told Steve that he was too good to date any of the girls in their grade. “Well I’ve got you guys,” his voice cracked when he said it, throwing an arm around both of them. Carol didn’t care as much, but even she’d noticed the way Steve was changing from boyish to handsome.

They were sixteen and disaster was just around the corner, not that he knew that. Steve dated around but he always came back to them. The head, the heart, the body. They don’t feel complete without each other -- at least Tommy doesn’t. Mr. Kripke, who was hungover more often than he wasn't, passed out ten minutes into study hall. Carol didn’t even wait to see if he’d wake back up before she left her assigned table for theirs. She smoothed out a lined piece of notebook paper for them, and Tommy scoffed like he was supposed to. “Aren’t we a little old to be playing MASH?”

“It’s dirty MASH, and I thought you’d think it was funny.”

“I think it’s funny,” Steve had said, “that you’re getting eiffel towered on your wedding night. Who else is joining in, Carrie?”

“We couldn’t agree on who got you for their side of the aisle. So we’re taking you to bed instead.”

He was sixteen and the way that the two of them looked when they shared a joke was the hottest thing in the world. The way their smiles mirror when they turned to him, sharp and ready to flay open the softest parts of him.

Tommy’s two days older when Steve lets him kiss the taste of Carol out of his mouth.

It was three days after he turned seventeen and he had to pretend he didn't want to die when he saw how Steve looked at Nancy Wheeler. Like he didn’t want to rip his hair out because Steve was fucking infatuated with this mousy little teacher’s pet and wouldn’t even look at him anymore.

He still doesn’t like to think about the breakup. He pokes it like a fresh bruise. Less often now, but when he does he digs his fingers in. Baits Carol into fights he doesn’t mean just so he can pretend like he hasn’t lost something that hurts like a limb.

Steve Harrington turns twenty-eight next week, and he’s standing in front of them both holding pieces of what might turn into their wedding cake.

“Wow I can’t believe you’re in Indy!” False excitement grates, but at least Carol has gotten herself together enough to speak. He thought he’d have at least another few months to prepare for the thought of seeing Steve, by their ten year reunion he was going to be married and happy and over it.

“Yeah, this is- Married, wow! I kinda can’t believe you haven’t already.” He says it to Carol, his platitudes had always been for Carol, but his eyes find Tommy. 

While Carol chatters at them and for them both, nervous, he knows she’s nervous. The situation is sudden and strange and fraught. But Tommy just looks at Steve, who looks at him. He’s getting married in three months, one week, and two days from now and for the first time in eleven years Steve is looking at him.

"Takes a while to save up for when you want the best of everything. Dad's still the skinflint he always was, I think he'd pay me less than minimum wage if he could get away with it."

And those soft brown eyes look so sad, looking at him. Sometimes he thinks no one will ever understand him the way that Steve did.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting the best, or having a long engagement." Carol defends. It's the same line she's been giving everyone. Defensive of him and herself and the choices they've been making. He can't believe Steve is someone she thinks they have to defend against.

“I really hope you're happy, man," he says, and the sincerity is a balm on the sting of this conversation. He pushes his hair back from his face, the way he always has when he's uncomfortable and trying not to make it obvious. And there's a fresh new hurt when Tommy catches sight of a plain gold band on Steve's finger, shining bright between the golden highlights of his hair.

“I’m happy about this,” he can say honestly. Carol is one of the only things he’s ever been sure about. She held him steady as she could when his other sure thing left him with a cracked foundation in a convenience store parking lot. “What about you? How long after meeting the future Mrs. Harrington did you wait to put a ring on her finger?”

“Tommy,” Carol chides as the teen in the corner snorts. To anyone else it would sound like a reprimand for being nosy, he, and he suspects Steve, knows she’s telling him to stop worrying a scab that has no hope of healing right.

Married and they didn’t know. Wouldn’t have found out until the reunion. It’s not like he expected an invitation, maybe an engagement announcement sent to their parents’ houses. They’d sent one to Loch Nora when the real ring had finally made it to Carrie’s finger. It was equal parts olive branch and offering. They’d gotten it back return to sender with no forwarding address.

The bell above the door tongs again, loud enough to make Carol jump. The platter of cakes doesn't shift at all in Steve’s hand. His arm shows no sign of fatigue. It’s almost distracting enough that he misses the obvious. The bell signals someone is coming into the store.

“Sorry, Sweetheart. I know I said I wasn't gonna be late but Mike…” There just inside the door is the Freak. Undeniable even with his head down as he digs through his shoulder bag. From the riot of poorly maintained tangles that still hang around his shoulders to the expanded mess of tacky ink on his arms. The only thing that’s changed is the age in his face and the band on his shirt.

“Munson?” Carol has the reflexes and the personal grace to address him first. Shock more than the disgust it might have been when they were still kids.

Tommy feels like a kid still. Looks to Steve in an instinct he’d thought he’d stamped out years ago, only to be met with wide eyes and teeth grit tight enough to draw out the square line of his jaw.

“Christ, I still get nightmares that start like this.” Munson says, eye darting between the three of them. “Max, am I naked?”

“Don't know, don't wanna know.”

“I thought you'd be able to tell by the energy in the room.” He wiggles his fingers, still bedecked in silver, like they can divine the vibrations or some witchy shit.

That’s enough to make Steve break just a little. A soft, exhaling scoff before he finally starts to move out from the counter. Tommy catches, and he doubts Carol misses it either, how Steve passes the closer tables to set his tray down between them and Munson.

“I can tell I don't want to be here for this.” Their redheaded audience member says, “I'm taking my 15.”

“Don't go harass Mike, he's finally working,” Munson says.

“Will and El are on shift on the other side,” Steve calls out, not looking at any of them as he moves cakes from his tray to the table. A deliberate selection he seems to be making.

“Whatever, I’m gonna call Lucas and break up with him so he can play better or whatever.”

“Don’t be too harsh,” Munson calls out, “I’ve only got him on a five point spread.”

If Carol’s nails break from how hard they’re digging into his arm, somehow it’ll be Tommy’s fault. Not the fact that they’ve advanced the worst part of their ten year reunion by months, and also Munson is here and knows shit about basketball.

“Sorry, think my hearing’s going, sounded like you said you want him to lose and he’s getting kicked from the next one shot. I’ll let him know.”

“She gets that from you,” Steve and Munson say in sync. Glaring playfully at one another the way Steve used to with Carol.

“I’ll tell Robin you were-”

“Do not sick Buckley on me, Max made the deaf joke not me.”

“Weird, that’s not what I heard.” Steve has always claimed his hair as his best feature. It isn’t -- Carrie liked his eyes, Tommy his hands -- but it’s hard to deny that it doesn’t look good, flipping over his shoulder. His smile is private, just for Munson, soft the way he got whenever he picked up a new girl. Carrie taps the back of his hand, two sharp smacks, their signal for years that he needed to pay attention and notice something she had. Wide, nervous eyes dart to Steve -- like he hadn’t already been looking at Steve -- so he does his best to assess the way Carol would.

Jealous, viciously, Steve had been theirs in every way that mattered since they were ten years old and Carol had never liked sharing her toys with anyone but them. She watched his face for any sign of unhappiness anytime a new girlfriend came along, and when she found one she passed it along to him. So he could pick and joke until Steve was all theirs again.

So he checked the face. Tried to ignore the way Steve was lit up from the inside out with a joy he could barely remember, and then he saw the hearing aid.

He tapped back, three times. O.M.G.

“The 1985 Homecoming court here to reveal that this has all been a long con, Stevie?”

“Yeah I faked the name change paperwork and picked up a fake ID, sorry I took my business somewhere else.” Steve says it with the sincerity he’s always made those kind of jokes with, his strange sense of humor never coming across when he always sounded so serious. 

Munson gets it though, snorts loud and ugly, before a smile pulls wide across half his face the otherside taught with a gnarly scar. “Now I know why my fake ID business went belly up when we got to the city, not like I only sold three in high school.”  He gestures to the three of them in a wide arc.

Sophomores, they had decided it was time to throw their first real party now that Steve’s parents had moved out of Hawkins in all but name. Steve was a latchkey kid of new proportions and took to self sufficiency in a way that had seemed adult to him then; and in hindsight looked more like a child fighting for his life. Steve bragged how he’d been saving up the weekly checks they’d sent to ‘sustain him’ while they worked in the city during the week. His contribution to Tommy and Carol’s vague plan to throw a kegger by the pool. When they’d floundered, immediately, with the hows, Steve had been the one to suggest going to Munson.

“Love this preview of the reunion,” Carol cuts in, there’s no bite but Munson bristles anyway like she’s being rude for reminding them that there are customers present. “Steve?”

It’s funny, Tommy thinks, the way Steve still straightens his back at Carol’s tone. All this time and he can’t fight the old ingrained instincts either.

“Dustin made the appointment,” Steve apologizes, even as he’s posture perfect and preparing his pastries. The unsaid, ‘I definitely wouldn’t have’ doesn’t go unheard and it doesn’t sting any less even this far from their last interaction.

“Munson could join us,” Tommy offers, a new olive branch since their last one was never seen. Even if it does raise three sets of brows and makes Carrie’s nervous smile tighten even more in the corner of her mouth.

“Well at least one of us has to,” Munson, Eddie, says. Just says, tone like it was meant to be something said under his breath.

He's grown up a lot since high school, they both have. Still, he's only got twenty minutes left on his lunch break and it's been a long day. "God, is that why it's called that?" Growth, he doesn't say that Steve Munson sounds a lot dumber than Steve Harrington.

"It's charming," Carol and Steve both say. Though Carrie is definitely lying and Steve barely gets it out from between his gritted teeth, a sore spot. He's always been good at finding Steve's bruises.

"It's charming," Tommy agrees, like he always did when he was out voted.

Eddie has a smirk spread across his face and a ‘too proud of himself’ look in his eyes. Mouth open to make some quip that Tommy is going to pretend is funny, for Steve’s sake. Now that they’re here, he’s going to do something to show that they could talk to one another again. Steve clicks his tongue, taps his index and middle finger down to his thumb two quick times before he can.

He turns to the girl in the corner, "Erica, scram, go help Robin and the kids with the new donation that just came in."

The teen continues to scribble in the notebook in front of her, bulky headphones over her ears, she makes no sign that Tommy can see that she's heard Steve speak. "Erica, go, or I'll tell your mother you moved out of the dorms. You're 20, it's not child labor, and you've got a timecard."

She sighs and wordlessly packs up her things, she gives Steve a scathing look that takes Tommy back to high school. The withering eyebrow and rolled eyes would have been just at home on Steve’s own face in 1985, but she marches behind the counter, the sound of her dish rattling in the sink before she disappears out the same door that the redhead had gone out.

Now that the room has been cleared, an awkward silence has found the space to squeeze in. Munson, the original, still standing in the doorway and Steve standing between his unlawfully wedded husband and the two people who had lost their chance at him years ago.

The wedding and the reunion both on the horizon had dredged up a nostalgia that Tommy and Carol had been dealing with in their own ways. Dredging up old yearbooks, Carol had found a shoebox of old notes that she’d kept. Conversations written in three different inks by three different hands, nonsensical after all this time. Tommy woke up from dreams that he hadn’t had in years. Always of Steve and Carol, a study in opposites, but similar where it mattered.

“Well,” Steve says, taking charge of the situation like he always would when the other two faltered, “you’re here for a reason. We might as well get started on it.”

Steve’s fingerprints are still on them, just like he’d noticed theirs on him, molded as they were together. They’ve always bowed to his expectations, and his whims. When he ushers them to the table with a spread hand, Tommy and Carol go where they’re beckoned.

And so does Munson.

They keep an empty chair between them, an artificial divide for Tommy’s sanity, but with the sprawl of Munson’s legs their knees still occasionally brush together. Carol had taken the spot closest to Steve, who has stayed standing. He is their gracious host, marking the head of the round table.

“I pulled out the full sampler before I realized it was you,” Steve says. Even with as off balance as the interaction has felt, Tommy doesn’t feel his hackles raising. While it’s possible he’s gotten more subtle with his digs, Steve’s vicious tongue was usually unmistakable. “I can tell you about as many of them as you want though if you want to pretend like we don’t already know what I’ll be making you. I’m sure neither of you have eaten lunch yet.”

“You are going to take us on?” Carol asks. Shock always gives her tone an extra edge, defensive and catty, even if she’s really just waiting to see if another shoe will drop.

“Obviously,” Steve says, placing a faintly orange square of cake in front of her. He slaps Eddie’s hand away from another piece without looking away from either of them. “That’s as far as I’ll be going in participation though.”

He doesn’t miss the way Steve’s mouth twitches up with the joke, a filthy smirk that leaves Tommy flushing hot. Too warm to not be a bright and obvious red at the acknowledgment of that old private in-joke.

It doesn’t get better when Carol moans, “Oh my god, Steve!” Even if it is about the cake.

He laughs, and Tommy suspects the two are actually trying to kill him. He chances a glance over at Munson who looks like he doesn’t care at all that his husband has made Tommy’s fiance moan. He is watching Tommy though, an inquisitive look like the one Carol gets when she happens to catch a nature documentary.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees with Carol, “I’ll do something small with that citrus cake for you and Tom so you’ve got something you’ll actually eat on your wedding, maybe a pineapple buttercream on top like that nasty Juicy Fruit gum you like so much.”

“I mean it’s really crazy how you’re so good at this when you’ve never had any taste,” Carol compliments, she never did learn how to be nice.

He could probably count Steve’s teeth in the answering smile. Tommy can feel it like an ache in his chest how much he missed this. He snatches another cube of cake off the tray just so has something else to focus on.

“That’s the fancy one for the people who hate their guests,” Munson says as the cake has settled on the flat of Tommy’s tongue.

“It’s lavender,” Steve corrects, and the floral flavor is lodged in the back of his throat at least gives him a reason now to feel so choked up. “And it is for a particular sort of bride.”

“Are you saying I’m not fancy and particular, Munson?” Carol asks. 

She’s obviously talking to Eddie Munson, who lifts his hands up in answer. But it’s Steve who says, “If you tried to feed that to Gail she would leave the reception bitching the whole time.”

“Well go on,” Tommy finds himself goading now that he’s swallowed, “finish calling your shot, Stevie. You said you knew what we were walking out of here with.”

Carol reaches across the table, locking eyes with Eddie as she snags the piece closest to him. The one his fingers had been inching toward like he thought Steve wouldn’t notice him trying to take it.

“I’ll make a small citrus cake for you, Carrie, we’ll hide it in the back of the larger cake so you can get the pictures of you cutting it and smashing into each other's faces-”

“We will not be doing that,” she interrupts, the warning for him and also unnecessary. He already knows how she feels about being embarrassed in public.

“Then the big cake for your guests will be a chocolate cake, I can cover it in a buttercream or a fondant icing also chocolate, because it’s the only kind of cake the Hagan family will eat. Even though I’m sure John hasn’t given you a dime for the wedding, he’ll complain until Hannah gets married if he doesn’t like the cake.”

“Really,” Steve continues, “the only thing up in the air is how many people you were able to get away with not inviting, Care.”

The two of them start talking actual wedding logistics, and as Tommy grabs another bite of cake -- this one looks like it might be a normal flavor -- he figures the real show of good faith would be talking to the only other person at the table while he eats what Steve correctly dubbed his lunch.

“Y’know he never actually answered me,” he says in an undertone.

Munson seems surprised at being spoken to, only widens his eyes in response to Tommy’s unasked question.

“I asked Steve how soon after the first date he proposed, he never actually answered.”

Eddie softens at the edges before he can even say anything. Steve had a way of doing that, bringing out the romantic in a person. He loved with a passion that demanded it be matched. “Technically I proposed to him, but he says it doesn’t count because we weren’t together and I was high on morphine after a major surgery and thought he was Apollo, come to whisk me away.” The smile on Munson’s face looks dopey and drugged up now, like the very memory of whatever hospital stay is so ingrained in his mind he can feel the high now.

“But,” he goes on, “he told me we were getting married whether it was legal or not about three months after he got legally married to another woman.”

“Stop,” Steve has always been able to sense when he’s about to be the butt of the joke. He has a finger pointed at Eddie like a teacher delivering a lecture. “You can’t tell people that. It was for tax reasons, I’m not cheating on my wife.”

“You say tomato, I say whichever one of us is your least favorite has to be the extramarital affair.”

“I say, you’re the most obnoxious person I’ve ever met.” Tommy can hear the warm affection behind the insult, the way their picking is a safer way to express their passion for one another.

He thought he would be jealous of whoever finally managed to reel in Steve Harrington for good, and he is. The emotion is there, present in the snarling tangle of emotions that this encounter has left in him. One that he and Carol will have to slowly tease and pick out tonight when they’re home in bed. Trying to make sense of what each thread is and what it means for them. But the one bright pulsing thread he can make sense of is happiness. He’s happy for Steve, happy that he gets to see an old friend so at ease and obviously cared for.

And he’s sad that his time is up, his lunch hour so close to an end he’ll be late getting back to the office. Something he can already hear his Dad and fucking Greg giving him shit for. Which means they have to end their time here.

Steve walks them to the door, flips the sign to mark them closed for lunch.

“Congratulations again, you two,” he says, “I really am happy I can get to be a part of this with you all. Even if it’s a little different than we used to imagine.”

Carol reaches out for the both of them, puts her hand on his arm. Tommy finds that he’s the one who actually says, “We’re glad you found someone who makes you this happy, dude. You deserve it.”

“Yeah, he’s alright most of the time.” It's said with such fondness it becomes a declaration. It’s hard to imagine how they thought they could ever be the something that could make Steve this happy. But maybe in a different life, under different circumstances it could have been.

There’s a minute where they all stand in the doorway. He wonders if they’re all afraid that this might be the last time they see each other, speak to one another, until Steve is delivering the cake on the day of the wedding. Maybe it’s just him, he was the one who pushed back the hardest after things ended.

Someone finally gives in and pushes the door open. It’s TONG a death toll for their current conversation. But it also sends a jolt through Steve, he straightens to his full height like a shock has gone through him. “Here,” he says, “here, um.” He digs around in his apron until he finds a pen and a receipt pad. Jots down something before tearing it off and putting it in Tommy’s hands, “It's our home number, in case you have any cake emergencies or something.”

They really can’t stay any longer.

Carol takes the note, better at keeping track of these things than Tommy is. It’s hard to know if they’ll actually use it, maybe after they talk about it, but if they do she’ll be the one to do it. She’s always been braver than him.

There’s no way of guaranteeing anything but the fact that they’ll have a cake on the table on their wedding day. But he hopes that Steve might stay for the ceremony once he brings it, he can even bring Eddie if that’s what gets him there. 

Alone in his car, Tommy lets himself take a minute to think about Steve Harrington one last time. He isn’t going to get what he wanted as a kid. Doubts that he’ll ever be as close to Steve as he’d been in childhood, too much time has passed and too much has changed.

But there’s an opportunity to get to know Steve Munson, and he isn't going to pass it up. Even if he doesn’t know how to name a bakery.

[esmedelacroix]

1 day til' Christmas

spending a snowstorm with husband!miguel o'hara on christmas eve⋆꙳•̩̩͙❅̩̩͙‧͙ ‧͙̩̩͙❆ ͙͛ ˚₊⋆

2 days til' christmas ← previous part

--------------------------------------------------------

It was the last day of keeping your pregnancy from Miguel and you couldn't be happier; tomorrow he would open his last Christmas gift and see a positive pregnancy test. You couldn't wait to share this great news with him.

The plan was to go to the hospital that morning but you miraculously got snowed in and you hadn't vomited that morning making it crucial to take it slow when drinking and eating.

Normally on Christmas Eve, the two of you shared a bottle of red wine and finished wrapping presents for each other and family and friends.

This Christmas, you would do the same but instead of wine, you’d have eggnog. Every single holiday Miguel is reminded that you hate the idea of egg nog. “Who would ever eat egg milk? That’s weird,” you said.

“I drink said, ‘egg milk’, it's one of my holiday comfort drinks,” Miguel would respond.

“I know but—“ you’d start.

“Please don’t yuck my yum,” he joked.

“You’ve never even tried it before,” he continued.

You still had never tried eggnog but now you had a feeling that you’d like it. You took a small sip and your taste buds did pirouettes. Eggnog tasted like a sweet vanilla-flavored version of milk.

“This is good!” you exclaimed.

“Told ya,” Miguel responded as he began to wrap up personalized Fender guitar picks. He always swore Hobie got on his nerves but he still cared. Enough to get him such a valuable yet thoughtful gift.

The two of you enjoyed your drinks and marveled at the gifts you got each other. It was never really. a surprise on Christmas day since you always wrapped everything together. There were one or two gifts that the two of you wanted to keep a surprise including yours. "What's this?" Miguel asked as he picked up a small rectangular box that had his name on it.

"That's your gift but I want it to be a surprise," you replied.

"Hmm, interesting," he replied as he put the gift down thinking it was something like a watch or a ridiculously expensive pen like the years before.

After two hours you were finally done wrapping all the gifts. You were both famished afterward. You were heavily craving some hot chocolate and marshmallows but you didn't have any marshmallows. On top of that, the two of you couldn't leave your home because of the snowstorm.

Thankfully out of all of the random things that Miguel knows how to do, making marshmallows was one of them. You thankfully had all the ingredients, you tried to follow along but it was way too complicated. You sat on your kitchen island and asked him questions while he skillfully made the marshmallows.

You purposefully asked the dumbest random questions and he found it hilarious. While he was letting the marshmallows sit, he let you lick the bowl like you were a child again making cookies with a loved one that let you try the dough.

The two of you had prepared dinner while waiting for the marshmallows to finish setting. Christmas Eve dinner was my favorite because it was breakfast for dinner. This year's menu was eggnog French toast with cranberry jam and cheesy omelets with spinach and tomatoes in them.

In perfect timing, right after the two of you finished eating and cleaning up after your meal, the marshmallows were done. The two of you got comfy and cuddled on the couch wrapped in blankets watching Holidate with mugs with steaming hot cocoa in hand.

The night was perfect and your heart raced with excitement of what was to come the next morning. You fell asleep halfway through the movie so Miguel carried you to your shared room.

--------------------------------------------------------

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The lovers were nestled all snug in their bed

While visions of a baby shower danced in your head

Santa sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

"Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

. . .

to be continued → Christmas Special

--------------------------------------------------------

taglist: @aripet22@to-the-endoftheline@sad-author-san

[honeybeefae]

Cassian and Nesta head cannon that Nesta has to check in their closet and under their bed and leave a candle lit every night because Cassian is afraid that Bryaxis has turned up in the night court and is there to terrorize him.

AKSFALKSDJFASDJFASDF i love this

Nesta sighs as she finally collapses into their bed, the cool sheets a welcome respite from the heat and hard work of the day. Azriel and Cass had kept her and her friends on their toes while training, keen on making sure they were prepared for anything.

She's certain that tomorrow she'll have to ask for some balm for her legs but for right now, the only thing she cares about is sleep.

The moon is high in the sky, night air billowing the curtains, and just as Nesta feels herself drifting, she hears something. Or, someone.

"Nes?" Cassian whispers, his voice meek.

"Really, Cassian? What is it?" She knows what he wants and what she forgot to do, but after getting so comfortable, she can't help but snap at him.

"You forgot to check for-" Cassian doesn't dare finish the sentence, afraid that even speaking the name of the monster would bring her forth.

Tense silence fills the air before Nesta dramatically throws back the covers and all but stomps over to their closet, opening the door with a scowl.

Nothing.

Next, she heads to Cassian's side of the bed, making sure to give him a look as she falls to her hands and knees to look under the bed.

Nothing.

"I can't believe you, a grown Illyrian man, Commander of the Night Court Army, is scared of little old-"

"Don't say her name!" Cassian interrupts, making a cutting motion over his throat wildly. "Can you just light the candle? Please?"

She stands and looks him over, smiling at just how childish he looks with the covers drawn up to his chin and his eyes wide with fear. He looks like someone just read him a scary bedtime story. However, she knows there are things she still fears that some may find childish. Fears that would make her want to hide under the covers (if her pride would ever allow her to do that.)

So, instead of further mocking him, she changes her smile to something softer and nods. Within seconds, the candle is lit, and the flame is dancing to its own music, banishing whatever might be lurking in the shadows.

Cassian gives her a relieved smile, and she bends down and kisses him, patting his cheek, before pulling away and going back to her side of the bed. He is quick to pull her into his warmth, cocooning her and burying his face into her hair and neck.

"Night, Nes." He murmurs.

"Goodnight, Cass." She whispers back, falling into the most restful sleep she's had in awhile.

[forever-rogue]

Hi! If you still write for Nurse Steve, could you possibly do one where she’s in Labor but she doesn’t tell Steve because she doesn’t want to worry him. And then she has complications and someone finally lets him know and he drops everything and runs to her.

AN | Oh? It’s finally time for these to have their first baby? Okay 🥺 I did take some liberty with this, but I hope y’all enjoy! This can be read as a companion piece to the below but also as a stand alone!

Warnings | Mild Language, Labor/Delivery 

Pairing | Nurse!Steve x Fem!Reader

Word Count | 2k

Masterlist | Steve, Main, Nurse Steve

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You grew more impatient and antsy with every passing day. Every day since you’d been off for the last two weeks had left you wondering when the day would finally come. Your due date was just a few days away and you really just wanted all of this to be over (the whole being almost nine months pregnant thing did that to you) and to finally meet your daughter. 

There wasn’t much you could do at this point, especially around the house or out in public, so you were basically just waiting. This kid was taking her sweet time to make an appearance. Nesting had already happened and by now you were sure that everything was in place as it needed to be. Steve was still working, at your insistence, although he was more than prepared to stay home with you so you didn’t completely lose your mind. 

And, you know, in the event that you finally went into labor. But you assured him that he would be the first to know, and if it happened while he was working, someone could easily fetch him. Instead you busied yourself with baking and cooking, making plenty of treats to keep your sweet tooth satisfied and stocking up on some meals that could easily be unfrozen on nights neither of you were prepared to cook with a newborn.

Now it was all one long waiting game. 

But maybe…it wouldn’t be too much longer after all.

“Oh,” you felt a sharp pain ripple through your belly and abdomen as you clutched the counter for a bit of support. The sensation felt odd and you definitely did not like it. But you also decided not to worry about it, trying to convince yourself that it was just a one time thing. After all, you were almost there in your pregnancy and lots of things could be happening. Yeah, looking back on it, you were definitely a fool.

After the initial pain had passed you went about your day, doing some laundry and making sure everything in the house was stocked up with what you'd need for at least several weeks. You’d done enough research, talked to enough mothers to know that you wouldn’t want to have to think about this for a while after having your baby. Unfortunately, the pains came again, but fortunately they were few and far between at this point. Nothing to worry about yet…

You finished up the last few things in the bathroom, when you felt the pain again, followed by what felt like a weird trickling feeling down your leg. 

You looked down and noticed the wet spot on your leggings and let out a long sigh. You knew that you hadn’t just wet yourself so that could logically only mean one thing, “shit.”

This was what you had been waiting for…and yet you felt so incredibly unprepared for this moment. You weren’t ready to go into labor and have your baby girl just yet…you needed some time, just a little more…but unfortunately that was not how life worked.

“Camila,” you rubbed your belly gently as if talking to her would get her to stay inside just a little bit longer. You tried to hold back your tears, but it was an overwhelming moment and you were experiencing approximately a hundred emotions at once, “can you wait just a little bit longer? Daddy’s at work and I-I don’t want to bother him. Just maybe until tonight, okay? O-or tomorrow morning.”

It was stupid, you knew, to try and push this off as long as you could but there was no reason to panic. You reminded yourself that you weren't going to do anything until the contractions came every couple of minutes and lasted for at least a minute or more. That’s when you’d go to the hospital. It would all be fine…everything would be just fine. That was the mantra you kept repeating to yourself anyway.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

By the time Steve came home that night, things had…progressed. You tried to play it off as much as you could, deciding you would tell him over dinner. You wanted him to have a chance to change and relax for a little before springing it on him. You were able to keep it together for a bit, until you felt the pain coming again and held onto the fridge handle so tightly he was surprised it didn’t break.

“Sweetheart,” he looked at you with wide, nervous eyes as you tried to smile through the pain. That was easier said than done; there was nothing but a grimace on your face, “what’s wrong? Are you - did you - contractions?”

“Mhmm,” you closed your eyes and tried to breathe through it, “‘s fine, Stevie.”

“How long have you been having them?” he tried to slowly pull your hand away so you could hold his, and wrapped the other around your waist, “angel. Can you tell me what’s been going on?”

“Earlier,” you confessed and he let out a long breath. Alright, well, that might not have been the best thing, but you were going to be okay. He would make sure of that, “started earlier and then my water broke.”

“Your water broke!?”

“Yeah,” you gave him a sheepish expression in a vain attempt to calm him down. You should have known better than that, “they’ve been far apart enough and it’s just now getting worse.”

“You’ve been having them for hours though and your water broke,” he sat down on the couch, running a hand anxiously through his dark hair, “why didn’t you call me? Sweetheart, I love how strong and independent you are, but I really wish you would have called. I would have come home already and you could have been at the hospital by now.”

“I didn’t wanna bother you,” tears glistened in your eyes, not at him or anything but the entirety of the situation. He crouched down so he was on your level and tenderly brushed them away, “didn’t want to bug you at work.”

“Honey,” his tone adopted a soft, fond tone. Ahh, yes, of course his sweet, clumsy girl didn’t want to bother him, “this would not have bugged me at all. You are the most important thing to me, and you are never a bother.”

“‘m sorry,” you blubbered, “I wanted her to come and now I wish she’d slow down. I’m scared. I’m not ready for her to be here, I’m not ready to be a mom! I can’t do this, Stevie.”

“Sweetheart,” he cooed softly, stroking your cheek, tenderly turning your face up to his, “it’s okay to be scared and nervous; that’s normal. I’m so nervous too, I’m scared to be a dad. But I know we’ll be okay - we won’t be perfect and we’ll fuck up sometimes, but that’s just part of life. We’re going to be okay, angel. This is just the last big thing we have to get through before we get to meet our daughter. And I know you’re going to get through this, you’re so strong and resilient, but it’s okay to be scared.”

“Will you stay with me?” you looked at him with the softest eyes and he chuckled fondly, “please?”

“You don’t have to ask,” he pressed soft kisses to your forehead and cheeks before stopping at your lips, “I’ll be right by your side the entire time.”

“Can I hold your hand?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you promise it’ll be okay?” your lip trembled with effort as you tried to keep from completely crying.

“Pinky,” he held out his pinky finger to you, which caused a sniffy laugh to bubble up as you wrapped your finger around his, “just think - soon we’ll get to meet our sweet Camila.”

“I hope she looks like you,” you blurted out as he just laughed softly, “you’re so pretty.”

“Flatterer,” he teased, “I hope she looks like you; or both of us. Either way, we’re gonna have a very cute kid.”

You inhaled before slowly letting it all out, “okay. I-I think I’m ready.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you pouted, causing him to kiss it away until you were smiling again.

“I’m going to go and get your hospital bag and then we’ll go to the hospital,” he explained as you nodded, “I’ll be right there with you.”

“Okay,” you squeezed his hand tightly, “let’s do this then.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It felt unreal being at the hospital, hooked up to a bunch of monitors and listening to your baby’s heartbeat. The initial nerves were still there, but there was also the pain that came with labor that pretty much overshadowed that. Steve, luckily, had kept to his word and was at your side the entire, letting you hold his hand, even when he was pretty sure you were going to break it. But it didn’t matter; he would do anything for you. 

He was also impressed in a weird way with how well you’d been able to handle your contractions throughout the day. By the time you were at the hospital and all settled in, it wasn’t long before you were ready to start pushing. And, despite your initial hesitancy and wanting to hold off on having a baby for a little while longer, you were more than happy to get going. 

And then, after all the worries, fears, and tears, it all ended with a crying, but healthy, baby girl. It all felt like it happened so fast; from pushing and having her, to getting to hold her for the first, to watching Steve sit next to you with the small bundle in his arms. It felt like the most perfect site in the entire world; he was looking at her like she was the most precious thing in the entire world. He knew what love was; he’d know what it felt like to fall in love with you. But this was like he was falling in love all over again. 

“I wish I had a camera,” you whispered softly, catching his attention as he looked up at you with a giant smile on his face. He scooted his chair as close as he could to your bed, making it so you could see her too, “she’s already got you wrapped around her finger.”

“Yeah,” he cooed softly at the sleeping baby, “she does. But so do you. I can’t believe we have a baby - we made her.”

“We did,” you held out your hand and ever so lightly brushed your knuckle over her cheek, “is it weird to already be so in love with her? It feels like we’ve always had her, always loved her.”

“It’s not weird at all,” he promised, leaning over to kiss you softly, “this is the second and a half best day of my life.”

“Steve,” you kept your laugh softly as you stroked his cheek, “what were the first two?”

“Meeting you and marrying you,” his eyes lit up happily, “besides - she wouldn’t have been possible without it.”

“It always comes down to the broken ankle,” you snorted in amusement, “but it’s like you always say, we would have met some other way; we were meant to be.”

“We were,” he beamed at you before looking back at his newborn daughter, “thank you for this. All of it.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” you insisted, stifling a yawn, “just remember that when it’s three in the morning and you’re on diaper duty.”

“I’ll complain but I’ll do it with love,” he promised, “I love you so much, my clumsy, stubborn, strong girl.”

“I love you,” you blinked away your tears, “both of you.”

“Yes,” he agreed gently, “we already love you so much, Cami girl.”

[lemoncrushh]

Tattooed Heart - Part IV

SUMMARY: You are a cocktail waitress at a swanky lounge. Harry comes in one night, and you instantly dislike him. But another encounter eventually changes your opinion.

PAIRING: Waitress Y/N x Artist/Tattoo Artist Harry

TROPES: Enemies to Lovers

MUST BE 18+ TO READ

WORD COUNT: 7k+

STORY PAGE

“Ugh, look at him,” groaned Jill, nudging your shoulder with hers when she walked behind the counter to bring empty coffee cups from a nearby table.

You stopped mid-pour, turning to see whom she was talking about, but the only table occupied now besides Harry’s was the older woman whose coffee you were preparing.

“Who, Harry?” you asked, holding back a grin.

“No, Stan,” Jill scoffed. “Yes, of course Harry.”

“What about him?”

“He’s just so….ugh. Infuriatingly handsome.”

Your cheeks a rosy pink, you turned back to your task at hand. After only one date, you weren’t ready to tell your co-worker that you were interested in Harry in any way. Fortunately, you’d had the early shift that Monday morning, and Harry had arrived an hour before Jill’s shift. So she hadn’t seen your exchange when he’d walked up to the counter, a lopsided grin on his face as he’d ordered his flat white.

“I’ll get that right out to you,” you’d mimicked his smile before taking the next customer’s order.

He’d chosen his usual table by the window, opening his backpack and setting up his tablet. When you’d brought his coffee to him, he’d whispered so softly, you had to lean over to hear him.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I still can’t stop thinking about you.” His hand had covered yours on the table, and he’d given it a quick but tender squeeze.

“Then we may have a problem.”

“Why’s that?”

Boldly, you’d leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you either.”

“Y/N!” called Jill, snapping you back to the present.

“Yeah?” you blinked. Somehow, you’d managed to finish making the older woman’s latte, and brought it to her table without even realizing. You’d had Harry brain for the last two days. And with him currently present in your cafe, minding his own business, it was a wonder you were even able to function. Especially after his previous admission.

“Come see,” your co-worker waved you over to Harry’s table. “He’s working on something new.”

Wiping your hands on a towel, you joined Jill, standing beside her to see what Harry had drawn on his tablet. As he held it up, you felt a flutter in your chest.

“Oh, that’s…” you started to say, pointing. It looked a lot like the painting you had seen at his apartment on Saturday. The one of the moon dripping. But you quickly side-stepped, not wanting to divulge your weekend whereabouts with your new friend.

“That’s really cool,” you croaked instead, clearing your throat. “I like how the drops make a heart.”

“Thanks,” muttered Harry, turning slightly to give you a smirk.

“Ugh! So talented!” Jill spun around, heading back to the counter as a customer entered.

You stood in your spot, your feet frozen to the tile as you watched Harry’s stylus pen continue its magic on the screen. Clutching your hands at your chest, you noticed the slightest differences in the current drawing and the painting from the other night. Completely mesmerized, you almost missed it when Harry’s finger beckoned you closer.

“Sorry…” you let out a breath, speaking softly as you scooted closer to his table. “I shouldn’t be staring.”

“At the drawing or me?”

You weren’t sure if it was his question or his low, raspy tone that caught you off guard, but you felt a sudden high-pitched laugh rise from your throat and escape your lips. Shaking your head, you cursed yourself for blushing. You hated sounding like a giggling schoolgirl.

“Both,” you finally admitted.

Harry’s mouth spread slowly into a sexy grin, his eyes on you. “What time should I pick you up tomorrow?”

Stealing a swift look over your shoulder, you noticed Jill was still helping the customer.

“That’s up to you. I’m free all day.”

“Yeah?” Harry raised a brow. Then folding his arms on the table, he leaned closer, licking his lips. “That opens a world of possibilities, then.”

With a laugh, you pushed your hair behind your ear. “Does it?”

“Well, that depends on what you’re into.” You felt the color rise in your cheeks again, and Harry chuckled. “I’ll think of something. How ‘bout I pick you up at noon? We’ll have lunch and go from there.”

You smiled gently. “Sounds good.”

Realizing Jill had finished with his customer, you made your way back to the counter.

“So, what were you two chatting about over there?” she asked you.

“Huh? Oh, nothing.”

“Well, he made you laugh, whatever it was.”

“It was silly,” you shook your head, waving off her comment.

“Mhm.”

“What?” you shrugged, turning toward the espresso machine. “He’s funny.”

“He’s also staring at you.”

“What?” Nearly bumping into Jill as you twirled around, your eyes caught a glimpse of Harry’s just before he returned his attention to his iPad. A sudden warmth filled your senses and you felt like you might melt.

“Well…” you heard Jill remark. “That was…something.”

You pursed your lips as you glared at her. “It was nothing.”

“I beg to differ. First he makes you laugh, then he’s staring at you?”

“Jill!”

Breaking your train of thought and protest, the cafe door swung open then and two businessmen walked in. As soon as you took their order, a young woman entered, followed by three more. The lunch crowd was starting to trickle in.

Just as you had taken the two men’s orders to them and returned to the counter, you noticed Harry had packed up his things, his rucksack slung over his shoulder. You saw him look up and meet your gaze, an easy grin on his face. Lifting his hand, he gave you a wave, and you waved back as he exited the cafe.

Soon enough, the end of your shift arrived, and Melaina, another waitress, greeted you behind the counter to take your place. You couldn’t get home soon enough, prepared to take the longest, deepest nap of all time. But as soon as your head hit the pillow, you heard your phone ping with a text.

What was with the secrecy?

Confused, you simply typed, ???

You pretended you hadn’t seen my art before. You don’t want your friend to know?

To know what?

LOL ok, I get it. I can play along.

I’m not sure I know what you mean.

That was a lie. You knew what he was getting at. You also knew you weren’t interested in telling Jill - or anyone for that matter - about you and Harry because…you weren’t sure where this was going yet. It was too soon. And with everything that had led up to the first date, you certainly didn’t want everything to unravel and get worse than how it had started.

At least you think about me. Glad to know that.

You texted back the blushing emoji since that’s exactly what you were doing. Again.

Do you work tonight?

Yeah. I’m in my office now. Just wanted to text you first.

Oh ok. I’m about to take a nap. Have a good day!

Can I ring you tonight? Might be late.

Sure, that’s fine.

Have a great nap babe. xx

After laying your phone on your bedside table, you drifted off to sleep with a smile on your face.

“Want some more popcorn?” asked Shae, holding out the bowl between you.

“No, thanks,” you shook your head.

You were getting sleepy, your eyelids weighing down as you tried to focus on the end of the movie. A buzz from your left side startled you, and as you picked up your phone, a sly grin twitched your lips.

“Hello?”

“Hey. What are you doing?”

“Just a sec.” Rising from the sofa, you addressed your roommate. “I’m gonna take this in my room.”

“Aw, but Y/N, the movie’s almost over!”

“It’s okay. Tell me how it ends.”

Shae huffed as she watched you round the couch and head for your room, shutting the door behind you.

“Sorry about that. I was watching a movie.”

“Oh. Don’t let me interrupt,” Harry insisted.

“It’s fine. I’ve seen it already.” You heard Harry chuckle low as you sat on your bed. “How was work?”

“Good,” Harry sighed. “But I’m glad it’s over so I can talk to you.”

“Wow, you’re laying it on thick already,” you teased.

“Heyyy. It’s the truth! I told you I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

“Mhm.”

“Almost came by the cafe yesterday just to see you. But I was afraid it might be a bit much.”

“Why? You should have. I was bored out of my skull yesterday.”

“Were you the only one working?”

“Yep, until closing.”

“Then I’m a stupid twit.”

You laughed out loud, quickly covering your mouth with your hand. This guy was already making you feel…things. You weren’t sure if you were ready.

“At least we have tomorrow. We’re still on, right?”

“Yes, of course,” you replied.

“I was thinking we could have a picnic if you’re up for it. The weather’s supposed to be lovely.”

“A picnic?”

“Yeah. Too cheesy?”

“No…” you swallowed hard and laid back on your pillow. “No, not at all. I’d like that.”

“Good,” Harry said with a smile in his voice. “Can’t wait to see you, love.”

You chuckled lightly. “You just saw me this morning.”

“I know. Funny, innit?”

“If you keep this up, you might get sick of me,” you jested.

Harry’s laugh rang through the phone, and you felt your heart skip. “I sincerely doubt it.”

You bit your lip as you tried to keep your thoughts in line.

“Honestly, babe?” Harry continued. “If I’d had my way, I would have come to yours straight from work to pick you up. And you’d be here with me in this bed now instead of there on the phone.”

Your breath caught in your throat before you gasped aloud. “Harry…”

His low chuckle only fueled the fire. “See what I mean? It’s a bit insane how much my thoughts revolve around you. I’m trying to be a gentleman though.”

You swallowed. “Are you saying you regret what happened Saturday night?”

“Fuck, no. I loved it. If I think about it hard enough, I can still taste you on my tongue.”

“Oh my God, I should probably hang up now.”

“Why?” laughed Harry. “Are you blushing, babe?”

“Indubitably.”

Harry chuckled harder. “You’re cute.”

“And you’re an insatiable flirt.”

“Can’t help it, honey. I enjoy teasing you.”

“And using pet names,” you remarked.

“That’s only ‘cause I like you. But if you don’t want me to…”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No? Which one do you like best?” asked Harry.

“Hmm. I don’t have a preference. I just want it to be natural.”

“Good answer. I like that.”

You chatted for a little while longer until you noticed the time was after 1AM. It was Harry, surprisingly, who suggested you both say goodnight.

“I’ll see you at noon, Y/N. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

“Sweet dreams, baby.”

You laid on your bed, atop your covers for another ten minutes or so, arms spread wide as you stared at the ceiling.

How had he managed it? In one day - not even a whole day because you’d only seen him for a couple hours at the cafe, and then talked to him on the phone for maybe another hour - Harry Styles had already turned your world topsy-turvy. You were feeling it. No, not love…that was silly. It was way too soon to have those kinds of feelings. But…feelings nonetheless. Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to recall the last time you’d felt this way.

Excited. Blissful. Giddy.

Yeah, it was way too soon for this.

He was going to be there any minute. Having already gotten his text announcing he was on his way, you rushed to double check yourself in the mirror, pleased with your choice of the peasant blouse and jeans. Quickly slipping into your shoes, you nearly bumped into Shae when you opened your bedroom door.

“Oh. Hey. I thought you were working today.”

“Nope,” she said, popping her P. “I’m off. You look nice though. Where are you off to?”

“Um…nowhere.”

The sound of the doorbell made you jump. And when your roommate made a move toward the door, you wanted to scream or crawl under the table or…something. But you knew your time had run out. Stood frozen, you cringed as you watched Shae swing the door open.

“Oh! Hi…” she furrowed her brows.

“Hi…um, Shae, right?” you heard Harry mutter.

“Yeah…what…”

“I take it Y/N didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Shae’s glare shifted from Harry to you. “It’s that Harry guy.”

“Yeah, um…” you cleared your throat, opening the door wider. Your stomach flipped when your eyes met Harry’s who stared at you with a questioning gaze. “Harry and I are…on good terms now. We made amends.”

“Made amends? When? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s…” you sighed, looking at your friend, “it’s a long story. And it’s complicated. I probably should have told you, and I’m sorry. But I’ll tell you more about it later, okay?”

You stepped out onto the landing, giving Harry a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi, babe. You look beautiful.”

“What the hell is going on?” exclaimed Shae, her hands on her hips. “Are you seeing him now? After what he did to you?”

“Like I said, I’ll explain it all later. But to answer your question, yes.”

Her mouth agape, Shae stared at you incredulously as you waved goodbye and took Harry’s hand.

“Your roommate’s gonna hate me now,” remarked Harry when you reached his car.

“She already hates you. Because I hated you, remember? Don’t worry, once I tell her everything, she’ll adore you. She already thought you were hot. She’ll be relieved you’re not really an asshole.”

Harry cackled as he held open the door for you. “I dunno if I should be flattered or offended.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you grinned, rising on your tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. “I think you’re hot and a sweetheart.”

Harry beamed his dimpled smile as he rounded the car and got behind the wheel. His expression matched the gorgeous weather that he’d proclaimed was imminent. Without a cloud in the sky, you rode next to Harry in his car as he drove down familiar roads until he turned down a side street that led to the park. While it had regretfully been a while since you’d visited, you still considered it one of your favorite places. Even though there had been no way for Harry to know that, you still felt grateful.

After finding a place to park, Harry opened the back door to retrieve a tartan blanket which he handed to you, along with a large basket. Grinning, he took your hand to lead you across the grass. Stopping near a tree, he set the basket on the ground and reached for the blanket which you helped spread out on the green.

“I have to say, Harry,” you paused, biting your lip, “when you mentioned a picnic, this was immediately what I was picturing. But then I told myself I was being too literal. I truly was not expecting you to have an actual picnic basket.”

“It wouldn’t be a picnic otherwise,” he stated matter-of-factly, sitting on the blanket.

“I don’t know. You could have very easily brought something in a paper bag. Or even stopped off at McDonald’s.”

Shaking his head, Harry snorted as he reached inside the basket. “You need to give me more credit than that.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. This is just very out of the ordinary for me.”

“How so?” Harry asked as he set out what looked to be individually wrapped mini sandwiches.

“Well, I…no one’s ever…did you make these?”

Harry raised a brow. “Of course.”

“Wow. These look fancy! And delicious. What’s in them?”

“Um…salami, mozzarella, pesto, basil, spinach and tomato.”

You continued to stare at Harry as he pulled more items from the picnic basket. He had a mix of fruit, some kind of layered salad in mason jars, a small quiche, and a large carafe of water with lemon and mint. With a sense of contentment, you settled comfortably on the blanket as Harry poured the water into plastic cups. Handing you one, he smiled.

“Dig in, babe.”

Clearing your throat, you blinked. “Sorry, I…I’m overwhelmed.”

“It’s just food, darling.”

Your chest felt tight and heavy as you shook your head. “No, it’s not. It’s incredible. You’re incredible.”

Setting down your cup, you leaned over and planted a kiss on his lips. He grinned against you before reciprocating, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you into his lap. Your kisses continued, his soft, pillowy lips combined with his intoxicating cologne making you light-headed, until you finally broke away.

“Sorry…” you breathed.

“Don’t be,” Harry blinked slowly, his long lashes brushing softly against his cheeks. “Reckon I started off on the right foot this time. I only hope I didn’t peak too early.”

A small giggle escaped your throat as you sat back. “Well, let’s not forget, I haven’t actually eaten the food yet.”

“What will you do if it’s rubbish?” Harry laughed.

“Guess I’ll have to walk home.”

Harry continued to snicker as he playfully rolled his eyes, handing you a plate. “I guarantee you’ll at least like the fruit. And probably the sandwiches.”

Grabbing one of the mini baguettes, you unwrapped it and took a large bite. Immediately your mouth danced with glee as you took in the delectable flavors. Pleased by the reaction on your face, Harry opened one of the mason jars and spooned out the salad onto your plate. Then he cut a portion of the quiche and laid it beside the salad.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you insisted.

“What if I want to?”

“Hmm…then I guess I’ll let you.” Picking up the small pie with your fingers, you took a savory bite. “God, this is by far the best lunch I’ve ever had.”

“Glad to hear it,” Harry beamed, handing you a plastic fork for your salad and taking a bite of his own.

“Do you like to cook?”

“I do, actually. It’s one of my hobbies, you could say.”

“You’re full of surprises, Harry,” you commented before taking a sip of water. “Although, I shouldn’t be surprised. I already knew you’re a man of many talents.”

You caught the smirk on Harry’s lips as he looked down at his plate. You both ate in silence for a bit, enjoying each other’s company and the ideal weather. You gazed around you, taking in the atmosphere. You watched a couple who tossed a frisbee back and forth, and a young mother pushing her child in a stroller. When you took the last bite of your quiche, Harry surprised you again by leaning over with a strawberry between his fingers. With a grin, you popped open your mouth and allowed him to feed it to you.

When nearly all of the food had been devoured, and you helped Harry pack up the remains into the basket and discarded the trash in a nearby waste bin, you laid back on the blanket, enjoying the warm sun on your face. While it was still a rather cool day, the sunshine made it pleasant.

“Be right back,” you heard Harry announce. “Gonna get something out of the car.”

Squinting your eyes, you watched him pick up the basket and take it with him. When he returned, you noticed the notebook in his hand.

“What are you doing?” you asked, lifting yourself up on your elbows.

“No, lay back down,” he instructed, taking his seat next to you.

When he opened the notebook, he slid a pencil out from beneath the spiral and began to sketch.

“Are you drawing?” you inquired softly.

His green eyes lifting from his paper, he gave a sly grin.

“What are you- you’re not drawing me!” you exclaimed rolling onto your side.

“Stay still,” Harry chuckled. “Lay back the way you were.”

With a huff, you slowly moved to your previous position as you listened to the sound of the pencil against the paper. You silently wondered how long you had to remain still as you continued to watch Harry’s gaze shift from you to his notebook. Your breaths quickened as his eyes roamed your body, making you a bit self-conscious. Finally, you saw his lips twitch into a sexy grin, and he lowered his paper and shut the book.

“Do I get to see?”

Instead of answering, Harry laid down next to you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Harry!”

With a snicker, Harry lifted the notebook. “Alright. But just so you know, it’s just a quick sketch. And it does not fully reflect the way I see you.”

Grimacing, you glared at him. “Is that good or bad?”

“Here,” Harry laughed, opening the book to the page he’d just sketched and handing it to you. While it was indeed a quick sketch, maybe even a bit messy by some standards, you were amazed at how much it looked like you.

“That’s…remarkable,” you commented softly, choosing the best word.

Turning your head to look at him, you noticed he was already staring at you. When he rolled over and brushed your hair from your face, you lowered the notebook to your side. He kissed you tenderly at first, so softly that your entire body felt like you were lying on a cloud, and not the blanket on the ground. Your hands traveled around to his back while he hovered over you, lifting his head slightly to look into your eyes. Though he didn’t speak, his eyes spoke volumes. The only words you really needed right then. And when his mouth met yours again, and you eagerly allowed his tongue access, you knew he’d heard your words as well.

“Hmm,” Harry hummed when he broke free, his forehead resting against yours. “Your lips drive me mad, baby. I could kiss you all day.”

With a smile, you lifted your hand to his jaw, rubbing his scruffy chin. “Same here.”

After a few more kisses, Harry sat up, running his fingers through his hair. “I had another idea for this afternoon, but do you mind if we stop at my flat first?”

“Not at all. What is your other idea?”

“If you’d like, we could visit the art gallery.”

You sat up urgently. “Where your art is? I would love that!”

“Yeah?” Satisfied with your response, Harry rose from the blanket and reached his hand out to help you up. Then lightly brushing the back of his hand against your cheek, he looked like he was about to say something, but his words escaped him. You didn’t mind, however. When you helped him fold up the blanket and walked with him to the car, you had a feeling the day was going to be filled with unspoken words - gestures of mutual feelings.

After putting away the rest of the food and freshening up in Harry’s bathroom, you were excited to go see his art on display at the gallery. 

“Harry! So good to see you!” greeted a man in a suit.

“You as well, Sherod,” said Harry, shaking the man’s hand. “How are things?”

“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” Sherod nodded emphatically. “We are still waiting patiently on your newest project, yes?”

“Yeah, I’m still…tweaking it.”

“Ah, don’t tweak too much, Harry. You know the best art is always what comes naturally, from the heart.” As Harry shrugged, you noticed Sherod making eye contact with you. “And who is this delicate creature?”

“Sherod, this beautiful lady is Y/N. I’ve come to show her around.”

Color rose in your cheeks at both Sherod’s and Harry’s compliments. Not to mention the way Harry had his hand on your lower back.

“Miss Y/N, so lovely to have you here today. Please enjoy your visit.”

Once Sherod was out of earshot, Harry grinned at you and gestured to the left. You joined him in the large room where many art pieces were displayed on the walls and on pedestals, some encased. For the most part, you simply nodded as Harry pointed out some of the art he liked, commenting a bit when something caught your eye.

“I especially like this one,” Harry said when he stopped in front of a large canvas of greens and blues, tiny streaks of gold in between that resembled marble. “I sometimes come here just to stare at it for a bit. It calms me.”

“It looks like the ocean,” you agreed. “But also…a little like an enchanted forest, if that makes sense. Very tranquil.”

Turning his head to look at you, Harry opened his mouth. Once again, he seemed unable to speak, so you simply smiled back at him. Running your hand down his arm, you walked behind him to inspect the next painting.

“This one, however, has a different feeling altogether,” you remarked. “It’s sexy…a bit sensual, but not necessarily in a calming way. Kind of reminds me of pent up energy, ready to explode.”

Standing behind you, Harry placed his hands on your waist. You felt his breath in your hair before he pressed his lips to your head. You hummed softly at his sweet gesture, covering his hands with yours.

“Where’s your art, Harry?” you whispered.

Clearing his throat, he released his hands from your body and stepped toward the right. “Over here.”

At the end of the room, Harry stopped in front of a display of art that you recognized from his website. Seeing it in person was different from seeing it on a screen. It took your breath away. Mesmerized, you inspected each detail, every line, every stroke. You could feel Harry’s stare as you walked around his mini gallery. When you took in the last piece, you looked up at him.

“You’re amazing,” you declared. “It’s all so extraordinary.”

“Thank you, love,” he blinked slowly.

Taking his hands, you smiled. “Is it okay to kiss you in here?”

Harry chuckled, his eyes dancing. “I think it’s perfectly okay.”

His lips met yours as you lifted your hands to his neck, pulling him closer.

“I know, I have nothing really to go on,” you added when your mouths separated. “I’m not all that knowledgeable in art. I just know what moves me and what doesn’t. And yours definitely does.”

“Baby…” Harry breathed. “God, love, you’ve rendered me speechless today.”

Giving him one extra kiss, you took his hand again and gave it a squeeze. He didn’t need to say anything.

When you rounded the corner, however, Harry stopped in his tracks, an immediate look of disdain on his face. Following his point of vision, you noticed a familiar looking blonde at the reception desk. When she turned around, she tossed her hair behind her shoulder and lifted her chin.

“Hello, Harry.”

“Nicolette. What are you doing here?”

Of course. The former arm candy.

“Came to do some business with Sherod. Daddy’s having one of his restaurants remodeled, and he wants to buy all new art for it.”

“I see,” Harry frowned. With almost a shutter, he quickly cleared his throat and addressed you. “Sorry, Y/N, this is Nicolette Eisman, Nicolette, Y/N Y/LN.”

“Nice to meet you,” you greeted, gritting your teeth and hoping she didn’t recognize you from Zelda’s.

“Pleasure,” Nicolette said thinly, not bothering to even look you in the eye, her glare still on Harry. “How’s the moon series coming along? Have you finished it yet? Or are you going to wait another three months agonizing over it?”

“I don’t reckon that’s any of your concern anymore.”

“Ouch! Come now, Harry,” Nicolette retorted. “I thought we ended on better terms than that.”

“You thought wrong,” Harry said flatly.

Wanting to crawl into a hole, you were relieved when you saw Sherod emerge from a back room, holding out both hands to Nicolette.

“Darling! So good to see you!” he greeted her with the same emphatic energy he’d given Harry.

“C’mon, let’s go,” you heard him mutter before guiding you to the exit and out the door.

Once in the car, Harry revved up the engine before running his hands down his face with an exasperated sigh.

“Harry…” you said softly.

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head. “I definitely didn’t mean to run into her.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“She just…infuriates me. But…ugh, it has nothing to do with you. I don’t want this to ruin our day. I’m sorry.”

“Harry,” you said again, reaching your hand out to touch his arm. “It’s okay. It was bound to happen sooner or later. She obviously still does business here. Nothing you can do about that.”

“Yeah.”

Scooting closer to him, you smiled reassuringly. “Besides. I’m already having the best day with you. One snarky blonde is not going to ruin it.”

His million dollar smile sent a spark through your bloodstream and made you weak in the knees. When he pulled you into a kiss, he didn’t hesitate to let you know he wanted to deepen it, his tongue eager to fill your mouth. His hands cupping your face, he moaned against your lips, sending a whole other surge of arousal to your privates. You nearly gasped when he released you, your face warm with desire.

“Come home with me?” He asked it in a question form, but it sounded more like a demand. “I don’t want this day to end.”

“Me neither.”

“I’ll cook us dinner and we can watch the sunset. Then if you want, we can go to the shop, and I’ll give you your tattoo.”

“My tattoo? Tonight? But I still don’t know what I wanna get.”

“The heart moon. That art of mine you’d liked. I was working on it yesterday at the cafe.”

“You were working on a tattoo for me?”

“Yeah…” he smirked. “Rather presumptuous of me, I know. But I thought you might like it.”

Your smile widening, you nodded. “I do.”

You sat out on the small terrace of Harry’s apartment, overlooking the city, the sun descending before you in shades of orange, purple and red. Harry had cooked another lovely meal, this time bringing out a bottle of rosé as you sat barefoot on the same blanket from the picnic.

“Gorgeous, innit?” you heard him ask when you took a sip of wine.

“Breathtaking.”

“It’s my favorite thing about this flat. When there’s a full moon, you can see it clearly, like a big ball in the sky. It’s what inspired those paintings.”

“Harry, this…this is so romantic. This whole day. It’s been incredible.”

Harry feigned offense, a tiny smirk on his face. “What? You didn’t think I could be romantic?”

“No, I…well, the restaurant the other night was romantic too, it’s just…I wasn’t expecting this.”

“What were you expecting?”

“I dunno,” you shrugged. “I guess I figured…you know…after Saturday night, at the tattoo shop…”

“I’m not after a quick fix, Y/N.”

“No?”

Harry ran his fingers through his hair. “Let me make something clear, Y/N,” he said, scooting closer to you. “I’m immensely attracted to you. I’m excited to explore every single inch of your body, and to share mine with you. In every way you can imagine. But I reckon, if we’re on the same page…and I’m pretty sure we are…then we have plenty of time for all of that.”

You gulped, then blew out a breath. “We do?”

Harry reached a hand up to push a curl from your cheek. “I hope so.” His fingers lingered against your skin before he lightly ghosted the tips across your jaw. “You like me, yeah?”

You shivered at his touch as well as the way he was staring at you so intently. “Of course.”

“I like you, too. And the fact that I haven’t been able to get you off my mind tells me there’s something between us. Something I’m eager to explore further.”

“Really?”

Nodding, Harry set down his glass and reached for yours, placing it next to his.

“I’ve been…feeling something today, haven’t you? It’s like…you get me.”

“Yeah? How?” you asked.

“Like at the gallery. When you told me what those paintings made you feel. I feel the same thing. And when I sketched you at the park. You didn’t laugh at me, even though it was basically a rubbish scribble. It’s like you’re willing to open up a space for me in your heart. And I appreciate it so much. I…fuck, I dunno what I’m saying…I-”

Silencing him with your kiss, you moved even closer to him, and he ardently pulled you into his lap. His kisses were thirsty, as though it wasn’t the hundredth time your lips had touched that day.

“Harry…” you breathed. “I do get you. And I’ve been feeling it as well, all day. Just the fact that you wanted to show me your art at the gallery said so much. Not in a show-off kind of way; I didn’t take it like that. But more like you were willing to share a little bit more of yourself with me. Something you take pride in. That’s special to me, and means a lot.”

Harry smiled wide, running his hands up and down your back.

“Does that mean you might be willing to share something with me?”

“Like what?” you blushed.

“Like…your writing.”

“Oh,” you scoffed. “I haven’t written anything in ages.”

“Well…when you do? Can I read?”

You smiled. “Deal.”

“Good. Now…you ready to go get your tattoo?”

“No,” you sighed and shook your head.

“No?”

“Let’s save it for another day.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. I hope to have lots more of these with you.”

“Alright. I can’t promise anything though. I reckon I’ve run out of ideas.”

You playfully pushed his shoulder, making him lean back. “Stop it.”

“No, I’m perfectly fine with that,” he grinned. “Elated even.”

He kissed you fervently then, his tongue wanting nothing more than to wrestle with yours. He filled your mouth with wanton and shameless desire, your own appetite growing so much, you thought you might come undone. When his left hand cupped your breast while his right held your neck, you gasped.

“Can we go to the bedroom?” you inquired against his lips.

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, his chest falling with heavy breaths.

“Yes. I know you’d been holding back all day, trying to be a gentleman. And I appreciate the chivalry, I do. But I need to feel you now.”

A mere nod is all it took for you to rise from Harry’s lap. This time you held your hand out for him the way he had for you at the park. Taking your hand in his, he led you to his bedroom, his large bed claiming the majority of the space. You caught a quick glimpse of another painting above his bed before he laid you down and kissed you passionately.

“Baby…” he cooed. “Tell me what you like.”

With an inward chuckle, you grinned. “Somehow I knew you’d be the kind of guy to ask that.”

“Why? Don’t you want me to please you?”

“Very much.”

“Then tell me. I wanna make you feel good.”

“I think we both know you have no problems with that.”

Harry chuckled then, his sly smirk returning to his handsome face. “Alright then. Can I undress you?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded, sitting up slightly to allow Harry to pull your peasant blouse over your head. When his eyes traveled down your chest, you saw them darken with lust. And when he unhooked the front closure of your bra to reveal your bare breasts, his breath hitched in his throat.

“Jesus, babe, you’re beautiful.”

As you laid back down, Harry removed his own shirt, tossing it on the floor. Then he hovered over you, kissing you deeply once again. His necklace tapped against your bare skin as his mouth traveled down your neck and chest and between your breasts. His hands cupped them while his wet mouth sucked hungrily on your nipples, giving each equal attention.

When his lips moved further south, you felt him unbutton your jeans, tugging them as you lifted your butt so he could pull them down and off. Harry grinned when he spied your lace panties, a black pair this time.

“One day,” he commented, “when we’re both off from work and have nothing to do, I want you to spend the day here with me wearing nothing but your sexy lacy panties.”

You giggled delightfully as he grinned at you, his hands running up your thighs.

“You are so fucking sexy. I wanna make you scream my name, babe. But I’m afraid I might not last. Just being honest.”

Before you could retort, Harry slid your panties down your legs, caressing your feet on the way. Then he stood up and removed his own jeans and underwear. You barely had time to process the view of his delicious body before he was above you again, kissing you on the way up.

“Harry…baby…” you breathed hard when his mouth found your nipples again and his hand slid between your thighs, finding your wetness.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Tell me.”

“I need you. Now. Please.”

You gulped hard, trying to catch your breath as Harry’s thumb teased your clit. You could already feel yourself dripping, and when he slid his fingers up your slit and brought them to his mouth, you whined his name again.

“I’m here, babe,” he promised. “Just need a condom.”

Retrieving one from his bedside table, he rolled it over his length as you watched. You bit your lip, bracing yourself for his size. Then when he situated himself between your legs, he kissed you once again. When he lifted his head, his eyes were a dark, emerald green, his lips pink and swollen. You ran your hands up his inked chest and down his shoulders, grabbing hold of his biceps.

“I’m ready for you, love. Are you ready for me?”

You nodded as you looked into his eyes just before he pushed into you. You gasped even though he was considerate to be slow and easy as he moved. Before long you adjusted to his girth, your juices quickly dripping down your thighs.

You moaned at the sensation, the friction good enough to make you want to weep. Harry’s own groans and low pitched sounds sent your body trembling until you wrapped your legs around him, holding on tightly. 

“Taking me so well, Y/N,” you heard him say. “That fuckin’ pretty pussy of yours. So wet.”

Mumbling sweet nothings in your ear, Harry rolled into you deeper. You thought he whispered something else about you feeling so good, but you were already on too much of a high to make out the words. Finally, grasping for the covers underneath you, you threw your head back and called out to God.

“Yeah baby,” Harry moaned. “I’m so close already.”

“Me too,” you breathed. “Holy shit, Harry. Fuck me!”

With a grunt, Harry shifted his body, grabbing your wrists and holding them down as he thrusted harder and faster. He cursed between heavy breaths, his voice quivering as he called you baby and honey while you took him deeper. Your toes curled and more moans escaped your lips until you knew you were close to the edge. Raking your fingernails down his back, you grabbed hold of his ass, pulling your legs back and wide.

“Fuck! Yesss!” Harry cried, pounding into you so hard, the headboard hit the wall. He propped himself up by grabbing it, sending you both sliding toward it until your head was flush against it.

Reaching between you, you took Harry’s balls in your hand and caressed them. You watched his eyes roll back in his head, his mouth gaping open as he continued to fuck you. He cursed again as he licked his lips, veins in his temples thick and prominent before you heard him let out a guttural moan, his hips thrusting a few more times. Then with a tiny whimper, his body fell against yours, his face buried in your neck.

“Shit,” he exhaled. “God damn, baby, you’re amazing.”

“Hmm, so are you,” you cooed, tracing invisible shapes across his back.

“No, ‘m not. I wanted to make you come first.”

With a giggle, you whispered, “I’m not even mad about that.”

Harry lifted his head then to look at you. You smiled at him, his beautiful face wet with perspiration, his curls messy atop his head. As he removed the condom and threw it away in the bin, he grinned at you shyly.

“I told you I might not last.”

“It’s totally okay.”

“Mmm, no it’s not. But I can still make you come.”

Harry crawled down your body like a snake, stopping at your waist. You opted not to protest. After all, he was willing to please you. Who were you to say no?

Gliding his hands down your thighs, he lifted them, wasting no time. His mouth was on your clit before you had time to take a breath, and a small cry left your lips at the contact. He hummed against you, creating a vibration that nearly made you come right then. Clutching at the sheets again, you felt your knees shake, your entire body reaching a new climax. Panting, you felt Harry’s tongue play with and tease your pussy. Wanting to come so badly, but also not wanting the unbelievable sensation to end, you bit your lip, moaning as tears began to well in your eyes. Finally, as a loud cry rose from your core, you grabbed hold of his head, thrusting your hips against him. With jagged breaths, you moaned his name over and over until your legs fell slack and he released his mouth, sucking up the remaining juices.

“How was that, sweetheart?” you heard him ask from far away. Or at least it seemed far away. You couldn’t tell. Time and distance did not exist in that moment. You barely knew your name. Your reply was a mere cry of exhaustion, and you heard Harry chuckle.

“I’ll take that to mean it was good.”

With a sigh, you managed to open your eyes and look at him. “Better than good.”

Harry grinned, crawling back up your body. “I’m glad. I really enjoy making you come. But I hope next time it won’t just be from my tongue.”

You would have joked then and told him his tongue was pretty magical, but you decided instead to just stare at his gorgeous face as you ran his fingers across his jaw and traced his lips. He seemed to enjoy it, his eyelids fluttering softly, a content peaceful expression making you want to pull him closer.

“Y/N,” he whispered low after a minute or two.

“Yes?”

“Will you stay here with me tonight?”

Though your heart was pounding in your chest, and butterflies danced in your stomach, the request combined with the look on his handsome face felt more calm than the tranquil painting at the gallery.

“I can’t think of a better way to end the most perfect day,” you replied.

Pulling you even closer, Harry’s lips met yours, fitting together like puzzle pieces. You melted into the kiss, just like the melting moon, dripping into a perfect tattooed heart.

If you enjoyed, please like, reblog and comment. xx

[foundress0fnothing]

what lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why

Summary: Elain and Lucien make a bargain. When it’s time to call it in, however, neither of them remembers what it is—or that they made one in the first place.

Part 2/2. 10.1k words. Read here on ao3 or below the cut!

So many thanks to @popjunkie42 for being my brilliant beta reader as I finished this monstrosity of a chapter.

Elain had been itchy all week. 

It had started in the tips of her fingers, a tingling that spread gradually until her hands were almost numb from the sensation. 

And then there was a tickle somewhere between her ribs, niggling and persistent until she was forced to press her hand into her side to gently massage away the feeling.

And now, as she sat in a meeting with Feyre about her plans for a new community youth garden and attempted to focus on flowers and classes and permits, she could feel a buzzing across the bridge of her nose and behind her eyes. She tried to rub at it discreetly, hoping it would alleviate some of the ache, but her sister’s eyes caught the movement.

“Are you feeling okay, Elain?” 

She waved Feyre off, pasting a smile onto her face and hoping it would be enough to assuage her sister’s concerns. But she should have known better.

“It’s just—you’ve seemed off all week. And the twins have told me that you’ve been spending a lot of time in the kitchens. Which,” Feyre said, setting aside the notepad she had been taking notes on to turn her attention fully on Elain, “is fine! It’s great. I know you like to bake. It’s just…” She paused. “It reminds me of how things were. In the beginning.”

Elain rolled her eyes at that. Sure, she had spent the first few months of her time in Velaris hiding in the kitchens, but it had been years since she had used that to escape the parts of her life that she found overwhelming. 

It’s not that the twins were wrong, although it was irritating that they were apparently still reporting her movements to Feyre. Elain had been in the kitchen a lot this last week. The morning that her fingers started to tingle, she had felt drawn to the easy familiarity of the space to try and settle herself.. It had soothed her all those years ago—the mixing and the kneading and the waiting for her hard work to come to fruition. She hoped that it would work again when the tingling wouldn’t go away.

And it had, at least as a temporary reprieve. Something deep in her calmed the longer that she spent in the kitchens, and so she kept coming back, hoping that if she made enough cakes or cookies or pastries that the itch she felt would just go away for good. She didn’t have any occasion or recipient for what she baked, so she just made whatever felt right—cinnamon twists, apple danishes, molasses cookies, gingersnaps—her hands seemed to want to make anything spiced and warm.

But trying to explain all of that to Feyre—the itch and the baking and the desserts—promised to be more trouble than it was worth, and so she simply said, “I’m fine, Feyre. It’s just a headache.”

“Do you need to go home? We can finish this tomorrow.” Feyre looked at her and smiled gently. “There’s a painting class on alla prima happening now that I’d been happy to go join instead. It’s no big deal.”

Elain almost sighed in relief. By her sister’s usual interrogation standards, she had gotten off lightly—Feyre really must have wanted to make it to the class. Elain had been prepared to smile and bite her tongue and nod along to whatever Feyre said just to get the inevitable conversation about mental health and coping and settling down to end.

Because that was what it always returned to now. Settling down. As if Elain was some old maid. But Feyre, romantic that she was, was certain that Elain could finally, finally feel happy and content with her place in the Night Court if she just found someone to marry.

It’s not that Elain wasn’t content. She was—she had her gardens and her family and a few friends she had made in Velaris over the years through her gardening efforts. It was a small life, perhaps, but it was comfortable. After so much uncertainty in the first two decades of her life as a human, she liked being able to visualize the immortality that stretched before it. It was predictable and safe and, yes, perhaps a little dull. But it was hers, and her choice to make.

And she had met a few males, thank you very much, Feyre. And she’d had some fun. Lots of fun! But not enough to bring them home to meet the family and subject them to the inevitable chaos and innuendos and—worst of all—the revelation that she had a mate out there somewhere.

Wherever he was. Elain hadn’t heard from him since Nesta’s mating ceremony.

He had been in and out of the court for a while, mostly coming to give reports to Rhys about the other high lords. Then he’d go back to his humans. Elain heard whispers about the three of them when people didn’t think she was around—mostly speculations about the depraved things they got up to in their house together—but she ignored them. Mostly.

But then the revelation of his true parentage came to light, and suddenly he was whisked off to the Day Court to be the High Lord’s heir, of all things, needing to learn the court policies and traditions and expectations for a future High Lord. He left his humans and the Night Court without looking back, apparently, and Elain had heard little of him since.

Feyre still saw him, she knew. The Night Court came back from the annual High Lords meetings with stories of the other courts, and her mate’s cunning mind and pleasantly acerbic tongue always featured heavily. By all accounts, he was happy, fulfilled, and didn’t seem to mind that he had left his mate back in the Night Court. The bond was still present, of course—Elain had heard too many stories of males losing their minds after a rejection to want to sever it completely—and, although they had never discussed it together, he seemed content enough with that arrangement as well. It was just something they ignored. Simple as that.

Although—some private part of her wondered if they just should have accepted the bond after things had settled with the war and let fate push them together like Feyre and Rhys and Nesta and Cassian had. She would have had a partner and, cauldron, children probably, and a life in the Day Court that was far grander than the High Lady’s sister-turned-gardener in the Night Court. She would have been a princess, learning to manage a kingdom and devoting her time to some cause that would help an entire people, perhaps, with the influence she would hold, not just a few members of a small city. 

But Elain didn’t let herself daydream about that alternate life too often. Daydreams like that were dangerous, especially for her—she already had a propensity for getting lost in her own head when one of her visions was coming on, and so she tried to limit how often she indulged the daydreams of another life, no matter how lovely they were. And besides, she didn’t regret wanting a choice—no, that was something she was grateful to have protected for herself, even if she only got that protection from ignoring the bond. But still, she wondered what might have been—what life would have looked like if she had spent the last ten years bound to Lucien.

As she thought his name, the buzzing in her head, which had retreated briefly as she talked to Feyre, returned in full force, insistent and pulsating and electric. Elain stifled a gasp at the sensation. “I think,” she said, gripping her sides of the chair she was sitting in to keep herself from digging the heels of her palms into her eyes, “that I do actually need to go home.” The buzzing increased again, and she hissed, quickly standing up, needing to just get out to do something, anything to make the feeling go away. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind, Elain. Should I send someone to check on you in a while? Or should I call Madja? I don’t want you to miss Nesta and Cassian’s anniversary party tonight.”

Elain grimaced. She knew that Feyre was thinking about sending Azriel to check on her as part of some harebrained matchmaking scheme. As if that particular ship hadn’t sailed a decade ago. And as if Azriel wasn’t still quietly panting after Nesta’s priestess friend. “No, Feyre, I’ll be alright. It’s just a headache. That’s all. I’m sure it’ll pass before it’s time for the party”

“If you’re sure…”

“I am,” Elain said, and all but ran out of the room. 

The kitchen. She had to get to the kitchen. That was the only thing that had worked all week. She made her way there as if in a trance, hardly conscious of each step she took or if she passed any of the River House’s other occupants. She didn’t care if she did—she just had to get there before the pounding in her head drove her insane.

It was blessedly empty when she arrived, the twins apparently out doing other work for the court, and absentmindedly, Elain looked around the kitchen for inspiration for what to make as she tied an apron around herself until she spied a bowl of apples on the small work table in the corner. Perfect. 

She grabbed a few and brought them over to the counter as she let her mind wander to what she might make with them. Tarte tatin? Apple fritters? A pie? Yes, a pie, but—hand pies, she decided. They weren’t complicated, but still required enough physical activity to occupy her mind as she worked and shaped the dough. 

Elain gathered what she would need for the dough—flour, ice water, butter, sour cream—and began kneading them together, folding and pushing until a ball started to form. The motion was good and necessary and soothing, and Elain felt the pressure in her head decrease slightly as she began dividing her dough and rolling it out into small circles to chill. The sensation was still there, and she still felt on edge and antsy, but it was tolerable now, at the very least. 

As the dough rested, she began peeling and cutting apples, doing each meticulously by hand. There was magic for this, of course, and the twins had shown her years ago how to channel some of her powers into making this part of cooking go faster, but Elain never tried. She liked the slow pace, the deliberate effort of it, and so she peeled, cored, and chopped until she had filled a bowl with small chunks of apple. Without measuring, she liberally dumped brown sugar and cinnamon and cardamom and ginger over the chunks before diving into the bowl with her hands to mix everything together, coming away sticky and sweet-smelling. 

She rinsed her hands and set the mixture on the stove to simmer, pausing her frantic preparations for a moment as she allowed herself to luxuriate in the smell of fruit and spice and sugar. She thought of fall back in the human lands and the sweet few weeks that were a reprieve from the summer’s heat before the reality of winter set in. It had always been her sisters’ favorite season too, and she wondered idly if she could bring these to Nesta’s anniversary party later that day as proof that she was fine.

But the buzzing didn’t like her stillness, apparently, and began to ratchet up again, spreading down her face and throat until it took up residence in her chest and sides and paused there as if wrapping around her heart and ribs. It was painful and heady all at once, and so Elain propelled herself into motion again. She just had to finish the pies. Things always settled after she finished baking. For a while, at least. She began filling the circles of dough with the apple and spice mixture, folding each over and crimping the edges once they seemed like the circle couldn’t possibly hold anymore before laying them out on a tray to go into the oven and brushing the pastry with an egg wash.

The sensation in her chest didn’t abate however, growing more insistent and sharp with each second that passed, and as she all but threw the tray of hand pies in the oven, Elain wondered if she might need to call Madja after all. This—the buzzing and the pain and its persistence—couldn’t be normal. Maybe Feyre was right to be worried.

She rubbed at her chest and side absently as she sat on the floor in front of the oven and stared at the pies as they baked. It’s not that she was watching them bake, not really, because that would be insane, she acknowledged to herself. But she didn’t feel like she could leave them—her eyes were glued to the small window in the oven door where she could just barely make out the gradual changes to her creations, and the thought of looking away for a moment to clean up the kitchen or do literally anything else seemed impossible.

Elain could see herself reflected in the window as well, although just barely. She looked—well, Elain didn’t really want to acknowledge what she looked like, what with her tangled hair, flushed cheeks, and slightly glazed over eyes. She had only seen herself look like that a few times, and often after evenings spent with some of the Velaris males her family didn’t know about. And there was absolutely no reason for her to look like that now.

A timer Elain didn’t remember setting went off, startling her out of her absent reverie. She shook herself and stood up, pressing a hand to her side with the pulse of fire that seemed to reignite as she moved, now burning and searing through her with such intensity that she could have sworn she was being incinerated from the inside out. Take the pies out, Elain, and then go see Madja, she told herself. Madja will help. She had to—this had gone on too long, and Elain wasn’t sure how much more she could take before something broke in her.

She moved to set the pies, golden and smelling like autumn, on the counter, but it was covered with the errant flour and dough scraps and sticky patches of apple filling that she hadn't bothered to clean up earlier, and so she set them on the work table instead. She breathed in, anticipating the relief that finishing the pies would bring. The tingling, the buzzing, the burning—all of it would go away and she could just be Elain again. She was ready for that now—she’d go see Madja while she was still clear-headed and try to— 

But the relief never came.

No—if anything, the burning sensation only grew until Elain cried out, dropping down onto the floor by the table. She was hot—too hot—and her head was buzzing again and she couldn’t think and she couldn’t breathe and she needed water or Madja or relief or—

She tore her apron off without bothering to stand up and yanked at the laces at the front of her dress to try and loosen the bodice. She loved this dress and the buttery yellow fabric that gathered at her waist before flowing loosely to her knees, but right now, she didn’t care if she ruined it. She just knew that it needed to come off.

Finally, she managed to loosen the ties just enough until the front of her dress gaped open and she could breathe. In, out, in, out, in, out, in—

“Elain?”

The sound of her name lingered in the air as a voice she hadn’t heard in ten years washed over her. 

She looked up and took in the male standing in front of her. He was just as lovely as she remembered—lovelier, even, with his red hair tied up in a ponytail, his mismatched eyes burning with some inherent inner heat, and a Day Court chiton wrapped around his broad frame. But as she looked a little closer, she noticed the way he was fraying at the edges slightly: stray hairs were falling messily out of his ponytail to frame his face, and his eyes seemed ringed with exhaustion, and the chiton was wrinkled to a degree that surprised her for a male raised in Autumn. Not that she knew many Autumn males, but—their reputation as fastidious and fussy dressers was one of the many well-known rumors about males from that court that circulated throughout Prythian.

He had glanced at her as he arrived, but now she noticed that his gaze was pointedly turned away from her, and Elain realized that he was trying to be a gentleman.

She forced herself into a more upright sitting position and tried to rearrange her dress, hoping that he hadn’t seen too much. What a greeting that would be, she thought, cursing herself for so dramatically disrobing a few moments ago. It’s been a decade since we last saw each other and you’re a future High Lord now and by the way, here are my breasts. 

“You?” Saying his name felt like too much, but she had to acknowledge his presence in her kitchen somehow. Especially after so long. “But why are you here? It’s been—” 

He interrupted her before she could finish. “I don’t know—I—” He rubbed his side as if it hurt. Some distant part of Elain’s brain noted that it was exactly the same place that ached in her side. “This week has been—” He shook his head, forestalling whatever he had been about to say. “It’s like something was calling me here and then,” he said, sounding lost, “I was burning. I couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

“So you winnowed here. From Day?”

He nodded. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to.”

“Why? How did you know you had to come here?”

“I don’t know. It felt like you needed me.” He frowned and finally turned his gaze to her again, looking her up and down. “Are you well?”

She scoffed. What an asinine question to ask someone after a decade of being apart. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not though, are you?” He snorted. “A fine person wouldn’t be sitting on the floor of her kitchen half-naked.”

Elain scowled up at him but held her tongue, deciding that snark wouldn’t help them figure out whatever was going on. Instead, she asked, “Did it itch for you first? Before it burned?”

Her mate cocked his head. “It…did.”

“Mine too.”

“Is it still?”

Elain hummed in agreement because, although the sensation had banked with his arrival, she could still feel it under the surface of her skin, moving throughout her body as if it was something alive and sentient.“It’s why I’m—” she gestured to her position on the floor and her open dress. “It was—I thought I couldn’t breathe.”

“But you can now?”

Elain nodded. She could see him try to work out what was happening—why they were both affected—his eyes flicking quickly between them. She wondered if he could see something with his metal eye, some cord or spell or bond—“Is it because we’re mates? Is it something with the bond?”

He didn’t answer her, but her questions seemed to trigger something in him, because he dropped to his knees beside her with a sharp intake of breath and closed his eyes as if in pain.

“What are you—did you figure it out? Are you okay?”

He clutched at his chest and, gritting his teeth, spat out, “Bargain.”

“What bargain?”

“There’s apparently a bargain between us. Not just the bond.”

“I don’t remember making a bargain with you.”

“Nor I you. But—” he sighed heavily, “I woke up in my Velaris apartment a decade ago with a tattoo behind my ear and no idea where it came from.”

Elain felt something cold wash over her. “A larkspur?”

He nodded.

Elain had spent the first few months after the tattoo trying to figure out what it meant, or why she had it. She didn’t want to ask anyone from the Inner Circle because she knew that they wouldn’t rest until they had pried every last detail about the bargain out of her. Not that she knew what those details were, but still—Feyre would be insufferable and Nesta would be disapproving and the Illyrians would all look at her pityingly and offer to hunt down whoever it was she had made a bargain with and Elain wanted none of that, thank you. She kept her hair down all the time so that no one would see the petals of a flower peeking out behind her ear.

She had found books on bargain tattoos and flower meanings at some of the Velaris bookstores, but none of them discussed the two together, a fact that frustrated Elain and left her with few concrete answers about the nature of her tattoo or her bargain. She had learned about accidental bargains, and how some theorized that there had to be a strong connection between the two parties before one could form, and she had learned that larkspurs meant beautiful spirit, positivity, and—horrifyingly, in light of what she had learned about accidental bargains—strong bonds of love. But she didn’t know what to do with those two pieces of information.

Not to mention the fact that nothing happened. She kept waiting for someone to appear to call in their bargain or to spy someone else with a larkspur tattoo, but there was nothing. And so gradually, she began to think about the bargain less and less. She wore her hair down out of habit, not necessity, and she stopped trawling through bookstores for information on bargains. She returned to her family and her flowers and her fine, straightforward life.

And now that the mystery of the tattoo was starting to unfold, Elain found herself wishing that she had read more about bargains and, more importantly, if they could be broken. Her mind spiraled as she tried to imagine what she could have possibly promised him a decade ago.

“How do you know that there’s a bargain?”

“I can see it. Day Court,” he said dismissively, as if the ability to see magic was barely something worth commenting on at all. “I had just thought…” he began, hesitating.

“What?” He sighed again. “It’s wrapped up in our bond. I didn’t notice it at first.”

Elain frowned slightly. “What do you mean it's wrapped up?”

“It’s like a braid. The two are twisted together.”

“So it has to do with the bond?” Had they decided to actually do something about it? And, cauldron, what could they have decided? She wracked her brain trying to remember, but a decade and too much whiskey left her with nothing but the certainty that she absolutely wanted to kill her former drunken self for the mess she had made with her mate.

He frowned and rolled his eyes in frustration. “How would I know, Elain? It’s not like I knew about this before today. Just like you.”

“Well, you were the one who said it like it mattered. I wasn’t implying anything else, Lucien.” 

As she said his name, she could feel the itching and the pounding and the fire in her body began to intensify again, just like it had earlier with Feyre when she thought about him. Elain sucked in a sharp breath at the sensation. It was just pain now, an agonizing immolation that had tears springing into the corners of her eyes. A quick glance over to Lucien showed that he was similarly affected. He was hunched over, one hand placed on the floor to brace himself while the other alternated rubbing his forehead and his ribs.

“Lucien, I need to do something. It’s burning again, I don’t know what—”

“It’s the bargain, it has to—we just have to figure something out.” He paused, and then groaned, “Elain. I don’t know what—”

“I’ve been baking.” Something warmed in her. It was like she was a child again, stuck in the cabin playing a game of hot and cold with her sisters, albeit an infinitely more agonizing version. But at least she knew this feeling—it was the same kind she got before one of her visions, a sense of certainty, of rightness, that she couldn’t quite explain. So it was the baking—that was the answer, somehow.

But Lucien, still hunched over on the floor, scoffed. “Not helpful.”

“Yes, helpful.” Elain was right. She knew she was. “I just mean—that’s the only thing that’s made the feeling go away all week. I bake something and then it quiets down for a while. It’s what I did today.”

“When you were on the ground?”

“Don’t be an ass.”

He grimaced. “Sorry. I’m just—”

“I know.”

There was a moment of silence between the two of them, and Elain looked around the kitchen, letting her mind work and trying to ignore the pain in her side. She saw the mess in her kitchen, and the pies, still cooling on the counter, and her mate, sprawled on the floor next to her.

And then it hit her, and she felt stupid for not putting the pieces together sooner.

She took a breath in. “I know what we bargained.”

He turned to look at her. “What?”

“The bond. We must have agreed to—” She paused, swallowing as she got up the nerve to say it, “—to accept it.”  

Lucien blanched. “There’s no way.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s been exactly ten years since Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony. I’ve been baking all week. And it’s all what I’d imagine Autumn’s desserts to be. You felt like you had to be here, with me. We both have pain in our ribs.” She ticked them off one by one. “It can’t be anything else.”

 “I think you’re right.” He sat up and raked a hand across his face. “Shit.” 

“Do you not—are you mad?” Elain wondered if he had someone in Day waiting for him. He didn’t have his humans anymore, she knew that much, but maybe there was some lovely female or male that he met in his father’s court who had caught his eye. It would make sense politically, some piece of her that remembered her mother’s lessons about the marriage market thought idly, for him to look for someone who could show him how to navigate a court he only began to learn as an adult. “Is there someone else?”

“No—no one else. And I’m not mad,” he clarified, and something warm and possessive bloomed in her chest with the reassurance. “But Elain, we can’t—I’m not the kind of male who would make you—” He cut himself off sharply. “I won’t honor this bargain. We’ll find a way to break it.”

“Break it? Can you break a bargain?”

“There has to be a way.” Lucien hauled himself to a standing position and began pacing as he thought, although he still kept one hand pressed to his side to soothe the sharp pull that Elain could now recognize as the mating bond and bargain clamoring to be accepted and fulfilled.

She remained on the floor, watching her mate as he stepped in the small piles of flour that had ended up on the ground, tracking it back and forth until the sharp footprints gradually blended into a large off-white smudge. 

He muttered as he paced. “There has to be a way, because we can’t be the first idiotic fae to make a drunken bargain and then be stuck with the consequence.” He reached the edge of the kitchen and turned. “No, I’m sure we’re not. And I’m sure we’re not the first to do something stupid like this with a mating bond.” He turned again, heading back the way he came. “There has to be something in the libraries about this. Some spell or flower or agreement or something that lets us break the bargain.” He turned again, his muttering fading slightly, and Elain imagined that he was desperately trying to remember the spell or flower or agreement that would let them out of the mess they made a decade ago.

But as she watched and listened, she wasn’t sure that anything of the sort existed. It wasn’t something people talked about doing, breaking bargains, and she had watched Cassian and Azriel make enough small drunken bargains at Rita’s over the years to know that whatever magic governed the land didn’t particularly care if one was sober or not. It was the same as what she had read in all those books years ago—as long as the intent was clear between the two parties and the words were said, the bargain would take. 

And hold, apparently.

Lucien suddenly came to a stop in front of her. “We can’t honor the bargain, Elain. I won’t hold you to it. I’m going back to Day. I’ll ask Helion—”

But before he could finish his sentence, Lucien doubled over and, gasping, dropped to the floor on all fours beside Elain. She could still feel the pain of the bargain as it pulled against her ribs, but it was nothing compared to what it seemed like he was experiencing. Tears sprung into his eyes and beads of sweat dotted his forehead, and, as Elain stared at him in horror, a small trickle of blood began to drip from his nose and onto the floor beneath him.

“Lucien, what—”

He groaned and listed to the side, nearly falling onto his side, and Elain reached out a hand to steady him. His skin was hot—too hot, although maybe that was just his Autumn heritage—and even with her support, he kept swaying.

“Here, no, let me help you lay down.” He nodded in understanding, and she guided him down to lay on his side. He was shivering now and began heaving slightly, but didn’t make any attempt to move or reposition himself even as he convulsed slightly.

The bond or the bargain or both pulled at her to help, protect, save, and Elain bit her lip as she looked down at her mate. Her dying mate. She couldn’t watch anymore.

“I think we need to accept it.” As she said it, she was struck by that same feeling of rightness as before, blisteringly hot and certain that accepting the bond was the only answer that didn’t result in pain and suffering and punishment for a broken bargain. 

He groaned and shook his head slightly.

“It’s too late to break it. You’ll—I think you’ll die.” She tried to say it as gently as she could, but Lucien’s eyes still squeezed tightly shut as if he could will away the truth of her words.

He tried to argue. “But Elain, it’ll mean—”

She cut him off. “I know what it means.” And she did—a new home and a new family and a life bound to a male she didn’t really know. And yet—she thought she could like him, once she got to know him. Her past self trusted him enough to agree to this, even back then. Something deeply rooted in her—call it intuition, call it the Sight—knew she could trust him now too. “I know what it means, Lucien,” she repeated, “and I’m agreeing.” She pulled him into a seated position and cupped his face with her hands until he looked at her with feverish eyes. The movement felt so familiar somehow, but she shook off the feeling of deja vu and asked, “Are you?”

Something seemed to settle in him at her touch, and she watched as his gaze cleared as he studied her face, looking it over for any indecision or regret. She made sure there was none for him to find. He nodded slightly, then, even with her hands still holding his face. “I am, Elain.”

She nodded back, eyes still on his. They were doing this. They were going to accept the bond. There was something so absurd about the situation that, even though pain still twanged through her side as the bargain continued to make itself known, she couldn’t help the small, hysterical giggle that slipped from between her lips as she lowered her hands back down into her own lap. 

Lucien huffed a laugh as well, and the two of them sat in anticipatory silence for a moment.

He was the first to break it, looking around the kitchen. “So are we—here?”

Elain wrinkled her nose at the thought. She couldn’t think of a worse decision to make—accept the mating bond in the Night Court and be immediately subjected to her family’s snooping and bawdy jokes after she and Lucien managed to emerge from their frenzy. 

She knew, too, that they’d be stuck in Night for a while if they accepted the bond here. It’s not that she thought Rhys and Feyre would keep her from going to Day with her mate—he was heir after all, and since she was his by Prythian’s possessive understanding of love, she would soon have a claim to Day as well. But still—Rhys would want to scheme about it and Feyre would worry about Elain’s choices and the thought of not all being together. It would be tense and guilt-inducing and drawn-out and emotional at best, and she would do anything she could to avoid that mess. 

“Not here,” she declared, and Lucien laughed at her tone. She imagined he felt the same way. He knew the Inner Circle well enough to predict their chaotic brand of familial bonds. “Do you have somewhere—”

He nodded, anticipating her question. “I do. It’s back home—in Day.”

Elain looked him over. They were still sitting on the floor, and although Lucien no longer looked like he was on death’s door, she imagined that he was still feeling the pressure of the bargain just like she was. “Can you winnow there?”

He paused, considering, and then nodded. “I think I can if I’m bringing you with me.” He smiled at her then, wry and rakish all at once, and she felt something long-dormant inside her spark in heated interest. And it didn’t help that the small part of her that had always wondered what it would have been like to accept the bond right away preened at his admission that he would need her to get home. He needed her. It meant that there was a place for her—or at least the possibility of a place for her—in his life. And she wanted to take it.

“Let’s go then.” She stood and pulled him to a standing position beside her.

Lucien chuckled at her eagerness, but she couldn’t find it in herself to feel any embarrassment. What reason did she have to linger in Night? 

“Do you need to bring anything?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what I have that would be appropriate for Day.”

“Probably nothing,” He agreed, and then continued, half in thought, “Not that you’ll need much—for…”

Another slightly hysterical laugh burst from her, cutting off however he was about to end that sentence, because no, even for a court as open and hedonistic as Day was reported to be, she didn’t imagine it would do to share her frenzy with anyone other than her mate.

She forced herself to calm down and shrugged and waved a hand dismissively. “I have a few things, but I can get them later.”

“Elain, I—” he paused, frowning. “I’m not trying to take you away from your home forever. We could figure something out to keep you in Night, at least part of the time.” “I don’t want to stay in Night, Lucien. I’m ready for something new.” The words rang true as she said them. She had meant them to alleviate the nerves and guilt he clearly felt, but as she sat with the declaration for a moment, she acknowledged privately how much she meant it.

He grinned at her again, bright and flirtatious. “Then I’m sorry for not coming to get you sooner.”

But she shook her head. “I’m not sure I would have been ready.”

“And now? Have you had enough time?”

“I have. Have you?

He smiled. “I have.” There was not a hint of doubt in his voice as he said it.

He made to take her hand to winnow away, but paused before their hands could touch. “We should leave a note.” 

Elain nodded at the wisdom of that. It wouldn’t do to have the Night Court descending on Day in the middle of their frenzy, accusing Lucien of kidnapping her. Quickly, she grabbed a flour-covered notepad from one of the utility drawers and scrawled a brief message, hoping it would be enough to postpone an interrogation for a few weeks. She put it next to the now-cooled hand pies, hoping that they’d help mollify her family enough to keep them from doing something rash once they realized what had happened.

Lucien looked over at the pies. “Bring one for us?” A quiet blush swept across his cheeks as he asked, and she laughed—a real, true laugh—at the sight of it, because he looked like nothing more in that moment than a bashful youngling trying to steal extra sweets.

Still, she grabbed a tea cloth and carefully wrapped one up. She had made them for him, after all.

He smiled at her. “Ready?

“I am, Lucien.”

He took her hand tentatively, and then the world disappeared into a whirl of color and woodsmoke-scented warmth. 

As the world rematerialized around them, Elain was struck by how bright and warm it was. The room where Lucien had winnowed them was open to the elements, with tall arching windows that led into a private garden with a small pool in the center. The windows were framed with gauzy light-golden curtains that blew indolently on some invisible breeze, and as she continued taking in her surroundings, she realized that the golden motif extended into the rest of the room, broken up by accents of white and a deep turquoise blue. It was as if the sun had descended into the room and made itself at home, so much so that she almost closed her eyes to savor the feeling of this new world on her face. But she shook off the impulse, instead asking, “Where is this?” She knew it had to be somewhere in the Day Court.

“My chambers.” 

She snorted. “Chambers, plural?” 

“I am heir,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“And so modest.” She grinned at him to make sure he knew it was a joke, because it’s not like they knew each other’s humor yet, not really. Even if they did seem to have a knack for making each other smile.

There was a pause between them as Elain continued studying the room, noting and then letting her eyes skip over the large bed dominating the space, and then they spoke at once.

“So should we—”

“How do you—”

They smiled sheepishly at each other, and then Lucien gestured to her. “You first, my lady.”

She swallowed. “So—do we want to accept it? Now?”

“I don’t think we’ll be able to hold it off much longer.” Elain nodded as he spoke, agreeing. She wasn’t in pain anymore, but she suspected that she would be if they tried to wait any longer than necessary. The bargain and the bond thrilled in her as each second brought them closer to fulfilling one and accepting the other, dizzying and seductive.

With a breath out, she began to unwrap the pie that she had brought, keeping her eyes focused on it because she was afraid that if she looked anywhere else she might lose her nerve, but Lucien stopped her hand.

“Elain,” he said, moving his hand to her chin and tilting it up until she had no choice but to look at him. “I am honored to be your mate, and to accept the bond today.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “And I’m excited to know you. Even if we are doing this out of the order we might have preferred. I had wanted to give you so much more—cauldron, a proposal at least, but still—”

She smiled at him and the sincerity she heard in his voice, and gently cut him off. “Eat, Lucien,” she said, carefully unwrapping the pie and offering it to him.

He took it, and without breaking eye contact, brought it up to his mouth and took a bite. As he chewed, Elain found herself getting lost in the movement of his mouth, noticing the fullness of his lips as they closed around the pastry and the quick dart of his tongue as he licked off a lingering crumb. She imagined what it would be like to feel those lips on hers—lush and warm and devouring and—

As he swallowed the first bite, however, Elain’s rapidly devolving thoughts were brought to a halt as she felt something inside her shift that brought her attention back to herself for a moment. There was a tug in her ribs and a feeling like something was locking into place, eternal and unbreakable, and strong enough that she was certain it must be branded everywhere upon her body. There was a quick pain behind her ear as well, and she realized with an odd pang of mourning that her tattoo must have disappeared after they fulfilled the bargain. 

She wondered if Lucien felt the same, and if he too had lost his tattoo, and she looked up to ask him, only to find him watching her with an expression on his face that she had never seen before. Gone was the reserved courtier and his careful, elegant manners. The fae standing before her was fiery and possessive and sinful as he smirked, setting the pie down and licking some errant stickiness off his thumb before pronouncing it, “Delicious.” 

From the way he looked at her as he said the word, however, Elain suspected he was talking about more than the pie, although some animal part of her warmed at pleasing her mate with the food she had prepared for him. She hated and loved the feeling in equal measure, the reminder that she was no longer human and now beholden to the ancient magics that governed Prythian.

But then the bond began to crackle like fire in her veins, heating her blood as she took in the male that was hers hers hers for the rest of their lives, and she found that, at least in this moment, she didn’t care much for her lost humanity anymore.

Because he was here, and he was hers, and she wanted nothing more in that moment than to claim him, and be claimed in return.

Lucien clearly felt the same way. He stepped toward her, snaking a hand behind her waist and pulling her body flush against his, and Elain couldn’t help the gasp that slipped out of her at the feeling of their bodies pressed so tightly together. It was the closest they had ever been, and she wanted—needed—more.

“Mate,” he growled into her ear, and Elain shivered at the sound of the word on his lips.

“Yes,” she said, far more breathily than she would have liked.

“Say it.”

She knew what he wanted to hear—the verbal acceptance of what they were to each other after going so long without acknowledging it at all.

She looked up at him, and letting the longing and the desire she had held within herself for so long shine through her eyes and bleed into her voice, she said, with a smile, “Mate. You’re my mate, Lucien.”

And then she pressed up on her toes and kissed him. 

It was like coming home, if one could marry the feeling of ease and comfort and acceptance with the sensation of being absolutely consumed with sheer need for the other person. Lucien made a surprised noise at first, but then quickly sank into the kiss, his lips curious and exploring and claiming all at once.

A bolt of desire shot through Elain, settling heavy and warm in her lower stomach, and she moaned into his mouth, moving her hands up to thread them through his hair, not caring if she loosened his ponytail as she did so. The movement prompted Lucien to deepen the kiss, demanding and desperate as he nipped at her bottom lip. She had known pleasure before, but it had been nothing like this, nothing so all-encompassing and heady, and all from just a kiss. 

She pulled away, gasping, and whined. “Lucien, I need…please—” She broke off with a whimper, feeling frantic and hungry and overheated and needy all at once.

 “There’s no need to beg, mate.” With a wink, and a laugh at the swat she directed toward his shoulder for mocking her, he picked her up easily and brought her to the bed, depositing her gently among the brocade pillows by the headboard. Her hair and her dress spread out around her, and she waited for the feeling of Lucien’s body on top of her before she realized that he had taken a few steps back to stand at the foot of the bed and was simply gazing at her with a small smile on his face.

She pushed herself up on her elbows to look at him, surprised. “Aren’t we going to—?”

“Elain,” he admonished with a playful click of his tongue. “So impatient.” But he began climbing onto the bed anyway, moving with a graceful, predatory ease that had Elain nearly panting.

He inched himself up her body, rucking the skirts of her dress up and peppering kisses on her legs as he went until he reached the apex of her thighs. She could feel the heat of his body as he hovered there briefly, and in a moment of wanton desperation, she tried to grind down into him.

But he placed a hand on her hip and pinned her in place, moving away from her core and instead pulling himself up until he was face to face with her. He smelled intoxicatingly of woodsmoke and nutmeg, and she tilted her face up to his to see if he would kiss her.

But he only gave her a gentle peck before sitting back on his haunches and letting his hands ghost alongside her ribs and the underside of her dress. “I want to take my time with you, Elain,” and she hummed in annoyance. “I want to learn every curve of my mate’s beautiful body.” He leaned down to give her another peck. “But first I need to see you.” His hands came up to the ties at the front of her dress which, miraculously, still held the dress together despite her episode in the kitchen. He looked at her in silent question, and she nodded her permission, and deftly, he began to work the ties open until they were loose enough that he could lift the dress up and off over her head.

She rarely wore a bra—she hadn’t inherited the full breasts Nesta and Feyre had gotten from their mother, instead trending toward the fuller hips and round backside that were more common in the women from her father’s side of the family—and so there was nothing to hide herself behind as Lucien stared down at her chest, apparently struck dumb.

He was silent and still for long enough that she started to ask if he was alright, but before she could get the question out, he had leaned down and gently taken one of her nipples in his mouth, laving over it with his tongue, and Elain forgot to ask her question entirely.

Lucien moved to her other breast and groaned as she arched into him, relishing the feeling of his mouth on her. All too soon, he pulled away and began kissing down her stomach, trailing small licks and kisses down her sides as he inched his way back down her body until he was settled back between her thighs.

His hands reached to squeeze the soft curves of her hips, and he growled as he closed his eyes for a moment as if savoring the feeling. “These will be the death of me.”

Elain flushed at his praise and wiggled the objects of his attention slightly, desperate for him to actually do something, anything. The savoring and the teasing and the thrumming of the mating bond were driving her insane.  

He only gripped her tighter, and so she whined, “Lucien, I need—”

“None of that, lady, don’t worry. I just want to get to know you,” he said with a too smug smile, releasing his hold on her hips, although he stayed where he was with his face between her thighs.

“What do you mean, Lucien?” She drew out the mean petulantly, and huffed in irritation when it only served to make him look more pleased with himself. 

He breathed a laugh at her expression, and the feeling of the air ghosting against her core made something inside her clench. 

“Let me show you.”He reached up and grabbed the sides of her underwear, pulling the cream and pink lace down until she was bared completely to him. A deep and throaty sound spilled out from him as he took in her sex, already glistening with arousal from his teasing and the need to claim and be claimed. 

“Already so wet for me, lady?” She moaned in response, and he clicked his tongue. “Words, Elain.”

“Yes, Lucien, gods.”

“Good girl.” He leaned down and licked a slow, languid stripe up her center, and Elain nearly bowed off of the bed at the feeling of pleasure that shot through her..

“Cauldron, Elain, you taste—” He cut himself off with a groan and bowed his head into her like some neophyte worshiping at the altar of his deity for the first, rapturous time. “Tell me another thing about you so I can taste you again,” Lucien breathed into her.

“Tell you—what?” She didn’t understand what he meant.

“It’s how I want to get to know you, lady. For everything you tell me about yourself, I’ll reward you with my mouth until…” He trailed off.

“Until what, Lucien?” She felt like she was on fire, the feeling of him so close to what she needed without the satisfaction of it was exquisite torture she wasn’t sure she’d survive..

“Until I know you well enough to claim every inch of you.” He paused, and then muttered under his breath. “Or until my control snaps.” 

Something in her purred at the thought of breaking the tight control she was learning he held over himself, and so she asked teasingly. “Is that a challenge, mate?” She watched him shiver at the way she claimed him, and she smiled smugly to herself. 

He arched an eyebrow. “It’s not one you’ll win, mate. Tell me your favorite flower.”

She stared at him for a beat, a little incredulous that he actually intended to go through with this game of his. It was irritating how calm he looked as he waited—Elain thought that if she didn’t get some relief soon, she might burst.

So she sighed dramatically and gave in. Let Lucien drive himself insane with the taste of her then. “Larkspur. Or tulips.”

Lucien hummed, apparently pleased with her answer. “Very good, lady.” He rewarded her with another few teasing licks to her core, and between his praise, the heat of his tongue, and the magic of the bond coursing through her, Elain already felt like she could fall apart at any moment.

He pulled away again, and Elain bit her lower lip to keep from crying out from the loss of contact. Breathlessly, she asked, “Wh-what’s yours?”

“My—?”

“Favorite flower.”

Surprise flitted across his face before it pulled into a small smile. “That’s not the game, lady.”

Elain frowned at him, distracted from the pulsing in her core for a moment. “But I want to know you too.” He didn’t look convinced, and so she added for good measure, widening her eyes as she did so, “Please, Lucien”

He raised an eyebrow, but gave in anyway. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. My favorite flowers are mums.”

That fit him, she decided, not that she knew him very well yet. But they were joyful and hardy and that combination seemed to match the male who knelt before her.

Not privy to her meditations on the appropriateness of favorite flowers and what they had to say about someone’s personality, he leaned his head back down to plant kisses on her inner thighs, working her up into a panting mess as he thought of another question and banished all thoughts of flowers from her mind.

In between kisses, he asked, “What would be your perfect day?”

She answered him quickly. “This, just this.” Another Elain might also imagine lazy days filled with sunshine and swimming and too much food, but none of that mattered to her right now. There was only Lucien and his maddening tongue.

“Perfect answer, love. Mine is the same.” He began lapping at her again, teasing her clit with gentle flicks of his tongue as she shook beneath him.

But once again, he pulled away before she could finish. “Tell me your greatest accomplishment.”

“I stabbed the King of Hybern.” She answered him quickly, glaring at him as she did so. And I might stab you too, mate, if you keep edging me.

He chuckled at her expression, and so she shifted one of her feet to brush against his cock where it strained against the fabric of his pants in retaliation. Take that. She couldn’t see it, but even from the brief touch, she could tell he was achingly hard and almost unfathomably large. A frisson of wanton lust shot through her at the thought of how full she would be once he finally claimed her. 

He groaned and, almost unconsciously, began to grind down into the bed as he praised her. “Cauldron, of course you did. Brilliant, perfect girl.” His mouth resumed its efforts, but this time he attacked her clit in earnest, alternatingly sucking it into his mouth and teasing it with small licks. 

It was everything, and just the right kind of almost-pain as her body tensed, desperate for relief, and Elain found herself babbling, “Gods—yes, Lucien—I need…” But he didn’t give her anything more, only continuing to teasingly lick and suck, and so she answered him again, hoping that a new answer would prompt him to finally, finally give her what she needed after doing as he told her. “And I was starting a community youth garden, before, and…” She trailed off, grinding down onto his face in desperation. She hardly knew what she had been saying, just that she needed more.

“We’ll do it here,” he breathed out, letting her ride his face and barely stopping his movements to get the words out. “Any project, any cause. Whatever you want—my generous, lovely mate—perfect Lady for me—”

Elain was close. “Lucien, it’s too much, I can’t wait—” She thought she might die if he ruined another orgasm.

He seemed to be nearly pushed to his limits as well—finally. She could see the need flare brighter in his eyes as each second passed, like he too was being driven to the edge of sanity. 

But he still managed to demand, “Two more questions before you can come, sweet thing.”

“I can’t—Lucien, this is silly—”

You’re wasting time.” He made to pull away, but she reached down and grabbed the long strands of his hair that hung around his face, yanking him back to her. 

“Tell me three things that you like about yourself.” Question asked, he began to tease her again with his tongue, but this time he pulled a hand away from her hips to begin rubbing tight circles on her clit..

“I—” she said breathily, awash in the new sensation. “My—I like my softness. And my hips,” she said, surprising herself with the answer that popped out of her mouth, but Lucien moaned in agreement, pulling his face away from her to allow his hand more room to move. “Fuck, Elain, yes.”

“And my foresight, for making this bargain ten years ago.”

“You are a Seer after all.” 

She hummed at his quip, far too distracted by the fluttering she could start to feel building in her as she got closer and closer.

As if he could tell she was about to fall apart and not wanting to waste any more time, he kept playing with her clit as said, “Final question, Elain. Are you ready?”

She whimpered. “Yes, I am—yes.”

He lowered his face back down between her thighs. “Tell me one thing you like about me.” 

The question was whispered directly into her core, and for a moment, all the lust and the need she felt fell away. There was only her mate and the raw honesty of his question and the hope that flared through their mating bond.

“Every single thing, Lucien. I like it all.” And she did—the awkwardness when they first met, the glint in his eyes when he was about to drop his courtly demeanor and say something scandalous, the way he drove her to the edge of madness but still held her secure and safe, the sunlight—the joy—she saw when she looked into his face. She thought she might never grow tired of discovering every new thing she liked about him. The hand that she still held wrapped in his hair moved to gently cup his cheek. “My mate.”

“Elain.” He said her name with a deliberate firmness, thanks and recognition and something close enough to love in his voice that she felt a perfect, crystalline joy spark in her chest.

“Then come for me, love.” And with those words, he leaned back down, licking and sucking like a male possessed, driving her further and further toward the edge until finally, blissfully, she shattered against his mouth. 

He crawled his way back up her body, murmuring words of praise as he did so as she twitched with the aftershocks of her orgasm—perfect, lovely, delicious, mine—before claiming her mouth with a searing kiss. He tasted of arousal and her sex, and even though she had just come, she felt herself begin to clench at the thought of what came next.

Lucien broke the kiss to quickly shuck off his shirt and trousers, and Elain pressed a hand to his chest to give herself a minute to study him. He was stunning, she thought as she took in the deep brown of his skin, the shock of his hair, the expanse of his chest, and the magnificent cock that hung heavy and already weeping between his legs.

Her mouth dried out, and she felt an ache begin to build in her pussy at how terribly empty she felt now that she had seen him, all of him. Mine, mate, claim— “Now, Lucien, I don’t want to—I can’t—wait any longer. I need you,” she begged, reaching down to slot his cock against her core.

“And you have me, Elain. Forever.” And with that promise, he bent to recapture her mouth as he pushed into her.

She had thought kissing him was like coming home, but this—it was better than that, perfect satisfaction and pleasure and joy at having someone who was hers, all hers. And having it be him.

He thrust in and out of her, picking up his pace as he went until the two of them were locked in a glorious, fast dance of bodies and heat and desire. It was everything and not enough, perfection and need all at once, and it did not take long before she shattered again, pulling Lucien along with her until he spilled inside her and the two of them slumped, sated, against each other. There was no need to say anything—not yet, at least. They simply basked in the glow of the other and the mating bond that thrummed with satisfaction between them.

Later, although Elain had no idea how much time had passed, lost as she was to the frenzy, she and Lucien stretched out indolently on his bed that would probably need to be burned after this. He fed her honeyed figs and grapes and cheese, asking her between bites things about her past and her hopes for the future. She did the same, marveling with each new answer at the depth and the kindness and the cleverness that made up the male that was irrevocably, bargain-bound and bond-accepted, hers. Each new answer made her love him a little more, although it was too soon to tell him that, she knew. The right time would come—they had eternity, after all.

————————————————————————

Chapter Notes: The recipe for Elain's apple hand pies is loosely glossed from this recipe: https://www.browneyedbaker.com/apple-hand-pies/. I've never made them, but the vibes seemed right.

The questions Lucien asks here are loosely based on the idea of the NYT 36 Questions to Fall in Love. A lot of the language for Elain's thoughts around their first kiss and first time in this chapter is inspired by a quote of Wendell Berry's that I adore: “The room of love is another world. You go there wearing no watch, watching no clock. It is the world without end, so small that two people can hold it in their arms, and yet it is bigger than world on world, for it contains the longing of all things to be together, and to be at rest together. You come together to the day's end, weary and sore, troubled and afraid. You take it all in your arms, it goes away, and there you are where giving and taking are the same, and you live a little while entirely in a gift. The words have all been said, all permissions given, and you free in the place that is the two of you together. What could be more heavenly than to have desire and satisfaction in the same room?”

[mysterious-moonstruck-musings]

Closed Position Update

Happy Tuesday my lovelies! I thought I would drop a quick update on the next chapter of Closed Position.

The update is that this chapter is long as fuck. I'm talking like, 27K words. I don't know what happened, the second half of it sort of got away from me. So, given that, I think what I will do is post it in two parts. Part 1 will be Kat's POV and Part 2 will be Dieter's. I plan to post Part 1 either tomorrow or Thursday. Part 2 will follow next week after I have proofed it. It will take me a bit on that one because it is the longer of the two.

I wasn't kidding when I said A LOT happens during week 3. So prepare yourselves. It's going to get a little angsty and you may want to cause me bodily harm at the end of part 2...👀

I promise, I will make it up to you in week 5.😏

Please accept this cute little snippet while you wait for my long winded self to finish the final touches.

“You’re too stiff. You need to relax some and let those loose hips do their thing.” I had to mentally berate myself because my mind went spiraling after those words left my mouth.  Dieter chuckled, “This is ridiculous. Here I was thinking I was gonna be like Johnny and have all the moves, but instead I feel like Baby carrying the fucking watermelons.”   I snorted, “I’ll withhold my crude watermelon joke because it'd be inappropriate…” It was Dieter’s turn to snort, “I can’t believe you just went there.”  I shrugged, still laughing, “Look, nobody puts Baby in the corner…right? I’m not gonna let anyone put Bravo in the corner either. We’re gonna get this. Just relax some. I don’t understand why you're so tense today. I know you move better than this.”  He grimaced, "I know...I think I'm just getting in my head about it. I'm not focused on the right things..." I arched a brow at him, "What are you focused on then?"

Anybody want to take a guess why Dieter is so tense? What could possibly be on his mind?😂

More coming soon!

💜Mysty

CP Taglist: @secretelephanttattoo @titlee78 @maggiemayhemnj @legendary-pink-dot @morallyinept

@survivingandenduring  @wannab-urs @harriedandharassed @hisandsnakes @misstokyo7love

@readingiskeepingmegoing @runningmom94 @sin-djarin @cakipy-blog @missladym1981

@guelyury @weho2kcmo @alokaerza @girlofchaos @trulybetty

@rhoorl @bitchwitch1981 @madnessofadaydreamer @darkheartgatita @jazzloveslatte

@timpletance @musings-of-a-rose @samiamproductions @myloveistoolittle @for-a-longlongtime 

@copperhalfcent @auteurdelabre @drewharrisonwriter @burntheedges @stevie75

@bunniboo0015 @quicax3 @jackie923 @sherala007 @pastelnap

@angelofsmalldeath-codeine @jessthebaker @rebel-held @gwendibleywrites @senorabond

[jinhyun]

—excuses.

pairing: lee minho x reader

genre: fluff, (very recent) established relationship

word count: 2.3k

summary: you ask your boyfriend for some private dancing lessons, and although he hears you loud and clear, he still manages to believe you're just making up excuses for him to come over.

a/n: helloo, this was comissioned by the lovely @hyunholights and i had so much fun writing it! although i think i made myself soft now ;-; lol. i hope you enjoy! thank you so much for all your support and for being so sweet<3

comissions are still open!

"Wait, so when you said you wanted me to come over tonight and teach you to dance, you actually meant teaching you to dance?"

Staring at your boyfriend perplexed as ever, you blinked two times before looking around in a silent response — the coffee table in your living room had been pushed aside to leave a fair amount of space to move around, your favourite rug had been rolled up and placed by one of the corners so it wouldn't be damaged by all the stomping you had supposed there would be, and two bottles of water had been carefully placed next to a pair of personal towels, just in case you got too tired and sweated more than you had expected to.

Furthermore, the outfit you were wearing seemed to be the cherry on top. Looking down at it, you fidgeted with the zip of the black hoodie you were wearing over your grey sport bra, which perfectly matched your favourite pair of sweatpants — the very ones that you often wore around the house just because of how comfortable they were, and that would finally be put to a good, productive use today.

All those very obvious hints alone were enough to answer your boyfriend's question.

Unlike you, he was standing by the entrance of your living room holding two bags of takeout food he had dropped by to get before showing up at your place. Granted, he was wearing a sportswear too, but that had to do with the fact that he had just finished dance practice with his group members back at the JYPE building, and not with him having come here well prepared to help you out with your deficient —as you liked to call them— dancing skills.

"I thought I made it clear when we texted last night?" you couldn't help the utter confusion in your voice.

"You said you wanted me to come over tonight" he pointed out. "After practice".

"Yes," you agreed. "Which was followed by 'to give me dancing lessons'".

"I thought it was just an excuse to have me come over".

You stood there like the human version of the standing still emoji, and if it weren't for the fact that Minho could see in your eyes the way the wheels inside your head were turning as they tried and made sense of how he could have reached such a conclusion, he would've laughed.

"Why would I need an excuse to have you come over, you're my boyfriend…"

"I knoww," he whined, looking the cutest to you when he threw his head back in exasperation. "I guess I'm still not used to it".

"To be my boyfriend?" you raised an eyebrow.

"You know what I mean".

Cute, you thought. He had asked you to be his girlfriend only a little under a month ago and he still felt like he needed an excuse to just drop by and see you.

Maybe you should've been more specific when you asked him to come here the night prior. Although you didn't know how much more specific than 'you should come over tomorrow after practice to give me some dancing lessons' you could get.

"Well, from now on… just know that me inviting you over doesn't immediately translate to 'come over so we can have an indoor date and make out the whole time'".

"Aww, but those are the best kind of invitations" he pouted, bringing heat up to your face as he carefully let go of the bags in his hands to hold your waist and pull you closer instead.

"So…" you cleared your throat in an attempt to shake the butterflies in your stomach off. "Are you giving me dancing lessons or…"

"Let's eat first" he proposed, picking up the bags and placing the food on your coffee table before he moved it back to its previous spot in front of the sofa. "I just got off practice like an hour ago and I'm starving".

-—-—-—-—-—-—-♡

What was supposed to be just having dinner before getting started with the dancing lessons had soon turned into 'let's rest for a bit before we start moving around', which was later followed by 'let's watch some TV in the meantime' and him pulling you to his body — his thumb tenderly running up and down your waist while he switched channels before you could even give him an answer.

When said 'meantime' turned into 40 minutes, a second episode of the old k-drama they were replaying on TV, and Minho's head falling on your shoulder as he began to helplessly drift off, you started to get the idea that there would not be such thing as 'dancing lessons' from your boyfriend that night.

"You're not teaching me shit, are you?" 

Although your words had come out monotonous as ever, the smile that remained curved up in the corners of your mouth could only give away how far away from mad you were at that.

"Mm… what?" he mumbled, heavily opening his eyes before he sat back up.

"We'll just stay like this all night?" you changed your question, bringing up a hand to remove a strand of hair that was covering his eye.

He sighed, closing his eyes again as he threw an arm around your shoulders and pulled you to him. "I wouldn't mind".

A muffled laugh escaped your mouth, as you had just crashed against his chest and were not able to move away from his tight grip.

"Minho~" you cutely complained. "Please, I need to learn how to dance".

"Whyy~" he imitated the tone you had used.

"Because I suck at it" you pouted.

"Who cares".

"I care," you stated. "I mean, how could I not when I'm dating one of Korea's best dancers".

That had seemed to catch his attention. Not a second went by before his palms were pressed on your shoulders and he was pushing you away from him, so he could look you dead in the eye. "Wait, you're serious?"

"About you being one of the best dancers in our country?"

"No, not—" he couldn't help the breathy laugh that had just escaped his mouth, getting shy at your genuine compliment. "I'm not, that's n—"

"Yes, you are" you frowned.

"No, I'm—Y/N~" he whined, flustered as ever; much to your enjoyment. "I mean what you said about wanting to learn because you're dating me".

"Well… yeah, of course" you mumbled.

"But why?"

You shrugged, suddenly feeling ashamed of your own answer and having to look down at your fidgeting hands. "I don't know… you just really love dancing and are so good at it, and I can't coordinate my limbs for shit and I guess I just… wanna feel like I'm on your level or something…"

"On my level?" Minho asked softly.

"Yeah, like, you know…" your eyes remained fixed still on your hands. "To feel like I'm a good enough match for you and ugh, this is becoming so sappy".

Hiding your face in your hands and bringing your knees up to your chest, you heard Minho's light laugh right next to you as you had just curled into a ball of shame right there.

He didn't let you sulk for much longer, though, for his hands were quick to gently grab yours and remove them from your face — your eyes opening in a heartbeat only to be met by that soft look of his that would always manage to turn your heart into a puddle.

"You're so cute," he cooed, cupping your face in his warm hands and pressing a loving kiss on your forehead. "We've been dating for a while now…"

"Twenty four days" you reminded him.

He rolled his eyes in amusement. "Twenty four days officially," he was the one to remind you this time. "We were still together for a while before that, and I never needed you to dance for me to fall for you and consider you good enough. Actually, I've never even seen you dance at all".

"Because I suck at it," you pouted. "You'd leave me in a second if you ever saw me".

"And yet you wanted me to give you dance lessons today? Like, you do realise that in order for me to do that I'd have to see you dance, don't you?" he tilted his head in feigned confusion, a taunting smirk curving up his lips. "Was that your plan all along? Getting rid of me by showing me your dance moves?"

"Shut upp," you whined, allowing a fake cry to abandon your lips as you threw your head back and freed yourself from his hold. "Maybe I didn't think this through".

Minho laughed hard at that, heart squeezing in his chest as he saw the prominent pout in your mouth while your arms remained folded over your chest. Fuck, you had his heart. All you had to do was sit there looking all cute for him to feel like he was going mad. 

All you had to do was pout for him to feel the need to kiss it away.

So, he did. 

Placing a hand on your nape, he leaned in to press his lips on yours.

Although taken aback, you did not waste another second to kiss him back — leaning your body closer to him and digging your fingers in his hair as he trapped your bottom lip in his once more and deepened the kiss, just enough for you to contentedly hum in the middle of it.

"What was that for?" you whispered, still too drunk on his delicious touch to properly speak.

"You're cute" he smiled.

Heart fluttering at his words, you could not bring yourself to move away as he lovingly traced his thumb over your bottom lip, without another word leaning in to steal one last brief kiss from your lips before he stood up and held his hand out for you to grab.

"Come on, I'll teach you the basics".

Reluctantly grabbing his hand, you let him pull you up to your feet. "Wait, help me move the coffee table again".

Your boyfriend shook his head no, taking his phone out of his pocket as he looked for what you guessed was a song to dance to in it. "We won't need much space for this".

Falling quiet the moment he hit play and placed his phone on the couch's armrest, you listened carefully at the notes that sounded all too familiar to you — too focused trying to pinpoint what song it was for you to realise your boyfriend was now pulling you closer, placing your arms over his shoulders and then resting his hands on your waist.

You only snapped out of it when Greg Gonzalez's voice reached your ears. And that's when it hit you. 

K. by Cigarettes After Sex. 

"Are you trying to tell me something?" you teased, finally wrapping your arms around his neck like he had wanted you to.

"Don't," Minho warned you, not being able to fight the shy smile on his face.

Letting out a small giggle, you relaxed under his touch, allowing him to guide you through the slow beat and getting lost in the way his body ever so softly moved along with yours.

This being the one song you were obsessed with when the two of you met and started talking, as well as the very song that had oh-so-casually made it to Minho's top 10 most played songs ranking that same month, could only make your heart melt more than it already had.

You couldn't help but rest your face on his chest, closing your eyes and inhaling that sweet scent of his that made you feel at home in such a short period of time, and that you could never grow tired of.

"You're not falling asleep now, are you?" he whispered when the last chorus of the song was about to come.

You laughed under your breath, unconsciously tickling his neck with your nose as you denied with your head.

"I gotta give it to you," you smiled, going back to his eye level. "Choosing something I can't really fuck up is surely the way to go".

"Oh, I couldn't care less about you fucking up a dance".

"Why slow dancing then?" you tilted your head.

"Because I wanted to hold you close" he let his forehead rest on yours. "And because slow dancing is the only dance you need to know around me".

"Is that so?"

"Mhm…" he nodded. 

"What if I still want you to teach me harder dance routines, though…"

"I can still do that," he pointed out. "But slow songs are better to dance to".

You snorted, incredulously. "Since when?"

"Since you're my designated partner for it" he smiled, leaning in to steal a soft kiss from you before the corners of his mouth turned into a smirk. "And, I mean, I'm practically doing you a favour, since you keep coming up with all these lame excuses for me to come over and have these indoor dates only for us to end up making out at some point".

"That is so no—"

You didn't get the chance to argue with his taunting accusation, for his smiling mouth on yours was all it took to shut you up.

In the end, whether needed or not anymore, maybe you should come up with more lame excuses for him to come over, as long as it meant you would get to feel the warmth of his body against yours and the sweetness of his mouth on your own.