#i have a sunburn fever

[ohposhers]

guys stop the hate </3

[lindensea]

Spent most of today on a lake and it was so warm and summery and my arms are nicely tired from kayaking around. I was stupid though and didn't put sunscreen on the strip of shin showing and now I have incredibly painful sunburned shins. It hurts to walk and if I get goosebumps it's excruciating. And it looks stupid 😭😭 and is gonna keep looking stupid all summer long 😭😭

[dubious-dice]

Props to those out there playing the "is this a symptom or am I just sick-" roulette

[amerasdreams]

Sunburn isn't just uncomfortable, it makes you feel awful. Me anyway. Before it hurts thr next day, the 1st day it just feels hot and it's not just skin deep either. It makes you feel like you have a fever and everything is horrible

[keehomania]

bad religion — rcm (18+)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ smut, angst, minors dni, sexually explicit content below the cut, bartender!reader, unrequited love, slowburn, crashout!rafe, nobody understands him like i do, reader lowkey has bob the builder mentality, no religious themes despite the title, dirty talk, gun play, alcohol consumption, drug usage, if it brings me to my knees, it’s a bad religion; this unrequited love

it started off as a way to pay off your student loans—tuition, housing, supplies. the minute you enrolled, you had picked up the job. it was supposed to be temporary, just until you found a better solution, but time had a way of slipping through your fingers. years later, you were still standing behind the counter, wiping spills, pouring drinks, and serving customers whose names you rarely bothered to learn. the debt was gone, long since paid off, but you hadn’t managed to leave. you told yourself it was because the money was decent, but deep down, you knew the truth: you didn’t know where else to go.

the roadside had become something of a second home to you, though a noisy, sticky one. you liked the rhythm of it, the way the nights started off slow and built to a fever pitch, only to settle into a steady hum again by closing time. you liked the regulars, too—the older men who came in after long shifts at the docks or the factory. they nursed beers as if they were lifelines and tipped generously, their wallets loosening with each drink. they were kind, if a little lonely, and they made your job bearable.

the others weren’t as pleasant. there were men with slicked-back hair and gold watches, the kind who brought their wives to brunch in the mornings, but showed up at the roadside every night with someone new on their arm. whiskey neat for him, a bright, sugary cocktail for her—each woman seemingly younger, blonder, and more compliant than the last. they never tipped, and they always left a mess. you hated them the most.

and then there were the tourists. they breezed in like they owned the place, their faces sunburned and shining, and almost always said the same thing: “surprise me.” you never did. you’d pour them a vodka soda with light ice, knowing it would do the job. they didn’t care about flavor or nuance, just speed, and you weren’t about to waste good liquor on someone who wouldn’t appreciate it.

over time, the faces all blurred together. you’d seen so many people come and go that you’d stopped trying to remember them. the roadside was a revolving door, and you preferred it that way. no attachments, no complications.

“on the clock?” you looked up, having been lost in thought, polishing a variety of glasses and setting them away. he was sat in front of you, a look of near disinterest playing on his face. he almost seemed ticked off. the scent of his cologne clashed with the smell of gin. he fashioned a buzzcut, a polo shirt, and a pair of shorts. tan, blond—he’d have been disney’s dream if he was just a few years younger. if he wasn’t so easy to recognize, you would’ve mistaken him for a tourist. “unfortunately,” you responded with an honesty that almost made him smile. “what can i get you?”

for a second, he didn’t respond. you stood in front of him, with nothing but the counter separating you, but it did little to stop either of you from staring. his light blue eyes bored into yours without the faintest shade of shame. there seemed to be a grey hue to them that the photos of him never captured. rafe cameron, what were the chances of him showing up? he had gained a certain reputation thanks to his father, and his tendency to act out in public. maybe it was best if you said nothing. so, you broke the gaze.

“single malt scotch,” he answered, leaning forward against the counter. you nodded, doing your best to ignore the way his eyes followed your every movement, paired with the uncanny order that screamed toxic masculinity. you grabbed the bottle of scotch from the shelf, careful not to let your hands tremble as you poured the amber liquid into a clean glass. the sound of the pour filled the silence between you, and you were hyperaware of his gaze tracking every movement. it wasn’t just curiosity; it felt calculated, as though he were sizing you up, deciding if you were worth his attention.

the scotch settled in the glass, and you slid it across the counter toward him. “here you go,” you announced, your voice steady despite the prickle of unease his presence stirred. rafe pulled out a wallet from his pocket and laid a crisp bill on the counter, more than enough to cover the drink. his movements were deliberate, slow, as if he enjoyed the way it kept you waiting. “keep the change,” he muttered, picking up the glass and taking a measured sip.

you tucked the bill into the register, brushing off the way his tone lingered in the air. glancing around the bar, you noticed a lull in the activity. the older regulars were nursing their drinks, and the tourists had either left or were too absorbed in their own conversations to need you. your eyes drifted to the window, catching sight of a dirt bike parked just outside. its sleek red and black frame stood out against the muted colors of the streetlights.

“that your bike?” you asked, your curiosity slipping through before you could stop yourself. rafe’s lips quirked up slightly as he set his glass down. “yeah, ktm. you know bikes?”

“not really,” you admitted, leaning your hip against the counter. “but it’s a nice one. looks fast.”

“it is.” he took another sip, his eyes still on you. “you like fast things?”

there it was—the subtle shift in his tone, just enough to make the question feel loaded. you raised a brow, refusing to let him get under your skin. “depends on the thing,” you replied coolly. “fast isn’t always better.”

the smirk on his face deepened, and for a moment, he said nothing, just stared at you like he was trying to figure out what made you tick. “you’ve got a mouth on you,” he said finally, his voice low and edged with amusement. “i like that.”

you rolled your eyes, reaching for a rag to wipe down the counter. “and you’ve got a way of talking that screams trouble. i’ll pass.”

“trouble, huh?” he chuckled softly, leaning back in his seat. “you make that judgment on your own, or is that what you’ve heard about me?”

you hesitated. his reputation preceded him, of course. rafe cameron, the kook prince with too much money and too much anger. everyone had a story about him, most of them involving fights, drugs, or some poor girl left heartbroken in his wake. but something about the way he was looking at you now—calm, almost bored—didn’t match the chaos you’d heard about.

“a little of both,” you admitted, meeting his gaze again. “does it bother you?”

“not really,” he said with a shrug. “people are gonna think what they want. doesn’t make it true.”

“doesn’t make it false either,” you shot back, unable to help yourself.

that earned you another smirk, sharper this time. “you always this quick with your customers?”

“only the ones who think they’re special,” you said, the words slipping out before you could second-guess them.

his laugh was soft, but almost genuine, and it caught you off guard. “fair enough,” he said, finishing the last of his scotch. he pushed the glass toward you, the faintest hint of a challenge in his eyes. “one more?”

you nodded, grabbing the bottle again. this time, you didn’t feel the same pressure to avoid his gaze. if he wanted to play games, you could play too. as you poured, you said, “you must get this a lot.”

“what’s that?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

“girls falling over themselves for you,” you said bluntly, setting the glass down in front of him. “the charm, the looks, the whole mysterious bad boy act—it’s a lot.”

“act?” he raised a brow, clearly amused. “you think this is an act?”

“isn’t it?” you countered, crossing your arms. “seems a little rehearsed.”

he leaned forward, the movement subtle but deliberate, and suddenly the air between you felt charged again. “if i wanted to charm you,” he said slowly, his voice dropping an octave, “you’d know.”

the heat of his words settled in your chest, but you refused to let it show. instead, you picked up his empty glass and started wiping it clean. “i’ll take your word for it,” you said evenly, refusing to meet his gaze.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. he watched you in silence, his expression unreadable, and you found yourself wondering what was going through his mind. finally, he stood, pulling a set of keys from his pocket.

“thanks for the drink,” he said, his tone cool and detached again. “maybe i’ll see you around.”

“maybe,” you replied, watching as he turned and walked toward the door. his figure disappeared into the night, leaving behind the faint scent of cologne and a lingering tension you couldn’t quite shake. when you glanced out the window again, the dirt bike was gone, its engine a distant hum in the night. you exhaled, realizing only then how tightly you’d been gripping the rag in your hand. he was trouble, no doubt about it. but for some reason, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to regret the encounter.

the walk home was quiet, unsettlingly so. you’d managed to convince one of your co-workers to cover the rest of your shift, citing the lack of customers as a valid reason, but now, as the empty streets stretched before you, you almost wished you’d stayed. the moonlight pooled on the cracked pavement, illuminating a path that felt both too open and too confining. you held your house keys tightly in one hand, the jagged edges digging into your palm like a makeshift weapon. just in case. you weren’t the type to take chances.

your steps were brisk but measured, careful not to echo too loudly. every shadow seemed alive, every sound amplified. a rustle in the bushes had your heart racing, your grip tightening on the keys. it was probably a cat, you told yourself, though your eyes darted back toward the noise every few seconds, just to be sure. the world felt too quiet, too exposed. you hated this part of the night—the vulnerability of it. it wasn’t paranoia, you told yourself, just caution. but still, your mind raced with every worst-case scenario.

when you finally reached your house, relief washed over you like a wave. the sight of the peeling paint and sagging porch might have been depressing to anyone else, but to you, it meant safety. unlocking the door felt like unlocking a barrier between you and the rest of the world. once inside, you locked it again, flipping the bolt twice just to hear the satisfying click. the air inside was stale, carrying the faint scent of cleaning products and something slightly metallic. it wasn’t much, but it was yours. or at least, it was until the lease ran out.

the place was as minimal as it could get. a mismatched thrift store couch dominated the small living room, its cushions worn and sagging in places. a single bookshelf stood in the corner, half-filled with old paperbacks and a few decorative knick-knacks you’d found at a yard sale. the kitchen, visible from the living room, was clean but bare, its counters free of anything that might be considered a luxury. your future depended on saving, on scrimping wherever you could, and every dollar you didn’t spend brought you one step closer to a life that didn’t feel like you were treading water.

you dropped your bag near the door and kicked off your shoes, the weight of the day settling over you like a blanket. collapsing onto the couch, you reached for the remote and flicked the television on. the screen blinked to life, casting a dim blue glow across the room. you scrolled aimlessly through the channels until the news caught your eye.

“...marking the anniversary of ward cameron’s death,” the reporter announced, her voice measured. the screen cut to a montage of images—ward’s face, the cameron estate. “ward cameron, a prominent figure in the outer banks, left behind a legacy of wealth, corruption, and betrayal. his death, which shocked the island community, continues to be a topic of both fascination and controversy.”

you scoffed, sinking deeper into the couch. “apple, tree,” you muttered under your breath, the words bitter and sharp. it was hard not to think about rafe, his cool demeanor and the air of entitlement that clung to him like a second skin. the spawn of the man had left the world behind with a son who seemed a fistfight away from being institutionalized. it was rich people bullshit, all of it, and it infuriated you. they lived in their gilded cages, creating drama out of thin air while people like you scraped by just to keep the lights on.

the reporter continued, delving into ward’s crimes and the ripple effect they’d had on the community, but you tuned her out. it all felt so distant, so removed from your own reality. people like the camerons didn’t have to worry about overdue bills or walking home alone at night. they sneezed, and the rest of the island lined up to wipe their noses.

you grabbed the thin blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it over yourself, letting the reporter’s voice fade into background noise. the couch wasn’t comfortable—not really—but it was familiar. it was where you ended most nights, too tired to drag yourself to the bedroom. the faint hum of the television lulled you into a fragile sense of calm, the weight of the day finally giving way to exhaustion.

as you closed your eyes, the image of rafe’s piercing blue stare flitted across your mind, unbidden and unwelcome. you shoved it away, chalking it up to nothing more than an odd encounter. he was a blip on the radar, a momentary distraction in a life too busy for indulgences like curiosity. with a heavy sigh, you let the hum of the television pull you under, the world slipping away as sleep claimed you.

the next day dawned slow and gray, the kind of morning that felt like a continuation of the night before. you went about your routine with mechanical precision, brushing your teeth in the tiny bathroom with its perpetually fogged mirror and peeling wallpaper. breakfast was quick—toast, black coffee, and a glance at the wilted plant by the window you kept forgetting to water. you were out the door before you had time to feel the weight of the day ahead.

the walk to the bar wasn’t long, but it was enough to remind you why you hated mornings. the streets were quiet, but not in the same way as they were at night. this quiet felt temporary, like the city was holding its breath before the chaos of the day began.

at the bar, you fell into the rhythm of the job almost immediately. wiping down counters, setting up glasses, restocking liquor shelves—it was second nature by now. the hours dragged, each one blending into the next as a slow trickle of customers came and went. a few regulars shuffled in for their early beers, their faces as familiar to you as the scratches on the bar top. you greeted them with polite smiles, but your mind was elsewhere.

you didn’t want to admit it, even to yourself, but you half-expected rafe to show up. every time the door swung open, your eyes darted toward it, only to find someone else stepping inside. the anticipation was irritating, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. you told yourself you didn’t care whether he came back or not, but the lie was too obvious to be convincing.

by nightfall, the bar began to pick up. the low hum of conversation grew louder, mingling with the clink of glasses and the faint strains of a classic rock playlist. you stepped outside for a smoke break, needing a moment away from the noise. the air was cool, carrying the faint scent of salt from the ocean. you leaned against the wall, the cigarette in your hand a small comfort against the monotony of the day.

the sound of a motor rumbled in the distance, growing louder until it filled the air. your eyes flicked toward the source, and there he was, pulling up on his dirt bike like he owned the place. the red and black machine gleamed under the dim streetlights, and for a moment, you just watched as he killed the engine and swung a leg over. he took off his helmet, revealing that same buzzcut and piercing blue eyes that had lingered in your mind longer than you cared to admit. he saw you almost immediately, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth as he approached.

“you get lost again?” you called out, unable to resist. your tone was teasing, but the sight of him sent an unexpected jolt through you. “figure 8’s on the other side.”

he chuckled, low and amused, the sound like gravel in his throat. “must’ve taken a wrong turn.” his eyes dropped to the cigarette in your hand, and his smirk deepened. “those things’ll kill you, y’know?”

you scoffed, tapping the ash off the end and watching it scatter to the ground. “not fast enough, obviously.”

“let’s hope not,” he replied smoothly, his gaze steady on yours. “not until i get a glass of scotch.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the faint tug of a smile. “two nights in a row, it must be good.”

he tilted his head, the smirk on his face turning downright devious. “among other things.”

the way he said it sent a chill down your spine, one you couldn’t quite shake as you turned and headed back inside. you heard his footsteps behind you, steady and unhurried, as though he knew exactly where he belonged.

behind the bar, you reached for the bottle of single malt without needing to ask. he took the same seat as the night before, his movements deliberate and lazy, like he had all the time in the world. you poured the drink and set it in front of him, doing your best to ignore the way his eyes seemed to follow your every move.

“caught the news last night,” you said casually as he pulled out his wallet. “sorry for your loss.”

the change in his expression was instant, the smirk wiped clean in less than a second. his jaw tightened, and his light blue eyes grew cold. “don’t be,” he said flatly. “i’m not.”

you had to resist the urge to roll your eyes at the obvious deflection. “he’s your dad, is he not?” you asked, more curious than you should’ve been.

rafe’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “sure, why not?” his tone was stoic, detached, and it made you regret bringing it up. the silence that followed was heavy, thick with something unspoken that you couldn’t quite place.

he sipped his drink, his gaze fixed on the counter as though it held answers to questions you didn’t even know how to ask. to you, it was just another reminder of how different your worlds were. but to him, the weight of that silence carried memories he wouldn’t let surface, not here, not now, not ever.

the bar buzzed around you, but for a moment, the two of you might as well have been the only ones there. you busied yourself with wiping down the counter, giving him the space he clearly needed. whatever his relationship with his father had been, it wasn’t your place to pry. but as you glanced at him, you couldn’t help but wonder—what kind of man grew up in the shadow of someone like ward cameron?

you were midway through rinsing a glass when a new customer slid into the seat beside rafe. the man was tall, blond, and sun-kissed, his skin bearing the unmistakable sheen of someone who spent most of their days by the water. his outfit—a white wifebeater and faded shorts—screamed local. rafe stiffened beside him, his easy demeanor shifting as he leaned back in his seat, jaw tightening. the newcomer leaned forward onto the bar, turning his attention to you.

“excuse me?” his voice cut through the background noise, drawing your focus. you walked over, keeping your expression neutral.

“what can i get you?” you asked casually, pulling a towel off your shoulder and tossing it onto the counter.

the man grinned, clearly enjoying himself as he pretended to think. he was already swaying slightly, the telltale sign of someone who’d started drinking well before stepping through your door.

“well,” he began, dragging the word out like it was some profound thought, “i’d ask for a beer, but it depends.” he paused, his smile growing wider. “does the beer come with a phone number?”

you bit back the urge to roll your eyes, a skill you’d perfected over countless encounters like this. leaning forward, you fixed him with a stare so sharp it could cut glass. “a restraining order, actually,” you replied coolly, your voice devoid of humor.

the man laughed, clearly not deterred. if anything, your response seemed to fuel his bravado. “come on, sweetheart,” he said, tilting his head as though to charm you. “what kind of customer service is that?”

you turned away, doing your best to ignore him as you crouched to grab a beer from the fridge. the cool air brushed your skin, offering a brief reprieve from the heat of the room. you popped the cap off the bottle, your back still turned, oblivious to the way the man leaned back in his seat, his eyes glued to the way your jeans stopped below your waist. what you missed, someone else didn’t.

the first crash was deafening, shattering the rhythm of the bar in an instant. you whipped around, the beer in your hand sloshing slightly as your eyes widened at the scene before you.

the blond man was on the ground, sprawled awkwardly, his face contorted in shock and pain. towering over him was rafe, his knuckles already bloodied from the first blow. the air felt electric, charged with the sheer force of the rage radiating from him. “come on, sweetheart,” rafe sneered, his tone mocking as he delivered another punch. “what kind of manners are those?”

the man barely had time to respond before rafe grabbed him by the front of his tank top, hauling him up like a ragdoll. the look in his eyes was something primal, something feral. “i might just make you my bitch if I don’t kill you first,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

the man whimpered, his bravado completely gone, but rafe wasn’t finished. his fist connected again, the sound of impact reverberating through the room.

“rafe, stop!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the chaos. you scrambled out from behind the bar, pushing past the growing crowd of onlookers. it took more than just you to pull him away. one of the other bartenders jumped in, followed by a bouncer, both of them struggling to wrestle rafe back. his chest heaved, his hands still twitching with barely-contained energy as they held him.

you crouched beside the man on the floor, who was clutching his face and groaning. his nose was bleeding, and one eye was already swelling shut. your heart pounded as you turned back to rafe, fury and disbelief written all over your face. “are you trying to get me fired?” you snapped, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and adrenaline.

his gaze shifted to you, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. for a moment, he didn’t respond, his breathing heavy, his hands still shaking as they hung at his sides, blood dripping from his knuckles. “yeah,” he said finally, his voice dripping with venom. “because that’d be such a shame.”

his eyes flicked back to the man on the floor, his lip curling in disgust. you saw it then—the side of rafe cameron everyone warned you about. the man who was a ticking time bomb, always seconds away from detonating.

your manager’s glare burned into you, sharp and unrelenting, but the message clear as day. with a sigh heavy enough to rattle your ribs, you turned back to rafe, still seething where he stood, blood dripping onto the floor like a crimson metronome. “come on,” you muttered, jerking your head toward the back. “let’s fix you up before you make this night even worse.”

rafe followed without protest, his steps heavy and deliberate, the energy of the room shifting as you led him through the door behind the bar. the hallway was dim, illuminated only by the flicker of a fluorescent bulb, the walls lined with scuffed paint and the faint smell of bleach. you shoved open the door to a small office-slash-medical-room hybrid—a cluttered, utilitarian space with a desk shoved against the wall and a first-aid kit hanging by the door.

“sit down,” you snapped, pointing at the worn metal chair in the center of the room. he obliged, sinking into the chair with an infuriating calmness, his long legs sprawled out as if he owned the place. he didn’t say a word, but his gaze tracked you as you rummaged through drawers, the scrape of metal and plastic breaking the silence.

it wasn’t until you turned back with supplies in hand that you noticed it: the black grip of a gun tucked into the waistband of his shorts. “are you kidding me?” you hissed, your eyes narrowing. “you’ve gotta be shitting me. second night here, and you’re ready to get me fired.”

rafe didn’t respond immediately, his eyes drawn to the streaks of moonlight slicing through the cracked blinds. the faint silver light caught the sharp angles of his face, softening them just enough to be dangerous. “i have a permit,” he said finally, his voice low and disinterested, as if that explained everything.

you almost laughed. almost. “put that shit away,” you ordered, gesturing sharply.

he smirked but complied, pulling the weapon free and sliding it into his jacket instead. only rafe cameron could make following directions look like a favor. “unbelievable,” you muttered, stepping closer. “hold still.”

you crouched beside him, your fingers deft as you dabbed antiseptic onto a rag. the smell was sharp, stinging your nose as you pressed it to his knuckles. he didn’t flinch, his stoicism unnerving as you worked to clean away the blood and dirt. his hands were strong, calloused in a way that hinted at a life rougher than the one you’d imagined for someone like him.

“you wanna tell me what the hell that was about?” you asked, your tone cutting.

“he was staring at you,” he said simply, his voice devoid of emotion.

you glanced up, caught off guard by the frankness of his statement. “so what? i deal with creeps like that all the time. doesn’t mean you get to knock their teeth in.”

his lips twitched, the faintest shadow of a smirk. “guess i’m not good at letting things slide.”

“yeah, no kidding,” you shot back, shaking your head. his knuckles were raw and split, the blood pooling in thin lines that you carefully wiped away.

the silence between you stretched, thick and charged, until finally, you leaned back and surveyed your work. his hands were still trembling, though whether from adrenaline or something deeper, you couldn’t tell. “all done,” you said, straightening up. “now, if you’ll excuse me, i’m clocking out before someone else decides to bleed all over my bar.”

rafe stood, towering over you as he adjusted his jacket. “i’ll take you home.”

you blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “my legs work just fine,” you replied, your tone sharper than intended.

he didn’t budge, his gaze steady and unwavering. “i wasn’t asking.”

before you could protest further, he was leading you back to the front, where his bike waited. the night air was cool against your skin, the hum of cicadas filling the silence as he handed you a helmet.

“don’t tell me to hold on tight, because i won’t,” you warned as you climbed on behind him, the words almost daring.

he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “we’ll see about that.”

the engine roared beneath you, and despite your earlier words, your arms instinctively wrapped around his waist as the bike lurched forward. the wind whipped past you, pulling at your hair as the world blurred into streaks of light and shadow.

by the time he pulled up to your house, your pulse was racing for reasons you refused to examine too closely. you slid off the bike, your legs unsteady as you removed the helmet and handed it back to him.

“thanks for the ride,” you muttered, stepping onto the porch. rafe followed, his gaze sweeping over the small, weathered house you called home. you braced yourself for some snide comment, but he said nothing, his expression unreadable.

“it’s not much,” you admitted, crossing your arms defensively.

“it’s enough,” he said simply, his tone carrying none of the judgment you’d expected.

you looked up at him, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow over his features, highlighting the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the curve of his lips. there was something magnetic about him, something that made your heart stumble even as your mind screamed at you to stay away.

no matter how much your mind screamed at you, you knew you wouldn’t listen. when he kissed you, it wasn’t sweet or gentle. It was rough, insistent, a collision of mouths and unspoken tensions. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer as his lips moved against yours, claiming and demanding in a way that left you breathless. it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t kind. but it was everything you didn’t know you’d been craving.

“we’re so not doing this,” you exhaled with a shaky laugh, breaking the kiss as reality clawed its way back into your mind. your palms flattened against his chest, as though a barrier of mere inches could hold back the tide of whatever this was.

but rafe didn’t flinch. his hands, rough and warm, rested on your bare waist, his thumbs drawing lazy circles on your skin that sent sparks racing through your veins. his gaze, piercing and unrelenting, locked onto yours like a challenge, daring you to contradict him.

“yes, we are,” his eyes seemed to say, the intensity of his stare enough to make you forget the very air around you. “are you scared?” he whispered, the words slipping from his lips like silk. they weren’t a question, not really. they were a taunt, a gauntlet thrown at your feet.

he leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver rolling down your spine. his nose brushed against the shell of your ear, his lips so close they grazed your neck, and you swore he could feel the way your pulse fluttered beneath your skin.

“i’m not scared of anything,” you shot back, your voice firmer than you felt. defiance burned in your chest, even as the sensation of his mouth barely ghosting over your jaw made your knees weak.

“maybe you should be,” he murmured, his voice low, his tone a promise more than a threat.

the words undid you. they stripped away your composure, your restraint, until nothing remained but the white-hot pull that had been simmering between you all night. your fingers moved before you could stop them, wrapping around the back of his neck, the tips grazing the bare skin there. the contact sent a shiver through him that you felt as much as saw.

and then you were kissing him again, your lips colliding with his in a frenzy of heat and need. there was no hesitation this time, no room for second thoughts or retreat. he tasted like scotch and rebellion, smelled like leather and something darker, something dangerous. you weren’t scared, but you should have been. everyone was scared of the devil.

his hand found the small of your back, his touch searing through the fabric of your shirt as he pushed you backward, through the open door to your house. your legs gave out slightly, the doorframe digging into your spine as you kissed him harder. rafe’s other hand roamed up your side, his fingertips tracing the line of your waist, up to your chest, cupping one of your tits through the fabric. your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering shut as he squeezed gently.

“you must do this a lot,” you half-joked as his lips find their way back to your neck, wet and sloppy as they travel down to your collarbone. he grunts against your skin, “could say the same about you,” he retorts. the room spun around you as he backed you further into the house, his hands never leaving your body, his mouth never leaving your neck. you felt the wall behind you, your body trapped between the hardness of the wall and the hardness of, well, him.

his hand slid around your thigh, diving under the fabric of your jeans, fingertips grazing the wetness of your panties. your hips bucked slightly at the touch, betraying your own eagerness. “haven’t been fucked in a while, have you?” he murmured, his voice a dark promise. “what’s the matter, baby? did i turn you on?” you wanted to defy him more than anything, but you were powerless to resist.

instead, you fought fire with fire, raising your knee enough to press it against the center of his shorts. no matter how tough your bones were, they did little to prepare you for just how hard and heavy he felt, throbbing under the thick material of his shorts. “you’ve got it worse than i do,” you do your best to retort, but it’s not easy, not with his fingers rubbing sweet circles against the damp spot of your panties, drawing out every whimper he can from you.

“ease my pain, why don't you?” he murmurs softly. you watched him through hooded eyes as he crouched down, his fingers tugging down your jeans until they're pooling around your ankles. you complied, raising your feet to rid yourself of the blockage. when you did, he took a moment to admire you—pressed against the wall of your own home, standing in nothing but a skimpy top, panties soaked, and a pair of heels he didn’t plan on letting you take off.

when you tried to, he was quick to stop you. “heels on,” his voice was coated in authority, and you’re quick to pull back. “everything else, off.”

“bossy, aren’t you?” you couldnt help but ask him, but it only encouraged him. you watched as he leveled the playing field, peeling his own shirt off, leaving him in nothing but his shorts. he seemed skinny, thanks to his height, but you had clearly been deceived. he was toned, everything about him was toned in just the right places.

your eyes trailed down to the metal tucked in his shorts, and you allowed yourself to pull the weapon out, holding it in front of him. “really?” you couldn’t help but ask. he offered a smile amd a shrug, unable to protest as you sat the gun on the table beside him. better safe than sorry.

you couldn’t help but trail a hand down his chest, your feather-light touch sending shivers down his spine as you traced every muscle and crevice from his collarbone to his hips. youd never admit it out loud, but he was incredible. “see something you like?” he teased, attaching his lips to your neck a final time as his fingers tugged at your shirt, eager to get it out of the way. you whimpered at the feeling, the way he’d bite down enough to make you wince, but run his tongue over the surface a second later. “don’t flatter yourself,” you managed to say.

but he had every intention of doing so. he allowed your shirt to fall to the floor as his lips travelled south, making their way down your collarbone and over your clothed tits. you tilted your head back, fingers instinctively pulling him in closer by the back of his neck, drawing him in further between your tits. he unclasped your bra with ease, giving you the impression he had definitely done this plenty of times, but you were too desperate to care. “should’ve just told me you wanted it rough,” he said, and you swore you could feel his smirk against your skin.

his hand slid down to cup your ass, his fingertips ghosting over the lace of your panties. with a sharp tug, he pulled them aside, revealing the sticky mess that had been hidden beneath. “dripping all over my fingers, huh?” he murmured, his voice low enough to send a tremor through you. his finger slid through the slickness, teasing your entrance before pressing inside. you moaned, your legs shaking, your hips thrusting back against him. “fuck, rafe, too much,” and you wished you were exaggerating. his fingers were thin, slender, hitting all the right spots like they had them mapped out.

his eyes searched yours as he began to pump his finger in and out of you, his strokes measured and deliberate. “not enough, never enough,” he countered, his tone almost mocking. you whined, desperate for more. he smirked, adding a second finger, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle. you leaned into the wall, using it for support as his digits worked their magic. you were dripping all over his fingers, wetting them from the tips to his knuckles.

when he pulled them out, it almost felt cruel, a long whine drawn out of you as the feeling of emptiness replaced fulfillment. “so fucking needy, jesus, shit,” he groaned, taking a second to admire how glossy his fingers were, how hard the sight of your arousal had him. “just a second, i promise.” you nodded, watching as he brought his shorts down, leaving him in his boxers, but only for a second. it was enough for you to catch the trailer, to see what awaited you.

when his boxers followed, you really wished for another minute to process the sight. his cock flopped against his abs, twitching. his tip was stained an angry red, beads of pre-cum trailing down the underside of his cock, following a prominent vein before collecting under his balls. “stroke my ego, just like that,” you heard him say, but you didn’t care. you needed him.

his hand wrapped around his shaft, stroking it slowly, teasingly. “you like watching, don’t you?” you nodded, your eyes glued to his hand as it glided up and down. “good,” he murmured, his eyes darkening. “i’ll put on a fucking show for you.”

he stepped closer, pressing the tip of his cock against your clit, hard and ready to split your folds open. you could feel the heat, the urgency, and the promise of what was to come. he leaned in, his breath hot on your face. “gonna take this dick like a fuckin’ champ.”

your cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and desire, his words hitting you in the core of your being. you didn’t know why, but you craved his dirty talk, his filthy mouth whispering bittersweet nothings that turned you into a trembling mess. “yes, please, fuck me,” you breathed, your voice a shaky whisper that seemed to echo through the room.

rafe smirked, his hand still working his cock. “that’s my girl,” he said, and the term of endearment had your stomach doing somersaults. his eyes never left yours, not even as he pushed his cock past your folds, eyes glued to the way your jaw dropped, your eyes rolling into the back of your head at the sensation of his bare tip splitting you open.

you were soaked, the sound of his skin slapping against yours obscene, filling the room as he picked up his pace. he leaned in, his teeth capturing yours in a brutal kiss that had you moaning into his mouth. your nails scratched at his back, leaving deep red grooves that you knew would scar. his hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he thrust into you, his strokes deep and unrelenting. “fuck, shit, pussy’s squeezing my cock,” he groaned through the kiss, breathless.

the room spun around you, the sensation of his bare length inside you, the feeling of his teeth on your lip, his tongue in your mouth—it was all too much. your body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending a live wire ready to spark and explode. “yes, yes, fuck, yes,” you chanted, your voice a desperate mantra that matched the rhythm of his hips.

his hands slid to your throat, thumbs pressing against the pulse that beat frantically. you gasped, the sudden pressure a jolt of electricity that shot straight to your core. his grip tightened, not enough to cut off air, but enough to make you aware of your vulnerability. “you like it rough, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice a dark caress in your ear. you didnt even have to answer, the feeling of your cunt clenching around him told him everything he needed to know.

his hand slid down to grip your neck, his fingers tightening as he slammed into you, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing off the walls. “you want it harder?” he growled, his teeth grazing your earlobe. you nodded, your breath coming in ragged gasps. you weren’t sure how much harder it could get—with him pounding your pussy, you could feel the way he throbbed, pulsing deep inside of you, but you had to expect the unexpected from him. the unexpected came as he leaned back, hand wrapping around the barrel of his gun. your eyes widened, but you were in no position to resist—you didn’t even want to.

there was something dangerous in his eyes, something you had only seen once, just a few hours earlier at the bar, but it drew you in more than you wanted it to. his pace never faltered, his hips slamming against your flesh as one hand held your leg up high, the sight of your cunt swallowing him whole only adding fuel to the fire. his other hand held the gun, finger to the trigger, as he pressed it to your temple.

“tell me you’re scared,” he murmured, gripping your thigh in a way that told you to expect a bruise or two. the cold metal of the gun you knew had to have been loaded dug into your skin, his fingers locked around the trigger.

“scared,” you barely managed to whisper, tits shaking with every forceful thrust. “i’m scared, rafe,” but your words were like music to his ears, the clenching of your cunt a sign that you were just as horny as you were scared.

he threw his head back, pushing your leg up even farther, enough for it to sting deliciously as he rammed into you, the head of his cock bruising the entirety of your pussy. “you should be,” he hissed, sweat dripping down his chest. he lowered the gun, giving you a temporary feeling of relief, one that didnt last long. he brought it closer to you, tapping your bottom lip with the muzzle. “didn’t i tell you?”

your eyes widened at the sight of the weapon so close to you, his fingers never leaving the trigger, but you knew your best option was to oblige. your lips parted, and he was quick to push it into your mouth. he groaned at the sight, watching your swollen lips wrap around the barrel enough to send him over the edge. “doin’ everything i tell you to, fuck, you’re so good.”

you felt the metal of the gun slide along your tongue, his hips moving with the rhythm of your mouth. you didn’t dare bite down, not with how close he was to climax. his hand tightened around your throat, his other hand keeping the gun in your mouth as he fucked you harder, his strokes becoming erratic. “you’re gonna take it all, baby. all of me. every single drop,” he promised, and the thought of his hot, sticky cum filling your mouth had your pussy tightening around his cock.

you felt your orgasm approaching, the tension in your body coiling like a tight spring ready to snap. you moaned around the gun, the vibrations of the sound traveling up the barrel and into your mouth. rafe’s eyes glazed over, his movements becoming sloppy with lust. “yeah, just like that,” he whispered, his thumb pressing into your neck, cutting off just enough air to make your world spin.

the gun slipped from your mouth with a wet pop, and you gasped for air, your chest heaving as his grip around your neck loosened slightly. his eyes snapped to yours, searching, hungry, as he pulled out of you, his cock glistening with your wetness. before you could protest, he turned you around, pressing you into the wall. his hand found your throat again, squeezing as his cock nudged at your entrance from behind.

the fear and arousal had started mixing in a heady cocktail that had you on the edge of oblivion. with a smirk, he slammed into you, his bare skin slapping against yours in a way that was almost painful. your eyes rolled back as he fucked you mercilessly, his hand around your neck keeping you in place, his other hand pressing against your stomach to keep you steady.

his thumb brushed against your clit, the sensation making you moan, your knees buckling slightly. he chuckled darkly, the sound sending a thrill through your body. “such a sweet thing,” he said, his voice deep and guttural. “letting me fill this sweet pussy up.” you could only moan, unable to do anything but submit to his will. the pressure built inside of you, a crescendo that was only heightened by the way he choked you, the way his cock hit just the right spot deep inside of you.

his strokes grew more erratic, his breathing becoming ragged. “yes, yes, fuck, cum for me, cum all over this cock,” he demanded, his voice a mix of pleasure and command. and like a good little slut, you did. your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your body shaking and convulsing around his cock, your cunt pulsing with every beat of your heart.

his grip on your neck tightened, his thrusts becoming even more punishing as you came. your nails scraped against the wall, leaving marks that would surely be there when the sun came up. you could feel your eyes water, your vision swimming with the pressure he applied, but it only added to the intense pleasure that flooded your body. “fuck, yes, take it, take it all,” he groaned, his hips jerking as he emptied himself inside of you. his cum filled you, hot and thick, and you felt the stickiness of it trickle down your legs. he leaned into you, his body pressing you into the wall, his breathing harsh and heavy in your ear. for a moment, you felt it all, right before youe vision betrayed you.

the morning greeted you with the kind of disorientation that made reality feel like a cruel trick. your head throbbed, and your body ached as if every muscle in you had given up the fight. blinking against the sunlight streaming in through the window, you became acutely aware of the rough texture of the couch beneath you. the blanket draped over you was haphazard, your clothes were gone, and a sickening weight settled in your stomach.

it didn’t take long for the memories to come flooding back: rafe’s hands on your skin, his lips on yours, the way he’d devoured you as if you were the only thing keeping him alive. and now? nothing. the couch was empty, and the only remnants of him were the bruises on your neck and the dull ache between your thighs.

you exhaled shakily, pressing your palms against your face. what had you expected? a note? breakfast? rafe cameron wasn’t the kind of man who stayed. he took what he wanted, and you’d been foolish enough to give it to him.

the guilt settled like a weight on your chest as you forced yourself to your feet, rummaging for clothes. the shame was suffocating, curling around you as you dressed in silence. by the time you stepped out of your house, the sun was high, and the day was already slipping away.

at work, the tension was evident. your manager’s icy glare followed you as you prepped for the event that night. “last night was your first strike,” he said coldly, and you knew there was no room for argument. you nodded silently, biting back the urge to snap. the day dragged on, and despite the busy prep work, rafe never appeared.

by the time the sun dipped below the horizon, the event was in full swing. the bar was packed, music pumping through the speakers, and you were moving through the crowd like clockwork. but you couldn’t stop the gnawing feeling in your chest, the anticipation every time the door swung open. he still wasn’t there.

frustrated, you stepped outside for a smoke, seeking solace in the familiar burn of nicotine. the beach in the distance was scattered with people, laughter and music drifting on the wind. that’s when you saw him. rafe was leaning against the hood of his bike, his head tilted as a girl’s hands tangled in his hair. her lips moved feverishly against his, her body pressed against his in a way that made your stomach twist.

“it’s not that serious,” you muttered to yourself, exhaling a shaky breath. but it didn’t stop the sting, the ache that settled deep in your chest. you extinguished the cigarette against the wall and went back inside, needing something—anything—to dull the edges of your emotions.

the first drink went down easy. the second burned, but you welcomed it. you poured yourself a third before a light tap on your shoulder startled you. “excuse me,” a voice said, nervous and unsure.

you turned, offering a faint smile to the tall, sunkissed guy standing behind you. “are you on your break?” he asked hesitantly.

you shook your head, setting your glass down. “it’s okay. i could use the distraction. what’re you having?”

he slid onto the stool, rubbing the back of his neck. “a mai tai would be alright.”

nodding, you set to work, your movements automatic. you slid the drink across the counter, noting the way he fidgeted with his fingers. “busy night,” he said, trying to make conversation.

“yeah, i guess,” you replied.

he shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “came with a friend, but he’s with a girl right now.”

you sat beside him, crossing your arms. “sorry to hear that.”

“it’s fine,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “i’m topper, by the way.”

before you could respond, a familiar presence loomed beside you. you turned slowly, your stomach sinking when your eyes landed on him. “this the friend you were talking about?” you asked topper, though your gaze stayed fixed on rafe.

“yeah,” topper said, oblivious to the tension. “you two know each other?”

rafe opened his mouth, but you were quicker. “no,” you said firmly. “no idea.”

rafe’s expression was unreadable, but you didn’t care. you spent the rest of the night ignoring him, focusing on anything but the way his eyes bore into you. when your shift finally ended, you clocked out and stepped outside, only to find him waiting.

“what do you want?” you snapped, already exhausted.

“what’s wrong?” he asked, his tone laced with faux concern.

“fuck off, rafe.”

he grabbed your arm, spinning you around to face him. “is this about sofia?” he asked, realization dawning on his face.

“so she has a name,” you said bitterly, yanking your arm free.

“get over yourself,” he called after you. “you should’ve known it was casual.” his words hit like a slap, but you didn’t look back. you couldn’t.

the next few days were a blur of muted colors and sharp-edged feelings that refused to dull. you didn’t go to work; the thought of stepping back into that bar, facing the memories etched into its walls, was unbearable. instead, you sought solace in the one place that had always calmed you—the beach.

the sand felt cold beneath your feet, even in the mid-morning sun. the rhythmic crashing of the waves usually soothed you, their endless cadence like a lullaby for your restless mind. but today, they felt distant, like a song you no longer knew the words to.

you sat by the shoreline, knees hugged to your chest as the salty breeze tangled in your hair. there was no anger, no fire—just an aching hollowness that stretched out inside you. mourning someone who was never really yours wasn’t a dramatic storm; it was a slow erosion, like the tide pulling pieces of you away until you were left unrecognizable.

you replayed every moment with him in your mind, dissecting every look, every word, searching for signs of something deeper, something real. but the truth was glaringly simple: rafe cameron wasn’t yours. he was never meant to be.

as the day slipped into evening, the sun sinking low on the horizon, you wandered aimlessly along the beach. the golden light painted the world in soft hues, but it couldn’t reach you. the weight of your thoughts dragged you back to the sand, and you sat again, staring at the endless expanse of water, feeling as though it mirrored the vast emptiness inside you.

you didn’t notice the presence beside you at first. the silence had become your companion, so when the soft crunch of sand gave way to stillness, you barely registered it. but then you turned your head, and there he was. he didn’t look at you. his gaze, like yours, was fixed on the water. the sharp angles of his face were softened in the twilight, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. he said nothing at first, and neither did you. words felt too heavy, too complicated for the fragile stillness between you.

“my dad had a choice to make before he died,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, as though dragged over gravel.

you didn’t turn to him, didn’t acknowledge his words beyond the faintest flicker of your lashes.

“he told me he had to choose between me and my sister,” he continued, his tone clipped, detached. “he told me it’d always be her.”

the confession hung in the air, heavy and raw, but you stayed quiet, your eyes locked on the waves that seemed to stretch forever. “the first night i came into the bar,” he said after a pause, “it was the anniversary of ward’s death.”

your throat tightened, but you remained silent, letting him unravel the threads of himself piece by piece.

“i bent over backward for him, y’know?” his voice cracked, but he recovered quickly, masking the vulnerability with bitterness. “did some things i wasn’t proud of for him, but none of it mattered.”

his laugh was low and bitter, barely more than an exhale. “so forgive me if i’m a little hesitant to let you in.”

there was a challenge in his words, a dare for you to contradict him. but you didn’t. you stared at the water, your voice soft when you finally spoke. “i’m not him, rafe.”

he nodded slowly, the movement barely perceptible out of the corner of your eye. “yeah,” he said, his tone heavy with resignation. “but most of them are.”

you could feel his eyes on you, searching for something—what, you weren’t sure.

“i told him once that I knew something was wrong with me,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost distant. “but he told me to keep it quiet. that’s how much he cared.”

the silence that followed was suffocating, filled with all the things neither of you could say. the ocean stretched endlessly before you, its waves crashing softly against the shore as if mocking the turmoil inside you.

“i’m sorry,” you said finally, your voice barely audible over the sound of the water.

“for what?” he asked, his tone edged with disbelief.

“for what he did to you.” he didn’t respond, and you didn’t push him. The two of you sat there, side by side, two broken pieces that didn’t quite fit together but couldn’t seem to pull apart.

tears pricked at your eyes, hot and unwelcome, and you blinked furiously, determined not to let them fall. but it was no use. the weight of everything—the loss, the pain, the hopelessness—was too much. a single tear slid down your cheek, then another, until they were falling freely, carving silent trails down your face. you didn’t wipe them away, didn’t hide them. what was the point?

you felt him move before you saw him, his arms wrapping around you from behind. his chin rested lightly on your shoulder, and his grip was firm, possessive. for a moment, you let yourself lean into him, the warmth of his body a cruel comfort against the chill of the night.

but even as he held you, even as your tears soaked into his shirt, you knew the truth. you would worship something that has destruction in its blood, blind and desperate, chasing something you could never truly have. rafe cameron was the kind of man who would burn you to the ground and then light another match just to watch you smolder. and yet, there you were, willingly stepping into the flames.

you stared out at the ocean, its vastness swallowing you whole, and you knew you were lost, eyes dilated as you watched the clouds float. you would practice the worst religion of them all, praying for something you knew you’d never have.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

[wisteria-blooms]

sunburns & dragons (charlie weasley & reader)

PAIRING: CHARLIE WEASLEY//YOU

PLATONIC: Fred Weasley/You, George Weasley/You, Bill Weasley/You (if you squint) Interested in Bill Weasley instead?

And I could see you being my addiction/You can see me as a secret mission

Summary:

After witnessing your cousin's beautiful and picturesque wedding on the shores of Nice, France, you return home with some sort of nuptial fever. And you aren't even afflicted by the worst of it. Your mother, Narcissa Malfoy, is consumed by the thought of you walking down the aisle. Your father, Lucius Malfoy, is no different (albeit less gentle).

Getting your parents off your back proves no easy task, and in typical (Y/N) Malfoy fashion, you get yourself in a predicament with your smart mouth. Now, you have to find a boyfriend in two weeks. With slim pickings, and a first-choice in Bill Weasley out of commission, his younger brother, Charlie Weasley falls into your lap. Almost. Literally.

Will this task of fooling your parents be as easy as it written on Romanian parchment, or will Charlie's hot and heavy demeanour ruin everything - you included?

A/N: Someone asked for more Charlie Weasley love and I had to answer to it. As you can see, I am easily persuaded. If you haven't read long hair & tattoos (Bill's version of this trope), please do. I imagine Charlie to be more flirty, forward, physical and way more devious early on, so here's hoping it'll manifest in this series. I hope you'll enjoy the callbacks to long hair & tattoos, and the subtle references!

Tags: romance, faking dating, no-Voldemort-AU (the Malfoys are still awful though).

Warnings: slight age gap, sexual innuendos, tropes galore, nudity, pureblood politics, smut, sex or descriptors of sex (indicated by *) minors DNI!

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

23, still crazy (updated September 8, 2023)

faster we're falling (updated September 19, 2023)

in too deep (updated October 5, 2023)

boys in the blue (updated October 25, 2023)

electric politics (updated November 1, 2023)

partners in crime (updated November 29, 2023)

partners in contract (updated December 31, 2023)

tea time (you’re so vain) (updated February 9, 2024)

the passenger seat* (updated March 22, 2024)

you don't own me (updated April 03, 2024)

winter wonderland (updated May 31, 2024)

mister & missus (weasley) (updated December 02, 2024)

white christmas

the loneliest hour

the best of me

[bananayuyu]

Cabin Fever [part 5]

Pairing: Yunho x f reader

Genre: fluff and smut

Word count: 10.3k

Summary: While your day in the sun had been fun, you might be regretting the consequences today. Hongjoong finally apologizes to Seonghwa, and in the darkness of the late evening you and Yunho have a revealing conversation.

Warnings: MDNI, smut, mxm (Hongjoong and Seonghwa), oral m receiving, reader faints, voyeurism, fingering

A/n: Part 5 is finally here! This all ended up being longer than expected, so I didn't have space to include Woo/Ari/San/Woo's girlfriend stuff. It will be in the next part! (this series is gonna be at least 7 parts now, lord help me) I hope you all enjoy! <3

Linked here is my masterlist where you can find the previous parts. Again let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist! (it will be now seven parts in total if everything goes to plan)

Read part 6 here!

Taglist: @certifiedmoa @pautiny27 @luvbit3z @dawn-iscozy @artistic-rendition

@yeosangiess @drinkingrumandcocacola @smally97 @kierraperkins3 @newworldwritings

@peachyy-jooniee @lucid-galaxys-world @arigakittyo @staytinyroha @yoonjikim

Your head was pounding as you tried to open your eyes.

"Y/n," you hear Yunho whisper, his voice sounding distant. But you feel a hand on your cheek, and it must be his. You groan in response, your whole body aching, the muscles of you back snagging on each other as you try to move.

"Are you awake?" he asks, his voice still soft. All you can do is groan in response, shoving your head further into your pillow. "Are you hurting?" He brushes that hand along your cheek gently, feeling the tension in your jaw.

"Mm-hmm," you mumble into your pillow.

"I'm so sorry baby," he says, voice still as soft as silk. "You can sleep more, it's only nine." He kisses your forehead, tucking your comforter up to your chin. "Do you need anything?"

"No," you mumble again, trying to shake your head even though you can't move it.

"Ok, I'll let you get some more rest," he says, turning to exit the room, stopping a final moment to look back and see if your furrowed eyebrows have relaxed at all.

And suddenly you wake again, the room hotter and brighter. You hear laughter that must be coming from the living room; your forehead feels sticky with sweat and your mouth feels dry. Again when you try to move sharp pains shoot through your back, and you audibly call out, the pain so bad that you can't help it.

It was bound to be a bad morning. Those mornings you dreaded, especially when you knew you were due for one. Your body was hurting, not just because of the sunburn yesterday, or the residual cramps from your period, or anything else. It was all of the above, every event of the last week adding up to complete exhaustion, and your nervous system would be on fire for the whole day. There was nothing you could do once it got to this point but rest, and just like every other morning like this, anger greeted you sharply.

You inhaled, pushing out the air in a deep sigh. There was no was out of this but through, nothing more to be done. No Tylenol, no heating pads, no massages would help. You just had to rest, even though you were here, even though you knew the big hike was scheduled for today.

You finally pull the covers off of you, brushing the hair stuck to your face out of the way. Pushing through the pain you sit yourself up as carefully as you can, using the strength of your arms to protect your back. Your low back still screams in pain as you travel up, not letting up until you've readjusted your sitting position. With a deep breath you try to center yourself, try to focus your mind anywhere else but the pain in your joins and muscles. This was going to be a long day, you knew that. You just hoped everyone would leave you be.

As you make your way out of the room to the kitchen you're intercepted by Seonghwa, a look of concern on his face at the way you're hobbling.

"Are you okay honey?" he asks, moving his hand to rest it on your back. But you swat it away gently, pushing it back down to his side.

"I'm fine," you whisper; it's taking everything in you not to snap at him right now, which you really don't want to do in the middle of a cabin full of your friends.

"It's that bad today?" he asks, eyes soft as he looks you over. You only say those pesky two words when you're really, really feeling bad, when you just want to be left alone. He can read it all over, the way you're hobbling because your body hurts, the sunburn across your cheeks and nose and forehead, the frustration behind your eyes. "I'll tell everyone to leave you alone today, okay? And so you know, Yeosang and Jongho have already left, and Wooyoung's girlfriend Sammie is here now. And I think everyone is planning on going on the hike except me and Hongjoong, but we'll leave you alone, I promise. I think they're all gonna leave soon."

You just nod at his words, a quick smile gracing your lips to indicate your thanks. You are thankful for the information, for how easily he reads you and knows what you need. You don't want to be nasty with him ever, given how much he does for you. But in this state it's hard for you to be decent to anyone, even the people you love the most, because the anger that greets you is so severe it taints your every thought.

Thankfully the kitchen is empty, so you busy yourself with making some tea and avoid making eye contact with anyone. You can hear Seonghwa talking in the living room but he's hushed, and you don't feel like straining your ears; you honestly already know what he's saying. You're so thankful for it, you feel like you might cry on the spot, while staring through the tea kettle as the water starts to boil. You hear murmurs of understanding, or what you hope is understanding, because you really don't think you could deal with being bothered by anyone's unkindness right now. You pour the boiling water gently, the tea bag floating up, and you try to reach for the honey on the second shelf of the cabinet above you. But your back fires its rebuttal, a sharp pain preventing your arm from reaching it. Suddenly there's a hand above yours, a large, slim hand that brushes over yours, and the shock of pain that goes through you at the contact makes you jump back and stumble right into Yunho.

"Fuck, sorry," you yelp, squirming away from him, your hand still buzzing with residual pangs of pain. Being touched when you feel this way, especially unexpectedly, is just so painful. It's like your body can't process anything, like your nerves are suddenly on the outside.

"No, I'm sorry," he says, fixing you with a look of pity at the way that you're cowering from him. It's involuntary; you don't even realize you're doing it. "I won't touch you again, I promise," he says, holding up his hands after he'd set down the honey on the counter.

You fix him with a look, your eyes hurting with the effort of focusing. You want to say, 'it's okay', you want to say so many things, but you can't help that you feel some sort of visceral fear of the man in front of you because of the pain he just inflicted. This had happened before, though not many times, and you wracked your memory for how you got over it then. Why couldn't you just run into his arms right now? How was it even possible that such a gentle touch could cause you such pain? He held your gaze too, arms still up in surrender, and you felt your chest squeeze.

Finally he relaxed a bit, his arms coming down to his sides. You hadn't moved to mix the honey into your tea so he does it for you, taking out the tea bag too, knowing you don't like your tea too strong. Gently he mixes it with a spoon, blowing on the top to help cool it down before setting down on the counter closer to where you're now frozen.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly, now only a few feet away from you, his words falling down through the air from above.

"i'm fine," you respond, arms crossed and staring off into space.

"Do you think you'll faint today?" he asks.

"Probably," you mutter, shrugging your shoulders.

"Y/n," he sighs, wishing he could grab you.

"Please just leave me alone today," you sigh, covering your face with your hands.

"I know, I know," he replies, and faster than you expected he's left the kitchen, the room suddenly feeling colder without his presence.

You drop your hands and blink with wide eyes in his direction, watching his back as he mixes with everyone else in the living room. He sits himself down at the coffee table, tapping his hand nervously on the surface, listening intently to something Wooyoung is saying. And then his eyes catch on yours, and a wave a relief passes over you, so intense it might be the thing that makes you collapse. You snap your eyes away, finally grabbing your tea, taking a tiny sip to test the temperature. You wince at how hot it still is, pulling back to blow on it more. You can tell from the way everyone is talking that they're above to leave, and soon enough shoe laces are being tied and sunscreen is being applied. You feel yourself zoning out, the hot mug against your hands the only thing keeping you grounded, but you know where this is leading. Your body is exhausted, your chest feels funny, and your head is starting to fill with a fuzziness that's only getting stronger and stronger. You quickly set the mug on the counter again before crouching towards the ground, feeling the smooth tile against your palms, and then it's nothing.

"Y/n."

It's like the morning all over again, Yunho whispering your name. But this time you're even more exhausted. There's no way you're getting up from this position without help, unless you lay here for hours until your strength comes back. You groan, but it's more like a whimper, and a string of tears that must have built up in your eye suddenly fall down your cheek and on to the floor.

His hand comes to your cheek again, wiping away the tears. "I'm here." He says exactly what you've told him to say in these situations, and you just might die on the spot from how much it means to you. "I'm here too, honey," you hear Seonghwa say, somewhere above you. "But no one else, I told them all to leave. Well, Hongjoong is here, but he's in the living room. It's just us two in here with you."

You squeak in response, your brain not working at full capacity, but still able to register that you're safe and in the care of your two roommates. And at least your ability to touch another person without such severe pain is back, as it always is once you have your little fainting episodes. You really should have seen this coming given the way your body reacted to his touch earlier, because it's always a sign something bad's about to happen. But somehow you're still shocked every time that you end up on the ground, unconscious.

You reach your arm out feeling Yunho's bare knee, and grab onto it tightly, trying to fling yourself over in his direction but failing miserably.

"Woah, baby, careful." The words rush out of him, his head suddenly snapping up to meet Seonghwa's eyes, which have gone soft at the use of the pet name; and Yunho can't deny that he feels relief. He always did feel a sense of anxiety about Seonghwa's thoughts about him, and he sort of felt like he needed his approval, his confirmation that he was good enough for you. As quickly as his eyes moved up, they move back down to you, wrapping your arms into your chest and picking you up to cradle you in his lap. You both stay like that for a while, Yunho holding you like a baby while sat on the kitchen floor, Seonghwa standing nearby and watching your face intently for signs of how you were feeling. You were quiet for a while, once Yunho had grabbed you, but eventually your eyes blinked open and you squinted up, seeing the stubble lining the underside of Yunho's chin. You reached up and gently touched it with your pointer finger, giggling at the way he flinched away.

"She's awake," he sighs, looking down at you with watery eyes and a furrowed brow.

"What, was I out for a long time?" you ask, your voice quiet and scratchy.

"For you, yes," you hear Seonghwa say behind you, while Yunho nodded his head. You groan in response, shoving your face into Yunho's chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," you mumble, holding onto Yunho's shoulders.

"Shh, it's okay," he coos in response, running the thumb of his hand holding your legs up and down.

"Please don't go on the hike," you whimper, your breaths becoming shorter, your body starting to shake a bit.

"Of course, I'm not leaving you," he responds, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. He's not going to even mention the fact that everyone else had already left, because he knows in this state you probably don't remember that Seonghwa told you that.

"Please Yuyu, please stay with me," you whimper again, like you didn't hear what he just said. More incoherent things are spilling out of you too, your grip on his shoulder tightening. Your brain has turned down the path it does when you come to after fainting, so freaked out and scared over what's happened that you leave this plane of existence. You're tumbling down a dark alleyway, one that must lead to hell, or something like that, and around every corner is a monster jumping out to attack you, leaving you more battered and bruised the further you go, your physical body slowly torn apart as you finally can't walk anymore and collapse in a puddle of your own blood.

It's very dark, the place you go to. And only these two really know the truth of it. You've never even told your own parents.

"Y/n, baby, I'm here and I'm not gonna let you go, I promise," Yunho says, hoping he's breaking through into your nightmare, at least a little. "I'm gonna move us to the couch, okay?"

You just brace yourself against him, as you feel him reposition his legs so he can stand in one fluid motion, carrying you over to the couch where he sits himself down and cradles you close once again. Seonghwa grabs a blanket and wraps it around you both, running a hand through your hair and peering down at your face. You almost look peaceful, except for the death grip on Yunho's shoulders.

"You're gonna be okay," Seonghwa says, brushing your hair off your neck and rubbing gently in the way he knows helps you feel better. It takes a few minutes, but finally you start to come back down to earth, your hands moving off Yunho's shoulders so you can snuggle into him more. You blink your eyes open again, slowly and deliberately this time, and though your body is wracked with exhaustion, you're able to see where you are and hear your normal thoughts again.

"I love you both, I don't know what I'd do without you," you say, choking up on the last words as tears form in your eyes again.

"Oh, sweetie, we love you too. I'm sorry you feel so bad today," Seonghwa responds, grabbing your hand and sqeezing it reassuringly.

"We'll just stay here on the couch today," Yunho says, sighing with relief. You sound like you're almost back to normal again which is what he waits for every time you come back from a spell.

And that you do, while Seonghwa and Hongjoong cook up some food for you, the four of you sitting in near silence as you eat and relax. It feels so nice to be cuddled up together, just peacefully eating, and even though you obviously are needing their care they still don't question you now, about how you're feeling. They still leave you be, and it allows you to just rest, which is what you really need. Eventually Yunho puts on your favorite show, the one he's been meaning to watch with you for forever, and you sit yourself up in his lap, wrapping his arms around your hips.

That's how you stay while Seonghwa and Hongjoong clean up the dishes, Seonghwa bringing you another cup of water and making you drink. As you sip he looks like he's thinking hard, and it seems clear he wants to say something.

"What is it?" you ask, cocking your head to the side.

"Well, I was just thinking we should probably go to the hospital when we get back to town, just to have you checked out," he says, sighing.

"Hwa-" you stop yourself, feeling the anger again. "I know, you're right. We will." You're short with him, even though you keep any fire from affecting your tone.

"I know you don't want to hear it, I'm sorry. I'm just worried about you, that was a long one. I'll shut up now," he says, smiling at you as he rose, walking his way back to the kitchen.

You and Yunho settle in, starting the next episode of your show, getting lost in it in just the way you had the first time you watched it.

"It's good, isn't it?" you ask him, smiling at just how quiet and concentrated he is.

"Yes, you were right," he sighs, making you laugh.

"I know it's a romance, but I knew you'd still like it," you respond, snuggling closer into him.

"You have good taste," he says, holding you close,

"I know," you say, and he chuckles. "I guess Seonghwa and Hongjoong didn't want to hang out with us," you add, making you both laugh.

"Yeah, I don't know where they went," Yunho responds. "Wait, what did that delivery guy bring them?" Yunho asks you, turning back to your show and feeing confused by the turn of events you'd both missed by talking. "I thought that was a pizza box?"

"Oh it was, but-"

You start to answer his question, but you're cut off by hearing conversation behind you, making you jump.

"Oh my god, that scared me," you laugh, relaxing momentarily before hearing it again. "Is that coming from the library?"

"I think so," Yunho responds, you both turning your attention that way, now realizing where your two friends have gone off to. You quickly grab the remote, pausing your show.

"Wait, bab-"

"Shh, I wanna hear," you say, placing a finger against Yunho's lips.

"You're so weird," he whispers, but he obliges, not making any more noise.

"No, no, I need to say it," you hear more clearly now, obviously Hongjoong's voice.

"Joongiee..."

It's quiet but unmistakably Seonghwa, making your eyes go wide. Not just the nickname, which you've never heard him or anyone use for Hongjoong before, but also the tone of his voice, the pleading nature of it.

"Oh my god," you whisper, turning to Yunho who's also looking surprised, you both fighting off a smile.

"Y/n, I-" Yunho starts, but your finger is on his lips again, silencing him.

***

Hongjoong had been different that morning; Seonghwa noticed it right away. He'd been a little different since the conversation you'd had with him two days prior, but this morning there was a noticeable change. It was in the way he held Seonghwa so tightly in the morning, the way he stared at him as they had their first cups of coffee. He was always intense with his staring, but this morning it was deep, it was piercing.

"What?" Seonghwa asked, the first words they spoke to each other that day. They both were early risers, strangely, given that they both often stayed up late too. They were always groggy first thing in the morning, needing caffeine to help their brains fully come awake. These mornings on the trip had been quiet, usually, especially given that everyone else was usually asleep and they didn't want to bother anyone. It had been peaceful having this quiet time together; almost domestic, in a way.

"Do you still want to go on the hike today?" Hongjoong asked. Everyone had planned to hike the trail that started at the falls today. It snaked up the side of the cliff, steep with several switchbacks, before ending up at the top, a clearing perfectly placed to look down across the forest and over the lake and cabin. The trail was actually much longer, continuing down into the mountain range behind the cliff, going on for almost ten miles before ending at a small trail head on the highway that ran through the back of the mountains. Occasionally people started from there, the view over the falls their end destination. None of you had ever gone that way, though it had been discussed occasionally that it would be a fun idea. You all walked from this side, which aside from the large vertical climb meant the hike was only about a mile and a half. Last year you had even been able to join and experience the cool air that rested up there, standing so close to the edge that Yunho pulled you back and wouldn't let go until you all headed back down again.

"It doesn't sound like you want to," Seonghwa replied, smiling at him.

"Well, I don't know," Hongjoong said, running a hand through his hair.

"Are you not feeling well?" Seonghwa asked, eyeing him. Now Hongjoong looked away, struggling to maintain the eye contact. He was always confident until his feelings were affected, and that look of concern he'd just received had his insides spinning.

"No no, it's not that," he replied, breathing deep to steady himself. "I was wondering if we could stay back, while everyone leaves, so I can talk to you. About something, um, important."

"That doesn't sound scary at all," Seonghwa responded, an unsure look on his face.

"It's not scary, I promise," Hongjoong sighed, finally looking back up and meeting Seonghwa's gaze with pleading eyes.

"I'm was kidding, Joongie. Of course we can stay." The use of the nickname makes Hongjoong's stomach spin even more, the one he only uses when they're alone, just the two of them. Seonghwa's hand comes over to grab Hongjoong's, squeezing it in that way he loves to do when he wants to reassure someone.

Your spell that morning had changed plans, ever so slightly, and when Hongjoong watched Yunho and Seonghwa sit with you in the kitchen, as those minutes drew on, he had so many feelings. As much as he worried that he wouldn't have the opportunity to talk to Hwa anymore, he couldn't stop watching him with awe while he took care of you, the way he so intently watched you as you jerked around in your unconscious state, his quiet and reassuring words to Yunho. His head spun with worry for you, when it seemed both Seonghwa and Yunho were surprised at how long it was lasting. When you finally woke, his heart was nearly pounding with adoration at Seonghwa's kind words to you, and almost every bit of hesitation crumbled away. He knew what he had to do now, what was right.

He was thankful that as they cleaned dishes after lunch, Seonghwa whispered to him, "let's go to the library." You and Yunho were so engrossed in what you were watching that they were pretty sure you didn't even notice them moving, quietly walking around the back of the couch and through the open door, closing it but leaving it slightly ajar to avoid making noise.

"I didn't feel like going outside, it's too hot today," Seonghwa starts, turning around and standing awkwardly in front of one of the bookcases.

"I agree," Hongjoong sighs, across from him, his hands held behind his back as he stares.

"What are you doing? Come here," Seonghwa holds out his hand, and Hongjoong takes it, hesitantly. "What's gotten into you?"

"What do you mean?" Hongjoong replies, but the words feel bad coming out of his mouth, because he knows he must be acting strange with everything flying trough his head the way it is.

"You seem, deep in thought," Seonghwa answers, grabbing his other hand now too.

"I'm very easy to read, huh?"

"Yeah," Seonghwa replies with a nod. "I can always tell when you're upset, or when you're happy. But I never know why."

"Cause I never tell you," Hongjoong responds. It's a statement, he's not asking anything, not looking for a response. Seonghwa can tell and keeps his mouth shut, their eyes locked together in an intense stare down.

"I'm going to stop being like that, or at least, I'm gonna try," Hongjoong continues, holding onto Seonghwa's hands tightly. "I- I need to tell you this. I don't know how you'll feel but, I need to tell you." His heart rate is rising, so strong that Seonghwa can feel it through his palms.

"You need to take a deep breath," Seonghwa says, breathing in and out slowly to try to calm his own nerves. Hongjoong does too, moving his hands to Seonghwa's hips, steading them both against the bookshelf behind.

"I had this conversation, with y/n, two days ago. After you know, I kind of fought with Yunho, that stupid morning, remember?" Seognhwa nodded his head, eyes still trained on Hongjoong's. "She said a lot of things that made me, uh, reconsider, I guess, how I've been dealing with things. She just... made me think a lot. And made me realize that I've been such an asshole to you."

"Hongjoong..." Seonghwa trials off, not even sure what to say in response to what he's just heard.

"I'm really avoidant, of my feelings, I'm really good at just pushing them aside and doing whatever I think I should. With a lot of my life I've been able to just deal with things that way. But you've always made me feel things that I couldn't push down, and god that's always scared me, so much. I was telling y/n, the other day, I- I had this experience with my dad, where we saw that magazine cover you did, your first major cover for that makeup line. Me and my dad, and my mom too, we saw it in a corner store by their old house, and my dad said such nasty things about all of you on that cover. I'm positive he had no idea it was you. It made me so sick, and I thought I was moving past his homophobic views and the affect it had on me, but his comments that day sent me right back to the person I was when I was a kid, that person who was afraid of him. I- I want you, so badly I want to be with you, I fucking love you, but you deserve so much more than me, you deserve to be with someone who's family will accept you and and treat you with the kindness you deserve, the kindness you give everyone around you every day. I- I'm not good enough for you, and I know that, I'm still so uncomfortable with my sexuality and so uncomfortable with myself and just- I- I still can't help selfishly wishing that you want to be with me too, because, fuck, no one makes me feel the way you do."

A silence hangs in the air as Seonghwa still stares, the beginning of tears forming in his eyes. Seeing it sends chills through Hongjoong, because as sensitive and caring as Hwa was, he was't often one to cry.

"I'm so sorry, about everything. I know I said last year that we'd talk again, we'd figure out what this thing was between us, but every time I sat down to text you or call you I couldn't do it. I was too afraid, too scared of what might happen if I really did start dating you. And that was so fucking stupid of me, listening to that fear. I fucked up, I know I did. I don't think I can express with words how much I regret it, Hwa, seriously..."

"Joongie, you don't need to say all that. You don't need to be so hard on yourself," Seonghwa replies, his heart aching at just how harsh Hongjoong was being to himself.

"No, no, I need to say it," Hongjoong replies, his hands moving up to Seonghwa's waist, grabbing him possessively.

"Joongie," Seonghwa whines, the pressure from his hands intoxicating. Hongjoong's lips are on his in a moment, gentle as they brush over his.

"I need you to understand that I know I've been an asshole," Hongjoong sighs through a ragged breath as he pulls back for a moment. "And that I know you've been nothing but patient with me, which is more than I deserve."

"You do deserve it, though. Stop saying that, stop being so mean to yourself," Seonghwa replies, pouting. They're kissing again, and it is so soft and so sweet, but filled with want, too.

"Wait, Joongie." Seonghwa puts his hand on Hongjoong's shoulder, pushing him back for a moment. "Are you sure you want to be with me? Is that what you're saying?"

"One hundred-thousand percent, I'm sure," Hongjoong replies, his eyes looking deep into Seonghwa's. "But I understand if you don't want to, after all this time, and everything that's happened. I still remember what you said that night at Ari's birthday, I know we were really drunk that night but I... I never forgot what you said."

Seonghwa sighs deeply, stricken back to that complicated, crazy night four years ago. I know you'll never actually date me, Hongjoong, but I can't stop dreaming that you'll change your mind one day. By the time you do I'll probably not even want you anymore. That was what he said, in the drunk haze he was in, Hongjoong kissing him and making him angry all over again, his frustration spilling out of his mouth, along with the shots he'd been taking. It was a mortifying, telling night, and he regretted what he'd said for months, knowing that even if it was how he truly felt, he could never understand what is was like to be Hongjoong and have parents so unaccepting.

"I'm a lot more mature now, than I was then," Seonghwa sighs, his hands resting gently on Hongjoong's shoulders.

"You were already mature, then," Hongjoong shakes his head. "And you were right, you know. You were always right. I'm- I hope this doesn't sound bad, but, I'm shocked you waited for me."

"Well I didn't, really," Seonghwa laughs, looking away bashfully.

"No, I know. I just mean, I'm surprised you're still giving me a chance now."

"I can't help it," Seonghwa replies. Hongjoong looks at him quizzically, waiting for more of an explanation. "No one makes me feel like you do, Joongie. I'm sure I would have still given you the chance even if you waited till we were in the nursing home together."

"You're too good for this world," Hongjoong replies, kissing Seonghwa deeply this time, his whole body tingling with just how perfect the man in front of him is making him feel. Now he feels stupid for being worried about this conversation, because of course he should have known Seonghwa would react this way. That moment at that party all those years ago was the only time he'd said anything like that; since then, for years they'd hooked up, and not an unkind word left his lips. It really, truly didn't seem fair to Hongjoong; he had a debt to pay, and he was determined to make things right going forward. He digs his hands into Seonghwa's waist further, his tongue sliding into Seonghwa's mouth and feeling the soft warmth of his tongue. He pulls back to suck on his lower lip, Seonghwa's sweet lip gloss making his full lips delectable. Hongjoong groans at the taste, making Seonghwa moan in response and involuntarily buck his hips into the air, his body alight with feelings of warmth and neediness.

"Fuck, you're so fucking pretty," Hongjoong says as he pulls back, looking at the man in front of him, his lips glistening and his long bangs falling into his face. They're both still wearing their pajamas; Seonghwa's are a dark blue matching set of shorts and a button up top, with light blue edging. Hongjoong runs his hands underneath the shirt, feeling Seonghwa's stomach and chest and the heat that's seeping through his skin. Already a noticeable tent is forming in his shorts, just from the few kisses and touches, the air electric between them as it always is. But now there's also an added layer of anticipation, because this wasn't planned and Seonghwa has no idea where this is headed.

"You always take care of everyone else, let me take care of you for once," Hongjoong says, reaching his hand down to feel over Seonghwa's hardening cock, moving in and kissing his neck slowly, sucking harshly on the delicate skin he finds.

"Joong, joongie, ahh," Seonghwa moans, his legs already feeling like jello. "Please don't mark me up, my photo shoot-"

"Shit, I forgot, sorry," Hongjoong says as he pulls his lips of his neck, licking a long stripe up the abused skin and chuckling at the adorable moan that left Seonghwa's lips when he did. "I wish I could leave marks all over you," he groans, kissing down Seonghwa's neck to his collar bone, his hand still rubbing Seonghwa over his shorts. They're both hard now, Seonghwa straining against Hongjoong's hand as the pressure builds deliciously. Finally Hongjoong reaches into his shorts, the skin to skin contact sending shivers of pleasure up Seonghwa's spine, making him moan pathetically. At this point Hongjoong is positive you and Yunho have heard, even with your show playing. But he can't find it in himself to care, because he needs to accomplish his goal, taking care of Seonghwa, and it's all he can think of. He spits into his hand some more, rubbing it up and down Seonghwa's shaft to finally start stroking him hard, starting slow but keeping the pressure tight. Seonghwa's a writhing mess in front of him, his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he feels nothing but Hongjoong's hand, his own hands anchoring him as they hold onto Hongjoong's shoulders.

"That feel good?" Joong asks him, making him whine and nod in response, his mouth now hanging open. "You're the most perfect thing to exist," Hongjoong continues, watching Seonghwa with adoration and amazement. It's in these moments he can't believe he's here, that this man in front of him likes this as much as he does. This beautiful creature, like someone out of his fantasies, placed on earth here in front of him to make all his dreams come true. He kisses Seonghwa's cheek, whispering 'you're so perfect' in his ear, before dropping to his knees and pulling down Seonghwa's shorts slowly. When he finally pulls Seonghwa's cock eye level with him he sees how hard it is, already leaking slightly from the tip. He reaches his mouth up and swipes his tongue over the bead of precum, making Seonghwa's hips jolt at the contact, his head fuzzy from the change in position. This isn't a position they're in often, Hongjoong servicing Seonghwa like this, and it makes Seonghwa's heart break to think Hongjoong is doing this cause he thinks he has to.

"Joongie, ahh, you don't have to," he whispers between moans, his hands trapped behind his back.

"No, I need this," Hongjoong replies, his tone gravelly and domineering, and suddenly it all makes sense to Seonghwa again. It's in this way that Hongjoong is forgiving himself, showing himself that he can put his pride aside and do something nice for Seonghwa. "I need you to cum down my throat," he says, his breathing picking up as he licks a long stripe up the bottom of Seonghwa's shaft, making him shutter with pleasure. He moves his lips to suck on the head, slowly working his hand up and down the shaft again, looking up to see Seonghwa's blissed out face, his jaw hanging open and his eyes squeezed shut. He continues sucking hard, his mouth pulling off with an audible pop, and then he licks up the entire length of his cock again before enveloping it fully in his mouth, reaching back to his throat and threatening to make him gag.

"Fuck, Joongie, it feels so good," Seonghwa whines above him, his eyes still closed as he focuses entirely on the feeling of Hongjoong's warm mouth around him. Hongjoong can only groan in response, his head moving in swift motions now as he works Seonghwa up, feeling his cock getting harder and harder with every stroke. Seonghwa's hands come to rest in his hair, gently pulling on the strands more in an act of love, than anything, but it drives Joong crazy to be finally in this position. He felt like he'd taken so much from the man above him, not just over the last year but over the entire time they'd known one another, and it felt so good to finally be repaying him. His jaw was cramping slightly and his breathing was feeling difficult, but it didn't matter in this moment as he looked up to see Seonghwa's face again, Seonghwa so obviously lost in everything that he was feeling. But there was a tenseness about his hips, about the way he was holding them back against the shelf behind him.

"Hwa, baby, please come in my mouth. Don't hold back," Hongjoong says, taking a break to catch his breath briefly, his hand still working Seonghwa's length. "Look at me," he says, Seonghwa's eyes finally opening and falling on Hongjoong's messy face and blown pupils. "Baby, stop holding back," he says again before diving in, pulling himself onto Seonghwa by his hips, this time going so deep that he actually gags.

"Ahh, fuck," Seonghwa moans, holding onto Hongjoong's hair now for dear life, his orgasm ready to wash over him any moment. It's Hongjoong who is being so harsh with himself, again, forcing himself to take it down his throat repeatedly for the sake of Seonghwa's pleasure. Seonghwa is almost holding him back by his hair now, not wanting him to get hurt. But he can't deny how hot it is to see Hongjoong like this, so desperate to please and to make up for everything. Despite the patience and kindness, Seonghwa had been pissed at him for years, at least a little. And Hongjoong just looked so perfect like this, his cock lost in his mouth and his hair messy from Seonghwa's hands, and suddenly it was all too much. Seonghwa's moans suddenly stutter as he comes down Hongjoong's throat, just as he'd asked, Hongjoong groaning at the feeling of his warm load filling his mouth. He works hard to swallow it all, sucking on Seonghwa's tip to finish the job and making Seonghwa gasp at the overstimulation.

"Thank you," Hongjoong says through ragged breaths, standing to kiss Seonghwa again and hold him close. Seonghwa whimpers into his mouth, still coming down from his high, his body electric with pleasure and feelings much deeper, too.

"You taste so good," Hongjoong mumbles in his ear, making him giggle in slight embarrassment, shoving his face in Hongjoong's shoulder. They stay locked together in their tight embrace for minutes, Seonghwa's breaths finally slowing to a more normal pace.

***

Sat on Yunho's lap, you can't deny how hot it is to overhear everything. Your body completely betrayed how you felt; your hips moving against Yunho's rhythmically, making him start to get hard himself. When Yunho finally snaked his hands into your shorts he found your cunt wet and open for him, two fingers slipping inside you with ease.

"Fuck, Yunho," you whispered, your hands coming to brace you against him, holding down on his arm in a way you didn't realize was restricting his movement.

"Is it too much?" he responds, the soft sound brushing past your ear and making you shiver.

"No just, go slow," you huff out, your head lolling against his shoulder as you relax into the feeling. Yunho does as you've asked, his fingers thrusting in and out of you slowly, gently, and giving the perfect amount of pressure to your aching cunt. You hadn't realized yourself how wet you were, how worked up you'd gotten. Gently you moved your hips in tandem with him, your breaths whiney and fast and making Yunho's head spin.

"You like listening to them too, not just watching," he says with a slight chuckle, and if it weren't for the fingers deep inside of you making your whole body slack with pleasure, you'd punch him in the shoulder.

"Yunhooo," you whine, his teasing building everything up even more. You can hear how wet you are now, the sounds coming from under the blanket making their way to your ears despite the layers of fabric in between. It's building, hearing Seonghwa's beautiful cries of pleasure, your mind racing with a million different ideas of what might be happening in that other room, and the way Yunho's palm is now rubbing against your clit while his fingers work you open is making your legs start to shake.

"Breathe baby," he reminds you, your body tensing up and forgetting to as your pleasure builds. He keeps his hand steady, knowing he's found the perfect spot from the way your body is reacting.

Suddenly you both hear something outside, something that sounds like comfortable conversation and Wooyoung's unmistakable laugh, and Yunho's hand pauses. You can feel he's about to pull his hand away, just in the millisecond your brain registers his muscles begin to twitch, and you reach out your own hand to grab his wrist and stop him from moving.

"Don't stop, please, I'm so close," you whisper, tipping your head back to make eye contact with him through the tips of your eyelashes. He just looks at you with so much adoration, starting up his rhythmic movements once again, adding even more pressure to your clit as he feels you rubbing against him. You keep your eye contact, both of you locked together in this unexpected moment of lust, and soon you're coming on his fingers, your legs shaking as your pussy throbs hard. Your own hand still hasn't left his wrist, and you use it to pull him away from you when it feels like too much, his hand snaking back up out of your shorts just in time for Wooyoung to pop his head through the back door, followed quickly by the woman who must be his new girlfriend.

You all make sudden eye contact, the look on your face one of embarrassment as you come down from your orgasm in the presence of company.

"What are you two up to?" Wooyoung laughs, making his way to his backpack on the floor.

"We, we're watching..." your words get lost in your throat when you look at the TV and see the show paused, which he can obviously see himself.

"Mmhm, sure," he responds, chuckling again.

"Woo, shut the fuck up!" you cry, laughing yourself at the embarrassment, and at the way Wooyoung has turned the tables on you. You liked it much better when you were the one making fun of him, not the other way around.

"Y/n, this is my girlfriend Sammie," Wooyoung says as he stands up, gesturing in her direction.

"Hi, it's nice to meet you," you say, trying to keep your giggles at bay. Thankfully she too finds the situation amusing, and laughs along with you.

"It's nice to meet you too. I hope you're feeling okay," she responds, her eyes kind as she looks in your direction, her whole being emanating a warm, caring energy. She's obviously older than the rest of you; she has that put together air about her, her clothes and glasses and haircut all crisp and sharp. But it isn't intimidating, and she doesn't seem cold. If anything, the put together nature of her is more comforting, like if anything went wrong she'd be able to help you.

"I'm a little better, I guess. I'm conscious," you chuckle, smiling. "Thank you for asking."

"Of course," she replies, nodding at you, smiling too. "You two are very cute together, by the way," she adds.

"Thank you," you smile, shyly turning your head away and snuggling into Yunho. His wet fingers are still resting on your stomach, underneath the blanket covering you both, and the reminder of what you'd just done makes you feel a little giddy. Just then the rest of the pack of hikers enters through the back door, and soon the cabin returns to the low hum of conversation that always accompanies the group of you together. Eventually Yunho sneaks off to clean his hand, coming back to carry you to bed after you'd finished your dinner, making you drink another tall glass of water to make sure you're hydrated. By then the sun is setting, the lights in the living room off as the group that's staying up enjoys a spooky movie, while you and Yunho retire for an early night, one you desperately need given your physical state today.

***

In the darkness of the night, your head tucked into a pillow and against Yunho's chest, Yunho surprises you by speaking.

"I have a question for you," he starts, voice low with sleepiness.

"Hmm?" you respond, snuggling closer to him, your mind fuzzy and about to surrender to sleep.

"Okay let me preface this by saying, I don't want you to think I'm making fun of you. I am genuinely curious about this," he says, and you groan in irritation, not wanting him to continue. "Baby, it's not mean, I swear. I just noticed that, well, you like watching or overhearing other people have sex, don't you?"

"Yunho," you sigh, pulling his arms tight against you despite your annoyance.

"I'm not- I don't mean to bring up our senior trip again, more just what I've observed on this trip," he says, holding you tight to try and reassure you. "You do like it, right?"

"Uh, obviously," you sigh, your cheeks warming with self consciousness. You know he knows that already, and you're not really sure why he's making you say it.

"Baby, that's really hot," he says, shocking you.

"It is?" you ask.

"Yes, it is."

"But, why?" you ask, squirming ever so slightly in his embrace.

"Cause it just is, baby. It's just hot that you, have certain sexual fantasies I guess, that aren't totally average," he replies. "I like that."

His words send waves of feeling through you, feelings that you can't really describe except to say that it feels like relief, or like a locked away box inside is finally open and free. Your head spins for a moment, thinking of your recent interactions with him, and you can't help but ask the question.

"Did you read my book, the morning before we left for this trip?" you ask, and all you feel in response is Yunho's chest rise and fall, as he takes in a breath and promptly lets it out. "You did! I knew it," you laugh, smiling into the pillow. "Well, what did you think?"

"I didn't get far, baby, I only read the introduction," he replies.

"Have you ever read any of my other books?" you venture.

"Yes?" he responds, a little surprised you're asking.

"Yunho!" you respond, mouth agape.

"You left that faerie book in my room last month, did you not want me to read it??" he asks.

"Wait, that's where it is?" you ask, having thought for the last few weeks that you'd lost it somehow on your way to work, or misplaced it so badly in your room that you were never going to find it.

"That wasn't on purpose?" he asks.

"No, on my god," you laugh, hands coming up to cover your face for a second. "You read it?"

"Um, yes, yes I did," he replies.

"The whole thing?" you ask, genuinely shocked.

"Yes, y/n, I thought you wanted me to," he sighs.

"Oh my god, that's funny," you chuckle. "Well, what did you think of that one?" you ask, tone full of amusement.

"You're into some freaky shit, girl," he replies, and you're laughing so loud that you're probably being heard in the living room.

"Maybe I am," you say, burying your face in your pillow. "I can't fucking believe you read it."

"Me neither," Yunho says, his cheeks pink with embarrassment now, too. "How did you even, discover that you liked that kind of thing?"

"Um, one of my friends in high school, she was reading this book about like an alien planet, it was this weird dystopian sort of world where humans had made contact with aliens and they'd keep humans as slaves sometimes, and anyway, it got very smutty. She would tell me about it in P.E. and said I should read it. I was pretty disgusted by the idea at first and didn't take her up the offer for a while, but when I finally did I ended up really liking it, honestly, as fucked up as it was. And from then on, well, I just look for stuff online that sounds like it'll be good. It's pretty easy to find if you know where to look."

"Wow," Yunho replies, eyes open in the dark room. "Who was it?"

"Huh?"

"I mean that girl, what friend of yours? We went to high school together, remember?"

"I omitted that information on purpose, dummy. She made me promise then that I'd never tell anyone about that book she showed me. I can't break that, even if it's been like ten years," you reply.

"I guess I'll just have to guess, then," he says. "Was it Ari?"

"No, of course not," you say, rolling your eyes. "Don't keep guessing, I mean it," you say, gently elbowing him in the ribs. In retaliation he starts tickling you, his hand snaking under your arm and hitting you where it's worst.

"Yunho, ah, stop!" you shriek, his large frame on top of you in seconds and pinning you down as you try to fight back, flailing your legs and arms with very little strength. It's not there today, after passing out this morning, and Yunho's realizes and immediately stops himself, remembering you're in a bad state and knowing he shouldn't be messing around with you like this.

"Sorry, I'll stop," he says before planting a kiss on your cheek, tucking himself up behind you again.

And just when your brain is getting fuzzy again, when you think you're about to finally fall asleep, he speaks again.

"How did you discover you like watching people fuck?" he asks. You laugh at how matter of fact it is.

"I- uh, well, it was several things, I guess," you start. "It's kind of- it's a long story," you say, sighing because his question has just sparked a memory that was so buried, and you weren't ready for how it made you feel to be playing in your mind again.

"I'm all ears," he says, adjusting himself to get even more comfortable.

"Yunho," you sigh.

"I'm just curious baby, I promise I won't judge you," he says.

"It's not that," you say, sucking in a breath.

"What is it, then?" he asks.

"I- I saw something at Ari's eighteenth birthday party," you say, the words stumbling a bit as they exit your mouth. You hope he'll catch your drift immediately, because for some reason saying this out loud feels so scary, and adrenaline is already coursing through you.

"What did you see?" he asks. His tone is quite neutral, so you can't tell if he has any inkling of what you're thinking, and it irks you. You're going to have to say it, and your heart races in your chest.

"I-I saw you- you and Mingi, uh, kissing," you say, the image playing clear as day in your head. Both of them are holding red solo cups, and the room is empty, except for the mess strewn about from the night's activities. The harsh light of Ari's friend's college dorm shines down as you're sat on the lumpy couch, screams coming from outside as everyone gathered to watch someone throw something off the roof. You couldn't be bothered to watch that, having slipped back inside, and thought for sure you'd be all alone until you spotted the two of them in the hallway, Mingi's back pressed to the wall as Yunho stared him down, their obviously drunk eyes meeting feverishly. And then Yunho leaned in, your stomach dropping in your gut as you watched their lips meet, as you watched Yunho grab Mingi's waist and pull himself forward, the solo cups dropping to the floor and long forgotten. You hadn't been able to get that image out of your head for months, it coming to you time and time again, in the dead of night when your hand was between your legs.

"Oh, you saw us?" Yunho asks. You don't really know what you were expecting in response, but his calm reaction is surprising you.

"Yeah," you reply, letting out the breath you were holding.

"And, you liked it?"

"Mmhm", you reply. "Did you guys, do, uh, other stuff that night?" you ask, hesitating a moment.

"You mean, did we have sex?" he clarifies. You nod. "Uh, yeah, I think so. Honestly we were both kind of drunk that night, which probably wasn't the best. But yeah, we've hooked up a few times, actually."

"Really?" you ask, and suddenly you remember another birthday of Ari's, the night when you had to escort a very drunk and very sad Seonghwa home, and when the two of you were walking down the dimly lit path that led from her apartment to the street, you saw through the window the silouette of what you swore looked like two tall men kissing.

"It's weird, I know," he says behind you.

"No, no, that's not what I mean. I just always thought you were straight," you say.

"I thought so too," he says, voice sounding small.

"Are you ashamed of it?"

"Maybe," he says.

"Yuyu, you shouldn't be."

"I know," he says.

You squeeze his arms close, tucking yourself into him again. "I've done stuff with a girl," you say, breaking the silence, hoping the admission makes him feel better about what he's just revealed.

"Who?" he asks.

"Do you remember my friend Elle? Yeah, a few times we did stuff," you answer, bringing to his mind the girl you spent so much time with the summer after high school, the two of you inseparable in a way that should have made your feelings obvious. But even to each other, they weren't.

"Oh, I should have guessed," he laughed.

"I know, we were fucking inseparable that summer. And she, well, I think she was very ashamed of it all. She didn't explicitly ask me never to tell anyone but please, don't tell anyone else. I don't think she would want anyone knowing, really. I mean, it's not like any of us are friends with her anymore, she doesn't even live here anymore. But you know what I mean."

"Of course, I won't tell anyone," he says, sighing in relief. Your admission has helped him feel a bit better about his own secret, and you can feel it in the way his body relaxes behind you.

"Do you want me to not tell anyone about you and Mingi?" you ask.

"Well, I think some of our friends kind of know, I mean if you saw us then probably some of them have. I don't- honestly- hmm, I don't think I care who knows. I don't think he does either. I mean, it's happened, it's not like we can really pretend like it hasn't," he says, his mind spinning as he thinks more deeply about him and Mingi than he has in a while. He thought about it a lot, after it first happened, but since then he'd sort of buried those thoughts because Mingi had never brought it up himself. Without another person prompting it, Yunho would probably never have given it much thought, and some part of him felt like that was really strange, and cowardly. "Is it weird that I don't really, think about it?" he asks you.

"No, I mean why should you have to? If neither of you are ashamed about it, and it's just some little thing that happened in the past, why should it have to be this big complicated thing? It's just like any other hookup from high school, or college," you say, and you feel him tense behind you again, slightly. "What, is there something else you haven't told me?"

"Well, it's not just some thing from high school. It's happened more times than just that," he says.

"How many times?" you ask, chuckling slightly. You can't help but feel excited by the information, even if he sounds hesitant to share.

"Oh, you're loving this aren't you," he jokes, gently pinching your side.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. I just, I'm very curious," you say, biting back a laugh again.

"Curious, I'm sure that's what it is," he chuckles. "Well, uh, I don't know the exact number, I meant probably somewhere around, eleven, twelve times?"

"Really?" you ask, and you can't hide the way your thighs clench a bit.

"Wow, you like the idea of it that much?" he teases, moving a hand down to your thigh.

"Yunho," you grumble, his teasing making you feel a bit embarrassed of yourself again.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't tease so much," he says, hand still not leaving your thigh. "Like I said before, it's hot. Really hot." Your cheeks bloom in a genuine smile, that little box inside of you open, waves of light flowing out and making your whole body feel airy and warm. Being seen like this by him, these fantasies not only being accepted but being liked by him, has you feeling so connected to him and to yourself in a way that you've not often felt in life. The feeling emboldens you, and because the two of you haven't discussed any specific terms of your relationship yet, you want to put your thought out there in the open.

"You can keep hooking up with him, even if we're, together. As long as you're being safe, of course," you say.

"Do you want us to be open?" he asks.

"No, I don't think so. But he feels like an exception to me. I don't want to be in the way of you two..." you trail off, unsure how to word what you're trying to say.

"Do you want to watch us, is that it?" Yunho laughs, his instinct to tease you taking over again. He expects an immediate dismissal from you, but the groan you let out and the way your legs tremble just momentarily tells him everything he needs to know. "Looks like I'll have to ask Mingi a few questions," he chuckles, making your body tremble again.

"You- are you serious?" you respond, surprised.

"If I can make your wild fantasies come true, then I want to. I obviously can't make everything that happens in those little books of yours a reality, but this is something I could do. I mean, I know Mingi thinks you're hot, so I kind of bet he'll jump at the chance," Yunho says, his hand on your thigh squeezing you comfortingly. "And of course we're always safe, we both take that stuff seriously."

"You- ok first of all, how do you know Mingi feels that way? And second of all, you two can still hook up without me being there too, just so you know. Just to make this very clear," you respond.

"Me and Mingi have talked about it. Talked about you. A lot, honestly," he sighs, moving his hand around to the front of you again.

"So he did know already," you say, remembering the first night in the hot spring tub.

"What do you mean?" Yunho asks.

"The first night when we were all in the hot spring, he looked at me funny when I climbed onto your lap. I don't know if you noticed," you respond.

"Oh, yeah, well he knew about my feelings at least, so he probably was wondering if you were doing that cause you felt the same."

"I didn't even realize it then," you chuckle.

"It's very cute how oblivious you are sometimes," he says. "Though honestly I wasn't even sure myself if you liked me back."

"Has Mingi been, weird with you at all, because of us?" you ask.

"No, we haven't talked about it this trip, but I know he won't feel any type of way about it. I know he thinks you're attractive too, but we both always knew I felt a lot more for you than he did. And we're a lot closer than you two are, at least as far as I know," he chuckles, illicinting a nod from you. "He hasn't been weird at all, but seriously, I think he'd go for it if we presented the idea of you watching me and him."

"Really?" you ask, still not sure if you believe him.

"Yeah, I can talk to him about it, if you want. Or if you want to, that's fine."

"I- I think I want to, actually," you say, surprising you both. "I want to hear it from his mouth that he actually is attracted to me like that."

"I promise you I'm not lying," he says, holding you close.

"I know Yunho, it just feels a little hard to believe."

And with that final sentence you both finally yawn, your conversation coming to an end as the dark blanket of night falls over you both. It was another eventful day of your trip, another day your body angered you, but you couldn't help feeling a lot of excitement as you fell asleep, wondering what a conversation with Mingi might bring you.

[visceravalentines]

fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin. 

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck. 

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes. 

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg. 

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking. 

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs. 

.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line. 

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly. 

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose. 

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards. 

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin:  sunburn, bug bites, bite marks. 

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes. 

“What’s for supper?” 

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.” 

He licks his lips. 

Supper gets cold. 

.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry. 

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else. 

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them. 

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale.  “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

.

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor. 

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.” 

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?” 

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get. 

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass. 

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?” 

“Almost.” 

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do. 

You snip them one by one, bittersweet. 

“Done.” 

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.” 

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side. 

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing. 

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones. 

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.” 

Have you always been such a good listener? 

.

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face. 

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands. 

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world. 

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break. 

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry. 

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept. 

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too. 

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in. 

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds. 

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe. 

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit. 

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.” 

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish. 

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have. 

“Get the light,” he says. 

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck. 

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat. 

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him. 

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall. 

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night. 

“Please,” you moan. 

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.” 

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties. 

“Good.” 

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life. 

.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory. 

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here. 

Neither is he. 

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt. 

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap. 

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget. 

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle. 

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles:  a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake. 

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children. 

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet. 

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that. 

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either. 

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk. 

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs. 

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails. 

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak. 

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care. 

.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood:  the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.” 

You frown. 

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair. 

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

.

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You. 

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach. 

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning. 

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?” 

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth. 

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him. 

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television. 

“I killed my mama, y’know.” 

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed. 

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red. 

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling. 

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday. 

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

[catchingdaydreams]

Modern day Mithrun Headcannons

Just some random ideas and perspective on how a modern au Mithrun would act/live and what not .

He would have his apartment spotless and minimalist as hell. Like everyone is to accommodate for one person. He doesn't really invite friends over but when he does their often confused about how theres just one of everything. A single chair, only one bowel and glass that he just uses ect, ect.

OR his room is just full of piles of trash bags and instant noodle cups because he can't be bothered to clean that shit up. The room is also bathed in darkness, curtains drawn down with the only source of light is through his TV and microwave clock.

He hates summer and winter. He gets sunburnt too often cause he can't be bothered to put sunscreen on. He doesn't like to cover up as an alternative as he justs overheats himself. In the Winter he would rather spend it hibernating if he could. The alternative is just becoming a blanket burrito and wait it out. He wears a lot of warm clothing too, often comedically too much, looking like a penguin on the way he waddles. This man will always get sick in winter.

His favorite season is autumn as it's the only season where it's not going to inconvenience him by either giving him sunburn, colds or hay fever.

He use to job hops quite a lot. Mostly working as chef at a local noodle shop that's near his apartment. Nothing wrong with the way he cooked, he just lacked most social skills which his blank tone and expressions upset both customers and other staff. He was a little stubborn but is a stickler for workplace hygiene and safety and would definitely tell people off for not doing something up to code. Even to the boss (instant way for getting fired).

Now he works at a high-end/fancy restaurant (probs has a michelin star ) wheres his nack for nick picking made him well respected for being precise.

Though he will not tell anyone where he works at. The Canaries will try to pester him (some *coff* *coff* Fleki and Lycion *coff* have tired staking but failed). He likes his privacy.

On days off he likes to be active and go hiking in the woods. He sometimes volunteers with the local nature parks for general upkeep and search and rescue.

But he doesn't do this alone. He WILL get lost. Kabur is a good hiking partner and also does volunteering. The Canaries are generally the go to personnel with supervising him. But he's generally in charge of operations which they bestowed him the nickname 'caption' to him.

He WILL get mistaken as an old man (yes he is technically old but I'm mean on deaths bed old). His white hair causes kids to point and look. He gets annoyed when a teenager asks him if he needs help crossing the street (especially if he's waddling like a penguin in Winter clothing). One time he was so annoyed by a kid calling him a grandma that he took out his prosthetic eye to make the kid cry.

Probs gets mistaken as a woman at times as well. He does have a feminine look about him. I imagine him coming home from a late shift and he gets catcalled by some bums. All he has to do is reply back in his low manly voice and they shut up . The times that they don't, Mithrun doesn't mind getting his hands dirty. He will throw the bums beaten and bruised bodies in the dumpster, it's where they belong of course.

Mithrun isn't a social butterfly. He likes to go to bed early then party and have a few drinks with his friends. Even when he does gets invited he'll hardly drink anything. He use to alot in his youth but his body isn't the same anymore and would just black out after a few drinks.

[quinnnfabrgay-writes]

what it means to burn

This is my (incredibly and abhorrently late) entry for the Summer Lovin Challenge! My prompt was heat wave along with this AMAZING mood board! Thank you so, so much for putting this on @pedgito (and for being so incredibly patient)

pairing: dieter bravo x actress!reader

summary: There are many different ways to burn. People warn against getting sunburned amidst the suns cruel rays. Others are told it's in the afterlife where they'll feel hells wrath and burning flames. But burning desire that fills your body, floods your system, clouds your mind... what on earth are you supposed to do with that?

wc: 4.8k

tags/warnings: not much, some good ol' pining-esque angst (and some tooth-rotting fluff for funsies), Dieter is an idiot - but that's why we love him, i know nothing of film sets so there's that too

reader description: reader is described as having breasts and there is gendered language, otherwise nothing else about reader is described, no use of y/n

a/n: yeah, so this is almost exactly 6 months late, i am SO so sorry. i feel like i've been so stuck creatively this year. BUT here it is. at first I had no idea where I wanted to go with this, but then my wife and I binged all of Bridgerton in two weeks and I have that to blame for how some of this turned out. i also tried to really lean into the heatwave aspect of it 🫣 MAJOR shoutout to @bitchesuntitled for reading this over when i was losing my mind, i am so incredibly grateful

divider credit: @saradika-graphics

Your toes dig into the sand beneath your feet, each grain tickling your nerves - a much needed distraction you welcome. A bead of sweat trickles down your forehead, your body's desperate attempt at keeping you cool as you approach your third hour in this dreadful, sweltering heat. Your fingers twitch, fighting the automatic urge to wipe it away - the last thing you need is to give the director, Jared, another reason to call “cut” for the umpteenth time. 

What was supposed to be a “quick and easy” take of the scene in which Dieter’s character has a heat-induced fever dream of your character scantily clad in an oasis, has now become a whole cluster fuck. 

Dieter was almost an hour late to set - his reasons being missed alarms, traffic, every excuse under the sun really, but that was the least of your frustrations. Once everyone was finally in place and ready to start shooting, wardrobe mishaps galore. 

They originally wanted to have you in a gauzy, deep cut dress, golden ropes tied around your waist to complement your figure. But between the combination of the heat and your sweat, the dress tape meant to keep the cloth adhered to your breasts kept slipping off your skin multiple times, resulting in multiple nip slips that had the wardrobe department ushering you back into the trailers for an emergency costume change.

But perhaps the most annoying circumstance of all has to be the sheer amount of times Jared has had the two of you film and re-film the part in the scene in which Dieter’s character finally confesses his feelings for your character- or the mirage of your character to be exact. 

Picture it: Dieter’s character is lost in the desert, he’s been walking for days and nights looking for reprieve when he stumbles upon a beautiful oasis that’s too good to be true. Because it is. It’s simply a mirage used as a catalyst for Dieter’s character to come to terms with his romantic feelings. He’s supposed to come upon the oasis to find you lounging by the pool of a waterfall, dipping your toes in the water before approaching him, lavishing him with attention. Light sultry touches from you, flirty quips back and forth before devolving into a confession of love from him, all culminating into an almost kiss. Dieter is meant to lean in, your lips almost touching before his character wakes from his fever dream with a new determination to get back home and confess his feelings to the real life version of your character.

Which wouldn’t be an issue if it weren’t for the director finding a new problem almost every take. 

The first few takes were issues with your wardrobe. The next few, he wanted to try different starting positions: you by the pool of the waterfall, then you lounging on a moss covered rock, finally he settled on you wading out of the pool of the waterfall, the water making your skin sparkle and glisten under the cruel sun. 

A change you gladly welcomed the first one or two times you had filmed trying the new starting point, the water helping cool you down as the heat of the sun kept beating down on everyone. But soon enough even the water wasn’t enough of a reprieve, because then Jared had an issue with yours and Dieters chemistry. 

Or lack thereof. 

He couldn’t really blame the two of you though. At this point you were tired, sweltering, hungry, and so so cranky. Dieter wasn’t faring any better, you could tell he was two takes away from throwing a temper tantrum like a petulant child, and to be honest you weren’t too far behind him. The last thing on your mind was trying to convince the cameras of any romantic inclinations. 

Although, if you were being honest with yourself, it really shouldn’t be that hard, it’s not like you would be acting at all. This isn’t the first movie or project where you’ve led opposite Dieter Bravo, and even though you’ve tried your damnedest to do the complete opposite, you have found yourself falling more and more for the handsome goofball with each passing day. 

He was one of the first of the bigger names to show you kindness in your earlier roles; even took you under his wing as it were to warn you about the creeps to stay away from, to tell you the little tips and tricks of the trade, he even offered to run lines with you for auditions from time to time. 

His party-going ways and eccentricities were enough to keep your feelings at bay for a while, but as the two of you grew closer, and you got to see more of the real Dieter, it became more and more difficult to deny that you had indeed fallen for the one and only Dieter Bravo. And you had fallen hard. 

And if that doesn’t just piss you off.

“Oh for the love of Christ- cut cut cut!”

You and Dieter both huff and groan, you drop your head into your hands as Dieter slumps his shoulders in frustration. You feel like you could scream, your anger and frustration building to the point of tears gathering in your eyes. 

“What is the matter with you two?!” Jared's voice becomes louder as his steps grow closer to the two of you. 

You're just about to let him have it (deservedly so), but luckily Dieter pipes up before you can say something that might deem you “difficult to work with.”

“I don't know Jared, it could be a number of things. This goddamn heat being at the top of the shit list.”

You bite the corner of your lip to keep yourself from laughing, reigning your expression into a slight amused smirk instead as you watch Dieter and Jared go back and forth, mentally checking yourself out of the conversation until you hear Jared let out a dramatic sigh, running his hands through his hair before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in thought. 

“Okay, I get it. I really do. I know I've been impatient myself, this heat really is getting the best of all of us I suspect.” He drops his hand, opens his eyes, and glances back and forth between you and Dieter as he pleads his case.

“Just one more take, please? Just the speech Dieter gives, that's all we need. You two are almost there, it just doesn't feel… right yet. There's an underlying sense of animosity that I can't pinpoint, but that's what is holding you two up. Just take a couple of deep breaths and let go. Give us everything you got, okay? Really, you two are ridiculously talented, I specifically requested you two for a reason. If there's any hesitation, just let it go. And let everything else be fuel for the fire. Use your frustrations and channel them into your character's desire for each other, okay?”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You know his speech was pointed towards you, there's no way it wasn't, but he was good about making it seem like it was a pep talk for the both of you.

You nod your head, blinking quickly to clear the moisture in your eyes before any tear drops could fall. 

“Y-yeah, thanks Jared.” You reach your hand out to squeeze one of his forearms, a quiet show of appreciation.

Dieter rubs the back of his neck as he nods once in agreement, his lips pursed in thought. 

Jared gives you two an unreadable look before speaking again. “From the top then, yeah? Just one more time.” He claps his hands, swiftly turning around and back to his chair as he orders everyone else back into their places.

Dieter lets out a long, drawn out sigh before turning towards you, an eyebrow quirked and a half smile sweet enough to wash away your irritation.

He briefly looks back over to Jared before shouting “can we have a moment?”

Jared simply slumps in his chair, waving his hand exasperated in a manner signaling “go on.”

Your brows furrow; what could he possibly need to talk about that can't wait until you've at least been able to scarf down the snacks in the shared trailer, enjoying its glorious AC?

He swiftly turns towards you, stepping forward and closing the small gap between you two until you are practically toe to toe with one another.

You draw in a quick, sharp breath as he reaches both of his hands out grabbing your own. Such a simple touch, yet paired with the sheer closeness he's created, it's enough to set your skin on fire where the two of you are connected. Or maybe it's just the heat finally pulling you into an exhausted haze and warming your skin to the touch. That had to be it, there's no way this means anything.

“Mírame, por favor.”

Dieter’s voice raspy from the dry heat, yet it's still smooth as silk to your ears. You acquiesce, slowly raising your eyes to meet his gaze.

The look on his face could easily bring anyone to their knees. The molten pools of his dark brown eyes draw you in, begging you to dip your toe in. A false sense of security washes over you as you believe that little voice in the back of your head saying “it's safe, the water's fine,” as if the tide of his gaze won't pull you under at the first chance you'd let it.

You could dive in head first into the deep inky waves, letting them pull you further and further down - not once feeling panicked or afraid even as the darkness spreads around the corners of your vision, finally feeling at peace. Finally giving up your resistance, letting him finally drown and consume you…

You're shaken from this image, your mind coming back into reality, dropping back into your body when Dieter squeezes your hands in his. The deep baritone of his voice floating through your ears like a choir of angels when he utters “estrella.”

“Y-yes?”

“I- um, I just–” Dieter cuts himself off with a huff, casting his eyes down and you're pretty sure you hear him mutter fuck under his breath. He slowly shakes his head, a self deprecating tone weaved into his voice. “I'm terrible at this.”

“Dieter, what're you ta–”

His head swings back up quickly. “I'm sorry.”

You jerk your head back slightly, completely caught off guard. He looks so determined, his eyes flickering back and forth between your own. He squeezes your hands again, takes a deep breath, and continues. 

“I'm- I'm sorry. For today, for the million takes, for being late. All of it.”

He pauses long enough, you go to tell him it's fine, but he shakes his head, beating you to it. “No, I'm– fuck. Look, I know why Jared feels like there's some underlying animosity.”

You shuffle slightly, dropping your gaze to his feet, suddenly uncomfortable with the turn this conversation has taken.

“But what I'm trying to say is, I get it. You have every right to want to rip my head off right now. I know me being late really screwed up the schedule, and- and, I don't know. I just wanted you to know that I get it, and I really, truly am sorry. It was incredibly unprofessional.”

You brave looking back up at him. A pang runs through your heart at how genuine he looks. You have to bite the corner of your lip to distract yourself from the tears that want to well up, hoping you can keep them at bay.

“Thank you, Dieter. I really appreciate it.” A small, soft smile stretches your lips, meaning every word.

A small smile spreads across Dieter’s lips, mirroring your own. 

“I- um, I just couldn't sleep.”

“...huh?”

“Why I was late. I really did miss all of my alarms this morning. I was up most of the night, too nervous to sleep.”

Your brows and lips wrench up in confusion. “Nervous?”

“Yeah, I know it sounds ridiculous. I mean this isn't the first romantic drama we've shot together or anything. I just really want to nail this scene. I want to be the scene partner you deserve. I really believe this could be the project that gets you nominated.”

“Oh, Dieter, th-thats's… that's getting a little ahead–”

“No, I'm serious. You deserve this. How can you become an EGOT winner without the Oscar? Huh?” He's full on grinning at you, those brown eyes sparkling with mischief. 

You huff a chuckle out, shaking your head. “Dee, please. That was just a silly childhood dream.”

“No, it’s not, and you know it.”

He dips his head slightly, trying to get you to meet his eyes. Once you do, his face softens. A small, adoring smile graces his features. 

“You deserve it more than anyone I know.” He drops one of your hands to softly cup your chin, his thumb brushing across your skin. “Mi estrella brillante.”

Your stomach drops as you try to remind yourself it’s nothing more than a friendly gesture. But Dieter apparently wasn't finished tormenting your lovesick soul. Before you have time to comprehend what's happening, he leans forward and drops his lips to your forehead, your chin still in his hand.

It had to have been only a brief few seconds, but to you that moment was frozen in time.

His devastatingly soft and pouty lips have your skin tingling, goosebumps forming along your arms, and all he has done is kiss you on the forehead, possibly one of the most innocent kisses two people could share, and yet your knees threaten to buckle as if he was worshiping your body underneath his tongue. 

God, you needed to get out of this heat.

Dieter pulls back and must notice something's amiss. His face falls slightly, his eyes searching your own as he says your name.

“Hey, is everything alright?”

Your eyes flutter as you shake your head to try and rid yourself of this spell he's put you under.

“H-huh? Oh y-yeah. I think the heat is finally getting to me.”

“Alright you two,” Jared's voice further coaxing you out of your stupor, “let's wrap this up so we can all go home, yeah?”

If logic was accessible in this moment, you could easily remind yourself that this isn't him talking to you like this. It's all for the movie, nothing more.

Unfortunately, that's not the case, all logic flew out the window the moment his lips touched your skin. You have no doubt in your mind that you're looking at Dieter like he hung the moon– which works for the scene, but were you really acting? 

It's hard to think of anything else beyond the feeling of his soft lips on your forehead, the reverent way he looked at you while cradling your chin in the palm of his hand, softly muttering, “mi estrella brillante.”

Mi estrella brillante.

You slowly flick your eyes back and forth between his, wondering if anyone has ever told him he has the most painfully beautiful eyes. So expressive, so captivating. 

Many a time you have gotten lost in studying his micro expressions - one of the many reasons you fell for him honestly. The amount of emotion this man can portray in one glance, a simple lift of his brow, a slight tilt of his head or subtle frown - it was mesmerizing. He's mesmerizing. 

His hand finds your cheek, the wide breadth of his palm practically encompassing the side of your face in its entirety. 

In an instant it all becomes too much - the pounding in your ears, the shallow breaths you're struggling to take in, the haze forming around the edges of your vision. Your gaze drops to his lips. His irresistibly tempting lips, still moving, still reciting his lines, but the words remain a mystery to your overheated state of being.

The way the velvet plush of them unwittingly beckons you closer and closer. And suddenly it all becomes so clear to you.

This fiery all consuming heat, this overwhelming longing that has been ignited and seized your entire being, has nothing to do with the hours spent in the burning sun.

This aching, this burning, it's all coming from within you.

A burning desire all for one Dieter Bravo.

In hindsight, you were probably also dehydrated, but in this moment the only thing you want to drink in, the only thing you crave, is the taste of Dieter's tongue sliding against your own, to feel his lips mold perfectly around yours. The very thought of him pulling your body against his, close enough where you wouldn't know for certain where your breath began and his ended.

It's this thought alone that has you acting like you've finally snapped and lost your damn mind, maybe you have.

Dieter’s still in the middle of his monologue when you suddenly clutch the front of his billowy shirt in your fists, a soft breathy whine slipping past your lips, your gaze locked onto your plump pillowy prize. You see his lips frown slightly, pursed as he starts forming a question, but you can't wait one second more. You shake your head, silently asking him to not speak, to not disturb whatever stars or planets that had aligned to make this moment possible. 

You gently pull on his shirt, bringing his body closer to yours as you angle your chin up, brushing your lips against his. Your eyelids flutter closed before you quietly whisper your simple request, “Stop talking and kiss me.”

Every worry, each little annoyance you encountered throughout the day all fades away to nothing the moment Dieter tenderly presses his lips to yours. His palm moves from your face, gently sweeping down the skin of your arm, goosebumps forming under his touch; an unexpected shiver shocking your system amidst the unrelenting heat.

He continues his path until his hand finds the small of your back, the pads of his fingertips stroking the skin bared from the exposed back of your costume. He gently pulls your body flush against his as he wraps his other hand around the nape of your neck, further enveloping you in his embrace. 

The warmth of his body against your own should be the very last thing you crave in this unforgiving and blistering heat, your dress starting to soak through with your sweat, yet somehow his touch is exactly what you need. His touch like a balm to your nerves; his caress the only source of reprieve you desire.

You let go of the white knuckle grip you have on his shirt, immediately tracing the edges and curves of his body as your palms chart a path towards his hair. Your fingers twisting into his curls greedily, not even caring to pay any mind to the slick of the sweat drenching his tresses.

Your heart clenches when you swipe your tongue past your lips to find his tongue peeking out as well, the both of you in sync as you deepen the kiss. You can't control the small whimper you make at the sound of Dieter softly groaning as your tongue slides against his for the first time.

His iron grip around your body tightens even further; you swear your body could melt against his from the sheer heat shared between the two of you.

The heat so all consuming it's flooded your senses, spread through your veins, and now sets your skin alight. Dieter is flint and wood, and you are the spark that sets the whole thing ablaze. 

Every pass of his tongue, every tug of his hair, each shared breath between you two only serves to feed and fan the flames; the heat of them licking at your skin, growing ever higher and higher until you and Dieter are one giant shimmering inferno.

But even roaring fires turn to ash eventually. 

“And cut!”

Jared’s voice cuts through your trance, jolting you out of Dieter’s embrace. You immediately take a step back, giving yourself space to fully assess and absorb what you’ve just done. 

Dieter’s hands hang aimlessly by his side now that you’re no longer wrapped around him, his chest heaving as he catches his breath, his lips swollen and slick from your kiss, his eyes wide and wild, glowing like the last few golden embers that refuse to be smothered into smoke.

You find the will to tear your eyes away from him and brave a glance at the crew around you. Some looks of shock come into view, some of annoyance, but nothing is as unnerving as the stoic look upon Jared’s face.

Your nerves quickly take hold, a chill running down your spine and spreading through your limbs as you slowly back further away from Dieter.

“I-I’m so sorry. I don’t- I…”

You quickly turn, gathering the skirt of your dress in your hands and move swiftly to the trailers, head hung in embarrassment.

What have you done? 

A rush of frigid air greets you as you fling open the nearest trailer door, too wrapped up in your distress to pay any mind to where it is you’re actually going.

It’s only when the door slams shut behind you that you finally take notice of your surroundings - a table littered with script pages, all strewn about with red and blue ink scrawled in the margins; a green robe haphazardly draped across the back of a chair; various bottles of water scattered across all in varying degrees of fullness, not one of them fully empty.

Dieter’s trailer. Of fucking course.

Even in a moment where you need some space to distance yourself from this school girl crush, you still can’t escape him. Whether you like it or not, you’re inherently drawn to him - even just a space that he’s inhabited has enough magnetic pull to draw you in. 

And it’s so fucking frustrating.

You’re just about to let out a much needed scream when you hear the door whip open behind you, the sound of it clicking shut only seconds later after the unwelcome guest makes their way inside.

Well, technically you’re the unwelcome guest.

You bury your face in your hands, not ready to face what’s coming next. You don’t even second guess who it was that followed you in, it was inevitable that he would come running after you - always looking after you, never once giving you a moment to breathe. The sun itself no longer the source of heat that threatens to smother you.  Even the chilling AC isn’t enough to temper the rising fury of your admittedly misplaced anger. If only he would give you just one minute to wrap your head around the situation you have placed yourself in.

The heat of Dieter’s body radiates off him in waves as you hear him shuffle closer to you, the exposed skin of your back already starting to dampen with newly formed beads of sweat. The feel of his hand coming to rest on your hip burns as if he is made of fire himself, a quiet “Estrella,” mumbled close to your ear. You drop your hands from your face in defeat, closing your eyes to muster whatever strength you have left, and push his hand off of your body. 

“Dieter, please, don’t.”

He lets his hand fall away from you, but you still feel his presence as he stays put behind you.

“I don’t understand, did I- did I do something wrong?” 

You slowly shake your head, still not ready to turn around, still not ready to confront this head on.

“It's just… it's jus-”

Fuck, it really is now or never, isn’t it?

You can tell Dieter is starting to get just as frustrated as you have been all day, a childish exasperated huff tickles your skin before the cracks in his composure start to show. In any other moment, you might have the patience and wherewithal to sympathize and agree that his day has been just as shitty as yours, but at your wits end? Well that’s no place for compassion or sensitivity, now is it.

“It's just what? Spit it out alre-”

You whip around facing him, feeling like the embodiment of a steaming kettle finally blowing its top, ready to let its contents boil and bubble over. 

“You frustrate the living daylights out of me, Dieter!”

He takes a step back, shock written all over his face, obviously not expecting this outburst of anger from you. His eyes narrow as he crosses his arms in a show of defense.

“Yeah, and? I piss a lot of people off. Where is this even coming from, I thought we were coo-”

“Oh please, we are well past you merely pissing me off. You have completely turned my world on its axis! You have single handedly complicated and confused everything I thought I knew about myself! You're so infuriating - with your stupid reservations over anything bluetooth-”

“Not stupid, the EMF waves mess with your brain-”

“-your complete and utter inability to care for or respect anyone's time but your own. Your obsession with alien probing?! What is that? If aliens are real, you really think out of everyone on this planet, that they would choose you to beam up into their ship just to what? Study you?”

“It's not an obsession! It's a reasonable and  completely rational fear and respect for aliens. And no, not study me… I'm afraid they'll impregnate me, okay?”

You stare at him blankly, silence filling the air. Dieter’s face is so… genuine. His eyebrows downturned in distress, those deep brown eyes of his widened slightly in legitimate fear. If it weren’t for the circumstances or the subject matter of your current conversation, you would almost feel bad for him, almost wanting to close the distance and caress his face, easing his worries.

But his worries were… ridiculous. 

It starts out small; a quirk in your brow, the corners of your mouth twitching as you let out an amused huff in disbelief. It tickles your insides, the sheer absurdness the turn this conversation has taken.

It quickly takes over, growing into giggles you try to contain behind your hands, but then Dieter’s face cracks - his own expression twisting in mirth as the two of you erupt into fits of laughter.

A few seconds pass as you both fight to reign it in until silence takes hold again. But this time, it's not as suffocating, it's… nice.

You softly smile at him as he returns the gesture, cautiously taking a step forward into your space, Dieter’s hands finding their home cupping your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. You can see the internal battle waging behind his eyes, no doubt trying to figure out what to say in an attempt to not set you off again.

You give him some much deserved grace, bringing your own hands up to wrap around his wrists, feeling his pulse beating rapidly below your fingertips. You take a shallow breath before attempting to apologize, but yet again Dieter beats you to the punch.

“I won't pretend to know what's running through that brilliant mind of yours, but if I've done anything to upset you…” his gaze quickly drops to your lips before flicking back up to meet your eyes, “... I'm sorry.”

“No, no you really don't meed to apologize Dieter, I… fuck.”

You snap your eyes shut, afraid to see the inevitable look of pity. You can't look him in the eyes when you say it. Brilliant my ass, more like a fucking coward.

“I'm just so embarrassed, that was so unprofessional and I know everybody is pissed that I messed up yet another take and I just… I couldn't deny it any longer. And I'm so sorry I took you by surprise like that, it was completely uncalled for and mmfph-”

Dieters lips come crashing down on your own, silencing your babbling. Your hold on his wrists tighten as you immediately match his fervor, not caring that you're already struggling to take a breath, his is the only oxygen you need at this moment. Before you can get too lost in the kiss, he breaks it off, resting his forehead against yours while you both try to regain your breath.

He nuzzles your nose before smirking, “there, now we're even.”

A surprised and delighted giggle escapes your lips, holding onto his wrists even tighter, filing away every second of this that you can before the moment is over. But Dieter was always full of surprises.

“And if you'll let me, I'd very much like to do that again. Maybe later, after dinner?”

You can’t stop the goofy grin spreading across your face as you respond.

“I think we could work something out.”

Thank you to anyone who reads this, comments and reblogs are never expected, but always appreciated. I'm just happy there's someone out there who might enjoy the things I have to say ❤️

tagging some Dieter moots (no pressure to read or reblog obvi): @sp00kymulderr @perotovar @covetyou @chronically-ghosted @yopossum @whatsnewalycat @kedsandtubesocks @whocaresstillthelouvre @pedrostories @beefrobeefcal @seventeenpins @ozarkthedog @pedrit0-pascalit0

[hachama]

I haven't taken any Tylenol today.

I've been drinking herbal tea and water, and I ate a little birthday cake and a bowl of soup.

I feel incredibly shitty, but also I want to make sure when I see my doctor tomorrow morning I have a full understanding of my symptoms, unmasked by medication.

The phone nurse asked me to do an at home covid test and verified that the ones I have are still considered reliable. The test was negative.

Last night my cheeks were so flushed I felt like I had a sunburn. My temperature was 97.7. This morning, with no fever symptoms, my temperature was 95.9. So that's fun.

I'm also out of my favorite tea and running low on soup.

[contentloadingandstuff]

Dark Days - Yae Miko x Male!Reader

A/N: That's right, angst is on the menu today boyz. CW: Descriptions of disease, Kitsune!Reader, Reader death.

Creatures of lesser might are naturally attracted to their superiors. The strongest wolf leads the pack, the biggest Hilichurl commands the others, even the fascinating humans flock to the banners of those strongest in body or mind. Kitsune are no exception. 

There wasn't a day in your centuries of life that was lacking in kitsune. Those of your kind that haven't yet reached sapience always seemed to somehow stumble into your presence, guided by some sort of inexplicable magnetism. You and Miko often debated on the reason why these sly creatures could always find you. Maybe they sought to learn from you and follow your lead into ascension? Perhaps it was simply instinct or scent mixed with curiosity, it wasn't clear. What was clear, however, was that you couldn't help but interact with them. Their little ears and cute snouts never failed to make you share some delicious fish or egg with them. 

Foxes didn't make for good pets only, however. They could understand your commands and would carry them out flawlessly, as long as they were within their ability. Their main use was delivering letters from you and to you. What better use than make them the envoys of the Envoys? The irony never ceased to amuse you. 

There were some quarrels every now and then, obviously. These were still wild animals at heart. Sometimes they were moody and would stay away, sometimes you would accidentally step on their tail, earning a squeak and an offended glare from them. When one of these cuties would get too much into playtime, you would get a nibble or two. Neither you nor Miko paid any mind - they were shallow at worst and healed within a single day or two. 

That day wasn't any different. Miko needed to send a message to a Shumuutsuban agent, and she enlisted your help. You called a kitsune over, and before long one emerged from the nearby shrubbery. Just when it approached and you leaned down to attach the message to its back did you notice how dirty and skinny the creature was. It seemed dazed, its steps were unsure and shaky, lacking the usual tact and elegance of your kind’s thread. Regardless, you gave it directions. Just as you moved your hands closer, the fox sank its teeth into your hand. 

You yelped and struck it with a painful, but harmless Electro shock, and it scurried away. Never did you see a fox so snappy, and you were Miko’s husband. Ultimately, you cursed the animal under your breath and moved on with your day. 

Days passed. Absorbed by the soon approaching summer festival, you didn’t pay attention to the minor injury you sustained, even when the red spot didn’t seem to go away as it should. Miko noticed it by accident one day and questioned you. You just shrugged. 

“I guess it’s sunburn? I really should apply some sun cream.”

You did as you said, but even after an entire week of careful treatment, the “burn” was still where it was. More - it seemingly expanded, with the skin feeling just as smooth as the rest of your body. Miko’s curiosity turned into concern when the area became hot to the touch. Something wasn’t quite right with your hand, and yet you claimed to feel nothing out of the ordinary. To test this, Miko pinched your skin and was promptly taken aback by your complete lack of reaction to the stimulus. 

When the heat spread through your whole body, you called in a physician. Much to Miko’s relief, a short examination revealed that it was nothing but a minor infection from a neglected cut. 

Your wife spoke her farewells to the good doctor and took a few days off to keep you company. After all, what good would the medicine do you if you didn’t have the support you needed? Your fever dropped, giving both of you some much needed peace of mind. It was a fantastic opportunity to spoil you, even if kisses or cuddling were out of the picture - Miko didn’t want to bother with coughs, fever or any of the many unpleasantries sickness carried with itself. You were positively adorable, resting in the guest bed and becoming all flustered whenever she brought you tea, food or read you a book. 

But her smile was short-lived. 

Just a few days after the visit, the fever returned, higher than ever. Your forehead was close to burning to the touch. With the fever came sweat - constant sweat, drenching every bit of the sheets and blankets. Shivering, you lost most water in your body almost overnight. 

When Miko saw you in the morning, a cold shiver ran down her spine. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, your eyes wide open and blinking slightly, your skin shiny with sweat. You mumbled to her about wanting something to drink, but your voice was… wrong. Damaged, hoarse, as if your very throat had been scraped and mangled by a knife. There was a thick line of drool flowing from your agape mouth. 

“Water…” You moaned. “Please…”

It wasn’t long before a glass of the drink rested in your hand. Despite your state, your delirious expression betrayed hesitation. Miko stretched out her arm to hold you, but stopped herself shortly. She couldn’t risk catching whatever you had. 

“Honey, please drink it. It will do your body good.” She spoke in a calm, almost motherly voice, soothing and composed. 

With a shaking hand you lifted the glass to your lips. As soon as the water touched your lip, your throat spasmed, forcing you to spit it out. The glass fell to the floor, its life saving contents rejected by your very self. 

Miko spoke not a word more and rushed to the palace. It didn’t take long to explain the emergency, as Ei has been paying visits to your house ever since your condition confined you to the bed. Within less than an hour Ei gathered every medic she had at her service and led them back to you. 

—

Miko leads the humans through her house. Her steps are nervous, yet determination shines in her pupils. Everything will be alright now that the very Shogun brought the best of the best to your bedside. 

She opens your door, able to cast just one pained glance at your restless, miserable form. Your breathing is so heavy she can hear it from beyond the threshold. Miko turns to Ei, who nods at the doctors. They move into the room one by one. Miko turns to follow them, but is stopped by Ei’s arm on her shoulder. 

“Trust them. They know their trade and focus is what they need now.” 

Miko looks down. She shakes her head. “Yes. Of course.”

They sit down in the living room. Miko is fidgeting with her fingers. No words exit the lips of any of the two women. The tension hangs thick in the room, audible sounds of the researchers murmuring to each other being the only to break the deafening silence. 

Before long, the door opens. Miko jumps up and watches the men approach. Their expressions, graced with many scars of experience and age, are bleak. They look at each other nervously. Miko can hardly contain herself. 

“Speak!” She growls. “What is happening to my husband?”

One of them coughs. “It is…”

Silence. 

“Hydrophobia.” Another completes the sentence. 

Miko’s eyes grow wide. A smile of disbelief makes its way to her lips. She scoffs. 

“What? You can’t be serious.”

Reading the room, Ei stands by Miko in silence. 

“Lady Yae Miko, we are certain-” “So what if it is hydrophobia? Treat it.” Her eyes narrow. 

“There is no known cure to the disease. We are sorry.”

“Ah, is that so?” 

She makes a step forward. Her eyes meet those of the medic. 

“Fascinating. Isn’t it your job to cure? If you cannot do that, then what use are you, anyway?”

The man tugs at the collar of his outfit. His eyes dart from the kitsune to the floor and back. 

“You are worthless.” 

Her open hand raises and lands on the cheek of the elderly man, the sheer force of the blow making him reel back. Miko bares her fangs in rage, but before she can do another move, Ei grabs her by her kimono and turns her body to face her. 

“Stop this! Do not raise your hand at them, they are not the ones to blame.”

Miko groans and tries to push her friend away, but the god’s superior strength renders her efforts futile. Their eyes meet. Ei remains calm and collected. The stillness of her features chills Miko’s anger. 

Moments pass in silence.  

“We need to secure him. We cannot risk him going feral and hurting anybody.” She speaks, the decisiveness in her voice plain to hear. 

“I know.” 

A tear runs down Miko’s cheek. She smiles through the choking sensation, wiping her eyes with her hand. 

“I… I just don’t… want him to l-leave.” She shakes her head. “Not yet. N-not yet.” 

Miko lets her gaze fall downwards. Ei issues a command and the doctors re-enter your room. The fox remains paralyzed, her mind too dazed to form a coherent sentence. 

She wants to speak out. Protest. She wants to rip the humans to shreds, limb from limb, she wants to spit blasphemies at Ei for letting all this happen. At the same time, she wants to fall to her knees and kiss their feet, begging them to do something. Anything. 

But her mind knows. It knows that she shouldn't lash out as she sees the scientists take you out of your bed on a stretcher, yet her mind struggles. To understand. 

The stretcher stops next to her. She places her hand on the towel covering your forehead, her finger still bearing the ring that bound you and her together all these years ago. 

“Goodbye, my love.”

Until death does us apart. 

Thanks for reading.

[planetary-gus]

Some downsides to the demigods powers/just being a demigod in general

Quick TW, I advise you tread with caution because some of these can be darker than the rest

1. When Will heals he's literally putting a piece of his own health into someone's body, so if he goes too far he'll end up killing himself

2. All the Apollo kids have very very sensitive ears, which contributes to sensory issues, getting overwhelmed, and meltdowns

3. Hazel/the Hecate kids struggle separating reality from illusion sometimes and can be prone to psychosis and hallucinations

4. Hypnos kids very ironically have insomnia

5. Similarly, Poseidon kids are prone to dehydration

6. Zeus kids are obviously asthmatic

7. The Hades kids have hypermobility issues/hEDS

8. Any chthonic demigods also struggle with fainting disorders

9. Some Hermes kids have ironic navigation issues, and can never remember any directions they're given

10. Apollo kids can't lie even if their life is directly on the line

11. Aphrodite kids are prone to NPD and struggle to form relationships

12. Ares kids are just as prone to BPD or bipolar and struggle with vulnerability and letting people in

13. Rachel commonly dissociates and sometimes feels like her body isn't actually hers

14. Hazel has problems with stiff muscles and her body feeling like a rock itself

15. Frank sometimes forgets he's actually a person

16. Athena kids are prone to anxiety and panic disorders, paranoia, and agoraphobia

17. Reyna forgets she has an actual body of her own

18. Demigods in general are prone to POTS or autoimmune disorders

19. Leo is sensitive to any other kind of burn except fire (steamburns/carpetburn/sunburn/etc)

20. Nico is prone to hypothermia if he overuses his powers

21. Leo and Will are both prone to overheating from their powers

22. Iris kids are ironically either colorblind, or have the color perception a shrimp. There is no in between.

23. Dionysus kids often have ABS (Auto-Brewery Syndrome)

24. Hephaestus kids are prone to heat stroke/fevers

25. As well as issues with weakness and fragile bones/joints in their legs

26. Some Apollo kids can scream so loud they can burst eardrums or even stun those close enough, although this usually leaves them with raw, bleeding throats

27. Demeter kids are prone to scoliosis due to how frequently they need to bend down to garden

28. Hermes kids usually mask their real personalities with a "chaotic mask" so they usually forget what they're really like

29. Iris kids are very sensitive to light and often need to wear sunglasses just to be able to walk around because of retina sensitivity

30. Occasionally, Athena kids can experience degeneration in their optic nerves that can cause blindness and eventually spread to other areas of the body (bilateral optic neuropathy is what I believe it's called but feel free to correct me on that)

Add to this list as you please, and this was all just some silly things me an my gf thought of, I apologize if we upset anyone

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

What do you think Katniss and Peeta’s unexpected turn ons are? Like a small innocent thing about the other that drives them wild just because they really love them so much? And makes the other one go “really? 😉”

This was way too much fun to answer and got out of hand. I could probably think up a thousand more of these if I had the time.

<3 kdnfb

Canonically, Peeta cannot lie to Katniss and look her in the eyes. When she figures out that he still can’t post-mj, she uses it to her advantage. She can always tell when he’s trying to fib his way out of accidentally revealing an innocuous secret or a surprise he’s planning, like what he’s getting her for her birthday. And it drives her a little insane. Like “either look me in the eyes when you try to lie to me or take me to bed right now, since you won’t give me my present right now.”

Katniss is a consummate caretaker, to an almost annoying degree. Fortunately for her, she husbanded someone with a caretaker kink. That boy was dying of blood poisoning, raging with fever in a deathmatch arena, and he was still laying down the lines and making her laugh. Every time she fusses over him or bosses him around when he’s got a minor injury or just a little sniffling cold, that man is in full on flirt mode and dragging her into bed with him. “I’ve got a surefire way you can make me feel better.” “If we have sex, will you stop whining and get up so I can wash the sheets afterwards?” she sighs in exasperation as she’s stripping off her clothes and crawling under the covers with him.

Meanwhile, Katniss goes feral whenever Peeta gets a little protective of her. Some whackadoo from the Capitol comes out to Twelve to check on the progress of the new medicine factory and brings a limousine with him on the train, but the roads in Twelve are not made for cars like that and the idiot almost runs people over. So of course, Peeta wraps his arm around his wife and bodily lifts her out of the path. One second she’s walking through town, reciting her shopping list, the next she’s pressed up against a storefront with Peeta’s body caging her in and some idiot driver is careening past, honking his horn. And if you think Katniss doesn’t almost climb him right there and he has to toss her over his shoulder to drag her home before she tears his clothes off, I cannot help you.

Both of them become unhinged morons whenever the other one is a complete mess. 

By this I mean Katniss comes in from tending the garden, her shirt all sweaty and clinging to her. Her hair’s a mess and she’s got a little sunburn on her nose and cheeks and Peeta’s already naked, demanding she take him on the spot. 

Similar response when she comes home a little disheveled from a hunt. “At least let me put the meat in the freezer first, Peeta.” Nope. She gets railed up against said freezer and can’t keep a straight face when they have to invite Haymitch over to eat all this meat because they had to cook it immediately after or it would’ve gone bad.

Peeta starts coming home from the bakery deliberately a little messy. Flour in his hair, sugar stuck to his neck. A random smear of frosting on his arm. Why? Because Katniss starts squirming the instant she sees him and honestly, he really likes it when she mounts him in the hallway because she couldn’t make it the five extra feet to the bedroom.

He’s lost count of how many times they’ve had sex because he didn’t get all the paint washed off his hands before a meal or before bed. And he almost never notices the smear of paint or pencil dust that winds up on his left temple because he brushed back his hair at some point while he was painting/drawing and why is that so hot? She has no clue, all she knows is that she wants to bathe in him. Usually, she manages to wait a little while for that one, mainly because she wants to see what he was painting before she jumps him. What he was painting often dictates the flavor of their sex.

He doesn’t paint the Games as much, after the first time she tells him “Real,” but when he does, the sex is tender and usually happens in the art studio itself, on a paint splattered sofa or on the floor, rolling around on his floor tarps so that both of them are smeared with paint afterwards.

If he’s painting her or other people that they love, they’ll make it up to the bedroom before clothes start flying, laughing and teasing each other the entire way. Katniss will be laughing so hard she snorts while she’s moaning and coming at the same time. Peeta lives to make her snort laughing while she’s coming, btw. Huge turn on, switch flipped to feral mode as soon as she's done coming, and Katniss feels like she won’t be able to walk straight for a day after he finishes inside her.

He uses her as a canvas? Well eventually he's gonna wind up covered in paint too. They go until the paint starts to dry and by then, they're sleepy and content and can barely move anymore.

Painting landscapes and nature scenes? Absolutely feral pig sex where the neighbors worry about them and ask each other if they should… knock? Make sure everyone is still alive in there? Katniss really can’t walk straight for a day after that, but she’s not complaining. Instead she’s demanding her husband carry her around, because he did that to her, after all.

Sadly for Katniss, Peeta carrying her around is something she absolutely loves for the tenderness and silliness of it, but also at times it turns her into a raving madwoman "take me to bed and throw me on it then fuck me this instant before I pull out all my hair, husband!"

And ho buddy, when the two of them come home all sweaty and gross from rebuilding the district? Round one on the floor in the entryway. Round two with skin squealing on shower walls and borderline screaming moans echoing off the bathroom walls. Hair pulling, biting, clawing sex. Let me inside your skin, ten minutes later we’re still actively sweating well damn it that shower was fucking pointless in terms of getting clean sex.

Katniss eats her pie backwards, crust first and Peeta doesn’t know why, but for some reason, he thinks it’s adorable and needs to have her instantly. Haymitch wonders why he no longer gets pie on nights when he eats dinner with them. There’s always dessert… but no pie. So Peeta starts baking Haymitch his own pies and dropping them off, because he’s not giving up his absolute need to toss Katniss on the table and eat her out like he’s a dying man whenever she eats her pie like that.

Peeta looks like he’s solving all of the world’s problems when he’s brushing his teeth. So serious. Sometimes, Katniss will throw small objects at his prosthetic until he notices and giggles when he does, looking at her like she’s an annoying brat. Sometimes, she sneaks up behind him and makes faces at him over his shoulder until he laughs and spits out the toothpaste. Other times, her hands on him are incredibly naughty and the next thing he knows, he looks like a rabid animal in the mirror while he’s bent over the sink, holding on for dear life with her hands on his dick, unraveling him one caress and stroke at a time. But whatever she does, it ends with their sheets an absolute wreck and both of them naked and sweaty and staring at the ceiling going “Wow. So that… happened…”

Katniss bites her nails when she’s nervous and Peeta fixes it by snatching her hand and kissing her from her fingertips up her arms to her neck… where he blows a raspberry until she’s laughing. Do smutty things happen after that? Depends on the setting.

Peeta still flirts with her. Like blatantly, let's see how red I can get my wife’s face flirting with her over the bakery counter or in the town square, in front of literally everyone’s salad. And Katniss just melts like a loon but is secretly plotting how to get him naked asap. She’s not against throwing him against the nearest tree if only there weren’t so many people in the district. Oh but she’s absolutely savaged him against several trees in the woods because he was flirting.

Peeta whistles when he’s working in the bakery. Katniss thinks it’s adorable and sexy as hell. She sings in the shower and Peeta never misses the show, sitting on the toilet or just standing against the sink just to hear her sing. It’s the only time he manages to move silently.

Katniss cannot keep her hands out of Peeta’s hair. Girl is obsessed. And Peeta finds it at turns, adorable, adorably annoying, a mild turn on, or holy hell hot. Like “pull my hair again when I make you come” hot. Conversely, she absolutely loves it when Peeta brushes and braids her hair for her. He’s trying to have a tender, loving moment, and she’s often “are you done yet because as soon as that hair tie is on, i’m gonna be all over you.”

Both of them absolutely love it when the other one laughs. It’s not always a turn on, per se, but when it is… lord have mercy they broke a whole ass bed one time because Peeta laughed at something Katniss said.

Peeta wearing loose, soft pajama pants or the like. Katniss is all hot and bothered and “i’m not that big you can definitely fit me in there with you…” Peeta looks at her like she’s lost it, but they actually do try it once or twice. Numerous pairs of pants have been ripped and sewn back together in this pursuit, and not because she couldn’t fit in there with him.

He’s long since accepted that if they’re dressing up for some occasion, he has to get dressed two hours early. To give Katniss enough time to rip it all off and have her way with him and still have time for them to shower and get dressed again so they’re not late.

Anytime Katniss wears one of his shirts, sweaters, etc, he’s pretty sure he’s going to die unless he gets his mouth or hands on her and then his cock inside her because half the time, she’s not wearing a bra or pants with them, just panties, and he just… has to have her. NOW. While said garment is still on her body. Especially a particular red sweater he was wearing the day they had sex the first time and she wore it the morning after.

She absolutely has a sunset orange nightie that nearly gets removed (or not removed) every time she wears it, but removed or not… either way, Katniss can’t feel her toes after Peeta makes her come as many times as he can whenever she wears it. 

[ghoulphile]

I am RATTLING THE BARS OF MY ENCLOSURE WITH EXCITEMENT!!!! do you have an idea of when the chapter will be up???

this is me rn:

and.... bc i love you, here's a treat ❤️~

Then broad palms slide beneath the rucked up hem.

The calloused fingers of one hand chart a path up the line of your stocking, Cooper’s blunt nails skipping across nylon until sheer fabric blends into a delicate dusting of lace covered elastic. The other cups your thigh, his thumb tucking under the garter strap to caress an angry indent.

You tremble.

“Soft and pretty; how the hell’d an old fella like me get so goddamn lucky?”

At the drag of roughened skin, your clit twitches. Meanwhile, goosebumps prickle down your bare arms, baby hairs standing on end as axons fizz and pop. You sigh. “Cooper — oh, I need you — please.”

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Keep talking to me, sugar.”

The unexpected drag of a forefinger over the front of your panties catches you off guard, sends you reeling as a bitten off mewl tears itself from your throat. Your hands shake as you struggle to restrain yourself, hyperaware of the tranquil silence of the apartment interrupted only by an occasional murmur of the TV from down the hall.

“Don’t! I - I can’t--”

Even though the fabric keeps Cooper from touching bare skin, the grind of his knuckles along your pussy feels like a punch to the gut. Your toes curl and your hands yank at the roots of his hair. “Hhn!”

“Thought you said you could keep quiet. Did you lie to me, sweetheart?”

“No, I promise I can. Just not when you d-do things like that…”

His brow quirks. “Why don’t we put that to the test then?”

“Cooper, what’re you — hng! S-Shit, I--!”

He circles the swollen nub of your clit with his thumb, humming in approval when it twitches against the pad of his finger before inching down to the damp seat of your panties. “Fuck, you’re soaked. I can’t believe you’re letting me touch you like this.”

As he plays with the sticky evidence of your arousal, tracing your folds and teasing at your entrance, shame burns quick and bright. Coils behind your navel, a viper in the shade, as little sparks of black thread through blooming passion.

Bastard.

You sniffle, glaring at him through teary eyes. “You said you wouldn’t tease.”

Tiny aftershocks rock through your frame as your legs clamp around his flexing wrist; nerve endings raw and exposed. The languid strokes of his fingers are tantamount to torture.

You’re going to burn up, supernova bright, if he doesn’t stop.

Who knew being silent was so hard?

You’d never struggled before (then again, maybe that says something about the sex you’ve been having) but Janey’s a room away. There’s no other choice, and you’ve wanted this for too long to stop now.

“Well, now, I don’t recall making any promises.”

Cooper smiles, pulling back the hood of your clit through the thin layer of ruined fabric with startling accuracy. His palms stop the squirm of your hips as you try to arch away, electric shocks lancing through you at the rough friction against exposed nerves.

“Guess I can’t seem to help myself. It’s your fault for looking so pretty.”

He’s the furthest from apologetic.

In fact, his voice is low and whiskey rough — full of grit and gravel.

It scrapes down your spine, sinks into your bones. Makes your eyes squeeze shut as you chew on the fat of your lip. A fever creeps up the sides of your neck, settles into the apples of your cheeks; the skin swollen and tight like a sunburn.

A shaky noise of disbelief tumbles from your mouth.

“Don’t lie,” you mumble, your hands flying up to cover your face. His chest vibrates with a snicker and your shoulders tuck towards your ears, elbows drawn into your ribs. “I know you’re loving this, Mr. Howard.”

Cooper groans.

When you peek through splayed fingers, your breath catches.

White lightning. Silken heat.

His dark gaze rests past your chin, caressing the compressed swell of your breasts with avarice. Your arms pushed them up past the neckline of your sundress, the dainty trim of lace mere inches away from exposing your nipples.

“Well, well, well. Looks like I’m not the only one, sweetheart.”

A hand extricates itself from the skirt, snaking up your torso to palm over a curve of exposed skin, fingertips testing the plush weight of your chest with a gentle squeeze. “How long were you planning on this happening, huh?”

“I--”

“Ah,” Cooper tsks, dragging his thumb over where your nipple is, “None of that now. An honest question deserves a proper answer, don’t you think?”

Your hands press on the back of his to strengthen his touch. White static dances along your nerve endings, your nipple pulling into a tight peak as a fluttery sensation roosts in the valley between your hips.

“Since,” your lips tremble on an exhale, and when you swallow, it feels like shards of glass, “since the beginning… Was waiting for the day you’d look at me — see me. Nothing worked, and I almost gave up. But then I caught you staring, and I — Coop, please.”

[abigailxoxo]

Some more of my Kai headcannons because you guys really like them⁉️

(wink wink at fanfic writers bcuz i would love to read that/nf)

-When he gets upset, his temperature rises! (for ex, hair steaming, SUPER HIGH FEVER, and risk of clothes catching on fire ) so its very noticeable to the others

- he does not care about his health. his top priority is his brothers/sisters health, and he will risk his life for them before even thinking! it was never about his ego, he was reckless so they were safe <3

-sunburns REALLY EASILY 😭

-he will still go to the beach with the others, but just chills under the umbrella because of his aqua phobia (and yell at everyone to put on sunscreen while he forgets to🙄)

-hes the type of person that when he gets super frustrated he’ll just start crying

-often hides his injuries well because of his red gi and the blood blending in (never succeeds for long because he gets injured a lot protecting them🥹)

-does all the outside chores in the winter because the cold doesnt bother him, and he wants his siblings to not get sick💕

-LOVES spicy food

-does great in the cold, HORRIBLE IN THE HEAT (i have more description on this headcannon somewhere on here lol)