#i have so much baggage that if you squint you will think you are looking at an airport

[hikarry]

i have a crush on u. are u into tboys with problems

A crush on me? Jesus Christ, my man. That probably means ya need therapy or smt

As for the rest... well, let’s just say I’ve got a soft spot for chaos. Tboys with problems? Sounds like my usual Tuesday.

But don’t think you can out-problem me. Life is a competition and I'll be damned if I let ya be more fucked up mentally than I am. I’ve got a few millennia of issues under my belt, and they’re very well-established, thank you

[gutterfuuck]

Can I request a mark drabble w/ breeding kink 👉👈 I'd love either bff mark or sinister mark but if you go the sinister route can I be a bit of a coward and ask that he be a little. Softer. Maybe specifically for the reader bc I am a little pansy and I get unrealistically offended when I'm condescended or treated like property, and while it would be hot if this man talked down to me I would also be inclined to punch him in the baby maker and then we'd all suffer bc no smut would ensue 😭

Sorry, I just dumped a bit of unwarranted baggage on u there but you come off as really sweet in all your posts so I hope it didn't bother you too much! Thank you for all of your posts btw your writing is delicious! Also your English is very good, you have a great grasp of the language and I respect and appreciate all the effort you must put into making all of your writing so articulate. English especially is said to be very hard to learn so I immensely respect the effort that goes into it, regardless of any/how much help you require/accept to do so. Manifesting a mild inconvenience to that anon a while back who accused you of faking for some reason I hope they step on a wet kitchen tile while wearing socks or something and rethink how they choose to speak to people online. 😊♡

hello anon!! thank you so much for your considerations, maybe it is because i am emotional since i get very choked up when it is birthday season but this had made me cry happy tears 😭😭 also, i agree!! if anyone was to talk to me like i am disposable in real life, i think that i would break down and disintegrate haha!! it is not cowardly to ask for things, do not be swayed!! baggage is never unwanted here, i am the baggage 😂!! i will do the upmost of my best ability, as i have been waiting to write for s!mark again 🤭🤭 also, i do agree people should be more mindful about what they say to others! you never know what anyone is going through, just because you can hide behind a screen mask doesn’t mean you should or can be mean to people!! i do not judge those who do though, they will learn as months and years pass, people do learn and change!!

cw: mdni, smut, breeding kink, just a little drable to warm up my fingers hehe!! minor injury, reader patches him up

you could hear your husband come crashing through the juliet balcony of your bedroom, bumping into the bed and waking you up fully. you bolted up, scanning the darkness of the room and staring at the silhouette of your lover, crouched over in the shadows. “mark?” you peep, eyes still adjusting as you clicked on the bedside lamp, your eyes instantly closing when the brightness took you by surprise.

he looks back at you, pulling his mask with its flimsy broken black goggles off of his face and discarding it to the floor with a heavy sigh. mark always found it so cute how you’d gasp with your hands flying to cover your mouth when he returned with an injury, your worried eyes looking him over as you jump out from under the covers, hands flying up to cover his cheeks and observe his cut nose bridge, one of his eyes squinted due to the budding bruise on his upper cheekbone, “gonna nurse me back to health, baby?” he asks, smiling down at you and placing a kiss to your forehead. he listens to you lecture him about being careful when visiting other planets, rolling his eyes like he’d really just die like that. you knew he was tough, but it didn’t hurt to be concerned.

he sits on the side of the bathtub in the bathroom, tilting his face to the side so you could rub his injuries down with antiseptic solution, mumbling something about how he was still half human so he still had to be a little careful. he didn’t know how many times he’d had to tell you that even though he was still half human everything else was 100% brutal alien. each time he told you, you ignored it. maybe you liked patching him up, placing cute bandages on his face to stop his bleeding. he was hardly injured but he’d be damned if he didn’t let his cute little wife dote on him like this, the sleeves of your fluffy gown he’d bought home for you rolled up your arms as you fiddle with the first aid kit.

“y’know what’d me me feel better?” mark says, taking your hands into his. god, he could just crush you right now, you were so adorable. you hum in response, intertwining your fingers with his as he brings them to his lips, trailing kisses up your arm and pulling you closer, inching towards you slowly. your mouth hangs open with a breathless silent mewl as his lips stop just by your jawline, finding it hard to hold himself back from nipping your skin and marking you up. you nod at his earlier question which draws a chuckle from him, hands moving down to grip your hips and pull you onto his lap, “let’s go to bed, then.”

you’ve got your face in the crook of his neck, holding onto his back as he pistoned his hips in and out of your tight heat, never being shameful of your moans. music to his ears, he thought, letting you cry out so desperately into the night. if you had neighbours you’re sure they’d complain. he groaned when he felt you clench around him, muscled thighs stuttering for a moment as you suffocated his cock within your walls. “oh, babygirl-“ he tilts his head back, holding you firmly as your legs wrap around his waist, practically bouncing you up and down on his dick himself, “m-mark..-!” you squeal, voice raspy and throat dry when you feel him buck up into your g-spot, weeping head poking at it repeatedly, trying to pull your orgasm out of you. you whine loudly, holding onto him like you’d fall apart if you let go.

“shhh, s’okay, hold onto me like that, there we go.” mark comforts you, such a strange comparison from when he’s out causing mayhem to now. if those who opposed him were to see him right now, they’d think he’d be a different person. he was so soft with you, treated you like you were made of porcelain and you loved it. you were glad that you’d somehow tamed him in a way, molded him into your perfect husband as he made you into his perfect wife. domestic bliss.

you stifle your noises with his shoulder, softly biting on it as he snapped his hips up into yours vigorously, his own orgasm approaching hard and fast. you could feel the way his cock throbbed inside of you, the way he slowed his hips a little before trying to keep up his pace. “so tight, always so perfect n’ tight f’me, aren’t you?” you nod brainlessly into his shoulder and he coos at you, eyebrows furrowed together as he gasps lightly.

“i’m gonna cum, princess.” he says breathlessly, humping against you for his own orgasm, “inside…” you whisper to him and he almost loses it right there, almost falls over when he thinks about the implications it might have. “inside? yeah-fuck, gonna let me cum inside, just for me?” mark pants, pussydrunk figure caging you in under him as he chases his orgasm, “gimme a kid… f-fuck, gimme a baby, wanna make you a mama… g’na look so perfect— fuh-uck..!” he babbles, vision blanking as he cums inside of you, wave after wave of his warm seed spilling into your cunt, seeping into your womb. he canted his hips a few more times, almost fucking himself into overstimulation as he continued talking, “..gonna give me a mini me, huh? complete our little family?” he asks as you nod in agreement, too fucked out to even process what he’d said to you just now.

[cheralith]

vogue (chapter two) — boss/fashion designer!geto suguru x reader ; REASONS

series synopsis ; even without much knowledge in the world of fashion, you decide that it's in your best interest to work for the country's fashion magazine powerhouse to propel your career as a journalist. however, you begin to second-guess your decision when you're faced with the grueling labor of its one and only editor-in-chief who expects nothing less of perfection. can your efficiency meet his standards or will you be out the door before you can even blink? masterlist

contains ; editor-in-chief!geto, fashion designer!geto, assistant!reader, assistant turned muse!reader, platonic roommate!ino, modern au, angst, slowburn, co-workers-to-lovers, some crack if you squint

chapter synopsis ; it's chaos at kaizen magazine and the entirety of its staff, including its editor-in-chief is stressed. you meet a particular individual at the coffeehouse who seems all too the familiar for some reason whose strange words encourage you to dabble in the world of modelling in a desperate moment.

chapter tags/warnings; she/her pronouns, afab!reader, blood mention (reader gets mild cut on finger), reader models but no mention of body descriptions, some parts not edited

chapter word count: 8.9k

now playing ; reasons - minnie riperton

↩ previous chapter next chapter ↪

Somehow, you think that your boss has it out for you more than usual this week. Granted, he’s been giving you a stink eye at all times since you first started, but you’re getting the gut feeling it’s more prominent this time around. Be it the upcoming charity gala tomorrow or the stress of pushing out this month’s issue due to some last minute… adjustments—you wouldn’t be surprised if Geto is using you as his punching bag for his own relief. 

He has never yelled at you, per se, but his soft-spoken insults and scoldings hurt you far more than anything. Whether it be you stumbling ever so slightly over your own two feet in front of him or something as miniscule as simply accidentally taking out a pen that’s lacking ink when jotting notes, Geto always seems to have some sort of reprimand at the ready. 

“Why is this packet stapled so awkwardly? You could be covering vital information.”

“Coffee spoons exist for a reason. There’s no reason why I should be using a dessert spoon for my latte.”

“I do wish you spoke with less ‘um’s and ‘uh’s every now and then. It’s quite bothersome.”

You just wish that the job application had listed “Must take on editor-in-chief’s emotional baggage 24/7.” if you knew that this job would just be mentally draining as it is physically. And to think it’s only been only around four and a half months since you’ve started! Obviously, being editor-in-chief of one of the largest and powerful magazines in the nation is going to be mentally depleting, but is there such a need to take it out on the poor associates? 

Your mind reflects back to witnessing an intern accidentally running into Geto amidst last night’s crisis when the office was busy about attempting to piece together the issue into one piece before the publisher’s deadline today, the intern’s impact causing a confetti of cut-out paper to fly about everywhere and making Geto’s afternoon matcha pick-me-up splatter green all over his cream white top. He had gently told the shaking intern, amidst his many apologies, that it was no worries before quietly telling you to head down to HR to terminate him by the end of this week. 

Chills run down your spine when you remember how quickly Geto’s smile faded and gentle eyes disappeared as they morphed into amethyst daggers the moment his back was turned to the intern. Though… you do give credit to the intern for making his shirt still somehow look fabulous with the earthy green splatter—a feat only a former fashion model was able to do. 

You don’t remember when the last time you came home before 11:00pm was or when was the last time you ate three complete meals in a day and not just crumbs of convenience store snacks. It’s been such a hectic week wrapping up the month’s issue that you’re suddenly back to your college days slurping ramen and drinking any drink that contains any amount of caffeine to give back your energy. 

You hear the beep of the microwave sing through the kitchen right next to yours and Manami’s desks, signaling your instant ramen was done, but before you can even get up, you hear the muffled sound of a something being broken inside Geto’s office, causing you and Manami to jump. Gazes suddenly flicking toward each other, with neither of you daring to make another move, a moment of complete silence drifts by before you dare to breathe out ever so quietly and almost instantaneously, Manami shouts, “Not it!” 

“Not—oh, fine…” A groan drags out of you and your eyes roll as you brush off the prideful look Manami has on her face. 

With great hesitation, you avert your direction to the frosted glass window of Geto’s office that sits a little too politely between you and Manami’s desks. Somehow, with each step you take, the impending doom that sits at the bottom of your churning stomach grows bigger and bigger and you can just barely brace yourself for the scolding that you’re about to receive—even if the cause of Geto’s frustration may have not even been at your own fault.

Your shaking knuckles go to rap at his door. A grumbled “come in” barely seeps its way through the door. You allow yourself with great reluctance to open the door to reveal a heavily breathing Geto Suguru, veins visible on his neck and forehead from the pent-up irritation that has been boiling for the past few days with the double whammy of the charity gala and the month’s issue attempting to be push out on time, which may not even be the case given that many columns had to be changed due to a specific supermodel’s recent scandal.

Upon entering your boss’s office, it was near impossible to miss the shattered glass of cucumber water that was clearly thrown at the wall behind himself, a splotch of the carpet now darkened slightly from the original color. Geto caved inwards towards his desk, his blazer from his three-piece set now draped messily over his chair and his usually neatly-made hair a little more frazzled out of its hair band than usual. On his desk were an array of magazine splits with a pile of cut-outs dedicated to said model. It startles you how many pages she had appeared in given how hefty the pile was.

“Why couldn’t she behave after the issue was printed…” Geto seethes under his breath as a poor page of the magazine draft crumples under his grip. 

You can see in his trash can the tabloid that featured the supermodel, who allegedly slandered her fellow upcoming star of a colleague backstage of a recent fashion show with the cameras still rolling in order to document the behind the scenes of all the glitz and glamour. While it was normal for models to shade one another to fight for the spotlight, her remarks in particular were rather nasty and brutish, so much so that it caused outrage amongst the public and with the latter supermodel’s fans who ended up revealing her rather… dishonorable social media presence. 

Needless to say, having her as the starlight of this month’s issue before it entered the public eye would prove disastrous for Kaizen. She decorated a large portion of the magazine from front cover to back, but the magazine couldn’t afford to have such a trashy person as their graphic ambassador—especially since there has been little to no dirt on the magazine up until now. Geto works hard to make sure any possible slander against the magazine was dealt with as soon as possible before the public could hear about it. You didn’t know how—preferably, you don’t want to know—but he does it somehow.

But the news and the outrage regarding the supermodel had been leaked only a mere eight days before the issue was to be printed, giving the entire department only eight days to fix up the issue before the deadline. To make matters worse—the issue had to be sent to the publisher before the charity gala, which were both on the same day, Friday, meaning that everything had to be finalized before 3pm that day to give ample time for the start of the gala’s last-minute organization at 5:00pm before it started at 7:30pm and for the publishing company to print the thousands of copies to be released to the city come Saturday morning.

It’s Thursday, the day before D-Day, and the office just reached noon. You have yet to eat properly, given that all you ate this morning amidst the morning rush (Geto demanded asked you to arrive at the office an hour earlier to compose the most time to work on the issue) were two pieces of toasted bread and a badly-made cup of instant coffee. 

You stare at the broken crystal on the dampened floor before going back to get the dustpan from the kitchen. Without a word, you clean up the remnants of Geto’s frustration quietly so as to not poke the beast even further with one wrong move, but of course, you somehow end up slicing your finger on a stray piece of glass. 

A loud yelp from your lips slips through the tight atmosphere of Geto’s office and blood draws fast, so fast that a few drops of crimson fall and miserably stain the pristine white carpet.

You swiftly poke your finger in your mouth and suck on it before more can ooze out, but unfortunately, your little titter was enough to break Geto out of his trance and snap his head back towards you. He spots the splotches of red on his carpet first, but then averts his gaze to you with your fingertip between your lips.

“What happened?” he urges as he approaches you. “Did you cut yourself?” 

You nod shyly, a little startled at how quickly his concern for you came to him given that your presence usually arises some sort of mild vex from him. “I apologize for staining the carpet. I’ll get a cleaner right away for it.”

“No need,” Geto mutters before beginning the dust the glass remnants himself. “I’ll call them myself. Just fix yourself up. First-aid kit is in the kitchen. Go get a bandaid—quickly.” 

For a split second, you swear you could’ve seen a grain of sympathy in his normally-cold gaze, but the illusion quickly dissipates the moment you see his eyes harden again before he snaps at you for staring. 

“Go now. Before your finger gets infected. You can’t use your hand properly with an infected finger.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nod lightly and dash out of his office, fighting horribly the urge to mutter curses at him under your breath. 

The cut proves rather long and deep, you notice, as Manami gently rolls a strip of tape down a page of gauze on it as she chides you akin to a mother to take care of yourself properly and that this isn’t the week to be injuring yourself like a child. It takes up at least two-thirds of your right index finger and you’re just hoping you’ll be able to use your right hand as efficiently as possible given you still have an extensive list of emails to still send out. 

Two hours somehow pass by quicker than expected but you know that your actual day isn’t even halfway done, knowing well that you won’t be clocking out until later in the evening after everyone is gone from the office. For the most part, it looks as though some spare stock images of well-known models were able to suffice the pieces that the scandalous one left them in the columns, but there was one that needed a more specific set of poses given that it was a perfume ad and unlike the other columns, the bottle had to be held in a certain manner that would prove hard for the photo editors to attempt.

Given that the work day was ending, there weren’t many models on-call that could do a last-minute shoot on time and the magazine was running out of time. Geto… was running out of time. 

And if Geto, who was known for being rather cool-headed and rational most days, was stressed, that only meant the rest of the office had to follow—whether they liked it or not. Ultimately, his stress became infectious and it was hard to keep a mellow mind in the days filled with chaos. You were already stressed on a day-to-day basis being his junior assistant, but you were basically required to amp it up to the max with the last-minute editing of the magazine and the charity gala.

You’re in line to get Geto’s afternoon pick-me-up, with the minor adjustment of two extra espresso shots for the kick of caffeine to get him through the rest of the working hours. You can hear your name being called up, but with how drained you’ve been from the past few days, the granola bar and Redbull you had for lunch today proves not to be the most efficient source of energy and you end up tumbling over your own two wobbling legs when you rise from the waiting bench.

You crash into the chest of someone taller than you who was passing by and just barely manage to avoid the escaping coffee from the cup of the person you bumped into. Unfortunately, it doesn’t prove well for the latter, as the remainder of the coffee settles itself on the front of their shirt Panic sets in swiftly and you start bumbling apologies left and right before you can even look up to see who exactly you’re apologizing to.

When you do, you’re met with a pair of eyes hidden behind darkened sunglasses ogling at you. It struck you as rather odd—considering it was the middle of winter and that the sun was hiding behind the grayed clouds today. Maybe it was just some sort of fashion statement? 

But it’s not the glasses that captivate you. It’s the snowy locks of white hair that belong to a rather tall and leggy figure that belong to it. And despite the pure ivory, he still looks incredibly young. A man of at least six feet and three inches stands before you—a height that easily can rival your boss’s. He’s adorned in a simplistic outfit; black dress shoes with matching slacks held by a glimmering silver buckle, topped with a cool white collared shirt that’s now evidently ruined by the horribly large light brown stain you caused from his coffee.

And judging by the stitching and material of the shirt, you know damn well that the shirt isn’t cheap.

“I-I-I…” you blubber out, teary eyes widened in horror at how fast the stain spreads and how much attention you’re getting from the cafe’s customers. “I’m so sorry…”

The silence that penetrates through from onlookers is terrible and you think you’re getting a fever from how hot your face is burning up. 

Thankfully, the man breaks through it with a soft, (dare you say—handsome?) laugh. “I was looking for an excuse to get rid of this shirt anyways,” he says. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

What he says baffles you and your apologies suddenly transform into sounds of confusion to his amusement. “Huh?”

“It’s been two years since it was in season, it’s finally time to throw the old girl out,” the man shrugs nonchalantly.

Suddenly, in front of all the leering eyes of the customers in the coffeehouse, he begins to unbutton his stained shirt and you can only watch in horror with the rest of everyone else. While he still did have one last modest garment beneath the shirt, it was still a sleeveless white undershirt that showed off his visibly sculpted and lean biceps that made a couple of the women in the coffeeshop form heart eyes and bite their lips.

The man flickered his eyes, now shown to be a brilliant shade of crystal blue, to you from atop his glasses and a glint of playfulness shone through, along with a whimsical grin. “Maybe I should’ve been a little more decent. Hope you don’t mind.”

You think that the heat that flushes your cheeks is no longer from embarrassment but… bashfulness?

You attempt to gather what to say in this rather awkward moment, but the bell of the entrance door rings and in comes a young man with spiked noir locks adorned in a midnight blue suit with a visible frown on his face. His eyes skitter through the coffeehouse before landing on not exactly you… but the man before you.

“What the hell Gojo?” the young man scolds as he stomps his way over. “You said you weren’t gonna take long, so why are you stripping in a cafe?”

Gojo… why does that name sound so familiar for some reason? Now that you think about it, the entirety of the man himself seems so vaguely familiar, but you swore you’ve never seen such a unique human being before in real life.

The man turns his head over as he crumples the stain garment in his hands. He perks up in delight at the sight of him, contrary to his furrowed-brow companion. “Megumi! Sorry bud, got wrapped up in a little accident here. Take this and chuck it in the trash, will ya?”

Before “Megumi” can protest, “Gojo” tosses the shirt to him and exclaims for the onlooking baristas to make him another drink if they can. A teenage girl nods excitedly and dashes back to gather the order for the handsome, sleeveless stranger. 

Megumi hisses an annoyed insult under his breath before glaring one last time at the taller man and searching for a nearby trash can. The man turns to you again with the same smile that has a lick of mischief to it. “Sorry ‘bout my intern. He’s usually a little sour, so don’t mind him. You okay though?” 

“Uh…” your eyes glance around and notice that the commotion in the coffeehouse has started up again. “Yes, thank you. I apologize again for not watching my step.”

He chuckles. “I think you’ve apologized enough. Again, don’t worry about it—it was an old shirt anyways. Has anyone told you you’re quite cute?” 

You choke on your saliva. What an odd thing to say in such a moment.

“Wh-what?” you stifle out.

“You’re rather pretty,” the man continues, the same grin still plastered on his face; as if he means every word he says. “Have you modelled before?” 

Your jaw is somehow melded into an image that replicates a gaping fish. Somehow, you can’t find the correct words to say at this moment. And it’s not quite like you’ve never been flirted with before, but for some reason, the way that this “Gojo” says it, it doesn’t quite have that tone of flattery, but more like… offering something?

“Thank you?” you say with half-confidence. “And no… sorry.” 

“Ah, what a shame,” he sighs wholeheartedly. “Have you considered it though?”

You shake your head, and you’re appalled that the gesture only makes his eyes light up again and his smile grow wider. 

“You should try it someday! You know what—hold on. Where’s my wallet?”

The man shoves his hands in his pants pockets to attempt to look for it, but the intern from earlier suddenly appears and shows off his phone to his senior. It visibly reads 2:34 pm.

“The meeting started,” the intern seethes. “We’re late… again.”

“Oh shoot,” the tall man snaps his fingers with pursed lips. “Alright, we can get going soon. But can you do me a favor and get my wal—”

The intern glowers at him. “No. Let’s go.”

You’re surprised at how much guts the intern has, who seems to be rather younger than you by a few years and certainly significantly younger than the man before you, considering he’s the one to command his superior so strictly. Usually, it’s the other way around, is it not? Unless you’re doing something wrong?

“Aw, but—”

“Gojo. If we’re late again, the board of trustees might kick you off, remember?” Megumi says as he pinches the back of his superior’s undershirt and begins to drag him away from you. 

The mysterious man pouts childishly and whines. “Ohhh c’mon! They’re not serious! You know those old geezers are practically terrified of me!” 

You’ve never seen such a grown man act rather foolishly before, but you suppose there’s a first time for everything. As you watch him be dragged away by the intern, he salutes a goodbye to you with an all-knowing wink to finish things off before he’s shoved into a black Cadillac in nothing but his undershirt for a top amidst the chilly winter air. 

As you attempt to process what on earth just happened, the young teenage barista calls at you suddenly. 

“Hey! Did that Michizane Sugawara guy leave? The one with the white hair?” she asks you, pointing to her own brown hair. She holds what looks to be milk with a hint of coffee in it, judging by how there’s just barely a tint of brown in the plastic cup.

“Oh… him.” 

Wasn’t his name Gojo? There’s no way you could’ve misheard “Michizane Sugawara” as “Gojo” you think, with the six other syllables just simply flying in from the window out of nowhere. Unless the fatigue has finally caught up to you and you’re hearing things wonky. 

“Yeah. It seemed like he was in a rush of sorts.” 

The barista leans over the counter to see and eventually shrugs. She pushes two cups towards you—your original coffee for Geto you nearly forgot about and the newly-made coffee for the mystery man. “You can just have it then. Not too sure you’ll like it though, it’s pretty sugary, but I don’t want it to go to waste.”

Your eyebrows perk up. With how much suffering you’ve been enduring lately from your work, you might as well indulge yourself in a sweet treat as you think you’ve earned it. Plus, with how much there is more to complete for today, you’re most definitely going to need the caffeine and the communal coffee pot isn’t exactly acquired for your tastebuds. 

When you finally settle yourself down back in the comfort of your desk after the coffeehouse fiasco, you take a soft sip of the free coffee…

… only to pull a face at how ridiculously sweet it is. The barista was right. You think that there’s probably only a drop of coffee in the entire cup melded with milk and a variety of syrups and sugar. And to think this was for a grown man? 

Sighing miserably, you pour the free drink down the kitchen drain, ignoring the glob of sugar that slugs out of it before you return back to misery.

“And there’s absolutely no models left that are in proximity to us? In any of our partnering agencies?” Geto asks as he rubs his temple.

The head of the PR team shakes his head, ashamed. “All of our current models are either abroad or they’re simply unavailable as of this moment.”

He mutters to himself before gritting his teeth. “And did you try bribing them with additional pay?” 

“We tried, sir,” the head says. “And with other compensation like a guaranteed column for next month’s column or brand partnerships, but they wouldn’t budge.”

Geto sighs loudly and slides a hand down his face in exasperation, fatigue visible. It’s currently 5:51pm and the magazine has yet to find a model to try and replace the perfume advertisement. The partnering modelling firms had absolutely no models to offer at the last minute and it was too late to try and get in contact with freelance models considering communication with them proved much more difficult than those in agencies. 

“What about recycling an older ad with a similar posed model and just photoshopping the fragrances out?” Geto suggests. 

It gets shot down immediately to his dismay. “Unfortunately, that’d be violating some copyright issues.”

You watch with fidgety hands as you stand next to Manami as your boss and the PR team examines the idea board carefully, trying ways to fill in the missing column. Of course, you could chime in with your own ideas, but with how stressed Geto is currently, you didn’t want to risk adding fuel to an already violent fire. 

Geto’s eyes scan the board left to right, taking in every single piece pinned onto it for some sort of genius idea, but nothing comes to him on the third try. A rigid silence fills the meeting room that keeps everyone on edge, anticipating his next move. When Geto finishes his fourth scan, in comes another blank page, until the corner of his eye catches you standing idly in the corner. 

His gaze moves to fixate on your squirming self as you attempt to look anywhere but his stare. It proves unsuccessful, however, considering that Geto calls your name and motions you to come forward.

Geto presents you like a doll of sorts to the PR team. “(Y/N) here seems to have similar proportions to her,” Geto says, keeping two firm, large hands on your shoulders. You shiver at the strange contact “What if we…?” 

One of the team members catches his drift uneasily.

“I don’t know Geto,” he starts as he stares at you incredulously, as if you’ve grown three heads all of a sudden. “Does your junior assistant even have any modelling experience?”

“Well no,” Geto confirms. “However, we’ve attempted to use all that we have available. I think this is our last resort.”

Somehow, you’re a little offended that your being is just simply a “last resort” to him, even if it is true. 

The PR team’s director's shifty eyes land on each of his team members with visible hesitation. With a cracked voice, he softly announces, “Well, technically speaking, there is… one more option.” 

Geto cocks his brow, his hands still firmly locked onto your shoulders with a whisper of a tighter grasp, as if you’re some sort of scurrying mouse ready to escape his hold at any given moment. “Well?”

The director’s mouth opens and closes for a given moment, attempting to choose the right words to say.

“Technically, we don’t have to use just our partnering agencies,” he begins quietly. There’s now a visible sweat misted on his receding hairline. 

The way Geto’s eyes narrow so suddenly makes everyone hold their breath for what comes next. Because, from the looks of it, everyone seems to know what the director is going to suggest and Geto’s reaction.

 “We’ve got contracts with every single management in the city. What? Are you saying we reach out to other cities’ talent managements? That’s rather tedious.”

“No, sir, that’s… not what I meant,” the director swallows thickly. “There’s technically one agency that we don’t have a con—”

“Absolutely fucking not.”

Geto’s stern words ring loud and clear. While his voice volume is still the same as always—soft with an obvious austere to it—his words are tight and evident. The emphasis of the curse word gives more than just a sharp edge to it, leaving no room for negotiation. 

Yet, one of the female team members pries anyway. She was hired around the same time you were, but because she didn’t interact with Geto as much as you did, so she didn’t know about how no meant an absolute no when it came from Geto Suguru just yet. Poor thing.

“But this agency has an abundance of models to choose from at their hand!” she exclaims with wide, desperate eyes. “I do think it’s a better decision to contact Infi—”

“I said no.” Geto turns to her and gives her a hard scowl before she can even finish her words. “Do not even say the name around my presence. I have forbidden any contact with that agency for a good reason. They only bring trouble and mayhem and disorder. Remember the Mei Mei scandal? The Kinji Hakari incident?” 

Everyone except for you tightens their shoulders and lips at the mention of the particular models. This isn’t the first time you’ve been kept in the dark, since you’re still just as a new hire as the female team member, but something is telling you that this news is much more hush-hush than the other gossip you’ve heard. Geto sighs again, their tensing bodies giving him a clear answer.

“We have done well without them for how long this magazine has existed for the past few years under my leadership,” Geto says. “I see no need to get in contact with them when we have a perfectly good substitute right here.”

His hands pat your shoulders again to properly show you off once more. The PR team goes to scan you up and down with their beady eyes, mutters of half-confident approvals and some other comments that you’re a little offset by rumouring around the meeting room. 

The director eventually sighs and gives in, considering that there weren’t many hours left in the day and that he and his team just wanted to go home. “Okay, we’ll use your junior assistant for the replacement shoot. We’ll tell Miguel, the photographer, and the fashion stylists to get ready for her.” 

Geto turns to Manami. “Go with them. Just ensure that the creative team will not cause a fuss with the choosing of the model. We don’t have time to dabble in feuds now.”

Manami nods and begins to lead the PR team to the studio, leaving you and Geto in the awkward quietness of the meeting room. Eventually, he releases you from his grasp and lets you breathe normally once they all leave. 

Geto leans on the table and returns to rubbing his forehead, muttering to himself at what he just did. You plant your stiff self back to your original position firmly.

“Sir,” you cough out with a voice crack with the lack of use from your voice. A heat rushes to your face and you clear your throat to properly speak. “Sir… I… don’t think I’m the right choice for this job.”

Geto lifts his head up from his hand and stares at you dully. “Excuse me?”

A shiver goes down your spine. Of course you forgot your consciousness and dared to question the Geto Suguru, editor-in-chief of the powerhouse fashion magazine in the country. But… even so. There were some limitations that you dared to even ponder about and though you were a lowly assistant, you still deserved to try and voice your own opinion on this matter. 

Especially since you’re going to be affected in more ways than one.

“I…” you start slowly. Your gaze meets the carpet of the room to try and ease yourself out of the intimidating stare of your boss. “I truly don’t think I’m the right fit for this particular feat. Like what they mentioned, I don’t have any modelling experience and I’m sure it’d cause the shoot to be more prolonged than it should be.”

“You don’t need modelling experience for this,” Geto begins. “I’m not asking you to be a model. I’m asking you to be a replacement.”

The familiar odd hurt singes at you again when Geto labels you as nothing more than a prop. Something about him shoving you in a magazine filled with well-experienced and trained models feels like cramming a piece of plain cardboard in a nearly-done puzzle, its individual pieces adorned carefully with each other to create something beautiful and ornate, only to be interrupted by a spare piece of something that just barely imitates it. You may have all the right curves and edges crafted by Geto’s hands, but you know that you don’t belong properly amidst the magazine at the end of the day.

The perfume ad takes up three pages of the entire magazine—two pages for the actual photoshoot and one for the description of it along with its reviews—not much in comparison to the articles written in it. But it’s still enough to composite a significant chunk for the magazine. And enough to make you feel overexposed to a public that in your rational mind, is not going to give you a second glance much more so than the actual product when reading the magazine. 

But right now, that unwanted attention is all you can think about. 

“But still—” you start with a tight throat. “Manami might be a better suit than I am. Or quite literally anyone in the office.” 

“Manami has been feeling under the weather as of recently,” Geto interrupts and shakes his head. “If we had more time, believe me, I’d be searching for a better fit for the ad as well, but right now, given the current predicament and since most of the employees have gone home, we don’t have many options left.”

Geto turns to you and though his face remains stony, his iris eyes gleam with a hint of desperation. 

“You’re my best choice right now, (Y/N).”

Time goes still for a moment and you can hear a voice echo in the back of your mind as Geto gazes at you. 

“Have you modelled before?” 

When you blink, a crystalline blue pair of eyes flashes through your vision all of a sudden. You step back a little, slightly startled at the hazy vision you have of the “Gojo” man from earlier and his proclamation to you.

The tone of the man’s voice echoes through your mind. In a typical male fashion, that sort of sentence would most likely be played off as a flirtatious intent. But the way that he said it made it seem like some sort of actual encouragement, like an urge of sorts for you. It felt genuine. Sincere, even, as if he wanted you to do it for no one but yourself. 

And though as of now, you’d technically be doing it for Geto… you can’t help but feel an urge just to try it to see how you yourself would like it. To see whether or not you’d actually fit into the mold of a “model”—even an amateur one. 

You suppose… that there’s a first time for everything.

Shuffling your feet, you swallow the last bit of qualms down and let most of your nerves go, choosing to settle in what could be as of this moment. Even if you’re not ready for it, you think you should at least try. 

And in the end, if not for Geto, perhaps for yourself.

You lift your head up and lock eyes with Geto’s with a more determined look on your face. The hesitation is still faintly there, but the ghost of it is overpowered by your resolve.

“Okay.”

“Alright, now peek your eyes over the newspaper a little bit, sweetheart! Make it playful!” the photographer chimes as he readjusts his position with his camera. 

The photoshoot set is a makeshift cafe, to properly highlight the coffee and sugar notes of the new fragrance you hold in your hand. The backdrop is a fake interior window of the cafe looking out into a winter wonderland. Makeup and clothing took awhile to prosper considering you had to take off your previous makeup and let the MUAs do their magic on you and that you had to test multiple layered clothing sets before the photographer approved of the final one appropriate for the shoot. It didn’t help that you put up a fight to keep your glasses on and that the MUAs had to attempt a look that would highlight your features with your glasses.

You can’t tell whether it’s the nerves of you modelling for the first time or the heat of the lights that’s making you flushed. Something about the flashes of lights felt almost exhilarating to you. It’s foreign, but somehow, they embrace your being like a long lost friend of sorts. You have yet to get used to the blinding white lights from the flashes, but you only have to endure it for a good hour or so. The repetitive mantra of “You’re just trying this out.” echoes in your mind over and over again, even though you already know you seem to not be cut out for this sort of position.

It’s much too hot in the studio, you feel your body being rather awkward, and you don’t appreciate the onlookers that watch your every move as you reposition yourself to the photographer’s demands. You’ve already knocked over a couple of fake cappuccino mugs since your limbs still aren’t working correctly and you can’t seem to make the right facial expression to your degree.

It’s clear your nervousness is evident, considering you can see Geto discussing quietly with the creative director as they examine you closely from the corners of your eyes. 

“She’s rather… stiff,” the creative director mutters. “You sure there wasn’t anyone on call?”

Geto hums monotonously as he watches as you attempt to find the right position to try and capture your side profile while showing off the perfume itself. “If there were, they would’ve been here by now.”

“Yes I understand, but,” the director fights the urge to wince as your bracelet gets caught in the chair handle. “I don’t know if this shoot will be proper enough to display in the zine this issue. Can’t we just talk with them and discuss moving the ad to next month’s?”

“No, they’re releasing it the same day the issue comes out. They want people to know about it as soon as possible,” Geto murmurs. “To ask that from us is to ask them to push back their release date.  We don’t have that sort of power.”

The creative director sighs and silences himself, wallowing himself in a state of doubt as he and Geto continue to watch the scene before them. Perhaps it’s the state of weariness that Geto has accumulated from the past few days, but he genuinely doesn’t think you’re doing too bad of a job for your first (and probably last time, given the anxiety still within you) time modelling. He thinks the angles of your face hit the light just right when it counts properly, and that the clothes that drape you fit you more than accordingly; it’s surprising given that there was no time to tailor them to properly suit you but somehow, you made it work.

There are certain moments that your nerves fade from view when the director asks you to make a certain facial expression. The little surprised face you make when you hold the perfume up to your face was most likely the money shot, but there were much more shots that could be used for the ad that he didn’t anticipate. 

There was one where your eyes stared directly into the camera from a three-fourths angle, a certain warmth to them compelling him to look further into you. Another one was a mild bokeh effect of you sipping coffee from a mug from a lower point of view, where the perfume was fully into view. But Geto was still somehow locked onto your figure from the background despite how crystal clear the bottle was. Either way, there was still a plethora of good shots to use despite you not being a professional model.

“But I do have to admit,” the creative director starts slowly, capturing Geto’s attention and breaking him from his gaze as he fixates on you repositioning yourself on the cafe bench, legs crossed to show off the mocha boots that adorned your calves. “She’s not really all that bad. I can see some potential in her.”

Geto’s body remains still, but his eyes shift to stare at the director from the corner of his eye, watching carefully as he examines you from the set. He narrows his purple eyes as he picks up on a mild lip bite from the creative director as you shed the trenchcoat to reveal a black fitted mini dress with a turtleneck, a vintage cowboy belt cinching your waist. While you’re still modestly covered, it’s the way you show off your long legs emphasized by the short skirt of the dress and the fitted heeled boots.

“I wonder if she’s single…” the director murmurs so softly that Geto just barely picks up on it.

“I completely forgot,” Geto interrupts rather loudly, making the director’s fixed stare falter as the shoot continues. “I believe I left a file in regards to the perfume’s licensing in the meeting room. Would you mind getting it for me? I’ll keep an eye on the shoot.”

The creative director’s brows raise. “O-oh! Yes, of course. I’ll be right back then.”

Geto watches as the director shuffles out of the room and out of view from you. Truth be told, the file was finalized a while ago. But something about how the director was looking at you made Geto wary of his intentions with you, if he had any at all.

Something about it made him a little aware that your temporary spotlight shone a bit brighter than he originally thought it’d be.

The shoot finishes up within the next hour, giving the team a good handful of images to choose from for the column before the issue is printed. Manami is with you in the dressing room as the MUAs carefully take off your makeup and reveal your raw face to everyone, peeling away the heavy amounts of concealer that hide the darkness embedding the rim of your undereyes.

“Christ, how many hours did you sleep last night?” she questions when you give a large yawn.

“I should be asking you that question,” you quietly remark back, studying her equally tired features. “If anything, you need the rest more than I do.”

Manami had been feeling quite ill as of recently, possibly due to the colder weather. She claimed that it was just the new diet she had been trying out to properly fit into the dress that she was planning to wear for the charity gala, but it was clear that no diet was capable of causing stuffy noses, consistent sneezing, and a mild fever. You had encouraged her to try and take some medicine and go home yesterday, but she specifically said that, “Geto will have a guillotine ready come tomorrow morning if I dare to even think about taking a day off right now.”

“I’m fine,” she sniffs with half-assurance as she snatches a tissue from nearby. “Besides, people say you burn more calories when you’re sick so hopefully I can lose another half inch off my waist by tomorrow.”

“Oh, so you admit you’re sick,” you point out with a mild smirk.

 “I-I’m not sick—!” she falters before her nose begins to twitch. “Ahchoo!”

You hum, ignoring her protests. It’s currently nearing seven in the evening, and you’re sure that work is just beginning to wrap up as of this moment. Thankfully, everyone agreed to do the work for the perfume ad tomorrow before the finalized issue is shipped to print, but you still had to edit some articles, as well as help Geto still gather materials for his newest fashion line that he only tended to work on in the evenings of the weekdays.

He leaves earlier than you and Manami do, since he often piles the nonsensical work to you and her. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left the office without another word considering he was attempting to push out his new line by the end of next month.

In the past few months, you can’t say your work as a journalist has improved since your time at Kaizen, but you can at least say that your friendship with Manami has blossomed and sailed a little more smoothly than your first few weeks of working with each other. She was still a little snippy towards those below her like the college interns and the other entry-level employees, but you were specifically her junior, so you suppose it gave you special access to a much more kind, yet still sassy, side of her.

You spot the paleness of Manami’s usually glossed lips and how fatigued she looked. It didn’t help that the dressing room was quite warm so she looked rather blushed in the face. She leans back on the couch and puts a hand over her eyes to block out the glaring white light of the vanity.

“God, shut that thing off,” she quips as she lazily wags a finger to the vanity lights. “Feels like I’m staring right into the Sun itself.”

The lights are turned off and the room dims. You chew on your lip before deciding to sacrifice your time a little longer in order to help her out since you knew how badly she wanted to attend tomorrow’s charity gala and show off her new Emilio Pucci dress.

“You should go home,” you say quietly. “Get some rest before tomorrow. I can take care of the Book and the rest of his bullshit.”

She chuckles at your mild cursing regarding you-know-who. “Yes, because that went great last time…”

“I swear I won’t mess up again! That day was just out for me, I swear,” you pout, “But really, you should go home and get some sleep. I know you’re gonna come in tomorrow regardless of what I say, so at the very least take some medicine and sleep.” 

Manami pokes an eye out of her hand to study your pleading ones. She gives in rather easily, sighing heavily. “Fine. But if you mess up anything, it’s all on you,” she states pointedly and unlocking her phone to notify Geto you’ll be taking care of her duties tonight. 

She shortly leaves the office when you clean yourself back up to your day’s attire. The company car comes promptly on time and you begin to wave goodbye to her, but she opens the window halfway and motions you with a shaky finger to come forward.

“No funny business,” she mutters sternly through her mask. “I mean it. He’ll have your head first, then mine if you pull anything.”

“I swear, nothing will happen,” you promise to her. “Now go home. Or else that that cold will be taking more than just a half inch off your waist.” 

She rolls her eyes but you can see the faintest grateful grin from the inside of her mask as she rolls the window back up. You watch until the black car disappears from view and into the city traffic before you go back into the office to wait for the Book to be finalized with its editors.

It reaches your hands eventually just a quarter to 10:00pm, a little earlier than expected. Another company car comes by and picks you up to get his dry-cleaning as well, and you arrive at Geto’s apartment just shy of 10:30pm. 

The heavy doors seem much more intimidating the second time around. Perhaps it’s because they knew what happened last time and are just waiting to see what incident occurs today this time around. But you shake your head out of your apprehensiveness and decide the only thing that will be happening behind those doors is just you placing the Book down on his coffee table and leaving to go home and sleep before D-Day.

The entrance was the same as always—decorated with a great assortment of artistry of different mediums. In the corner was the marble dragon and beside it was the archived Basquiat piece that must’ve cost an arm and leg to purchase for the typical person. Up ahead was the entrance to the living room and in the center of it stood the coffee table. 

The coffee table. 

All you have to do is just simply put the Book on the coffee table.

Then leave.

Then just leave. Do not do anything more than that. 

“No funny business.” Manami’s warning chimes in your mind again with each step you take to the living room. 

“No funny business,” you repeat to yourself under your breath, clutching the Book tightly to your chest as if it was the most fragile thing on earth.

You eventually reach the beginning of the living room and spot the very ottoman that had caused you to have a much more humiliating night than anticipated during that one day you were given the simple task of dropping off the Book from Geto himself. You hadn’t been asked to do so since then, shamefully. It’s tucked away safely on the side of the sofa, meaning you had to intentionally yourself into it to try and re-enact your foolishness again. 

The coffee table stands before your knees and you stare at yourself in the reflection of its glass.

“No funny business.”

You gingerly put the Book down on the center of the coffee table, your fingertips brushing against the many pages of its draft and a relief begins to fill your nerves the moment you’re about to break contact with it…

… until a familiar voice calls to you just as your fingers let go.

“(Y/N)?” Geto calls from above. “Is that you?”

You freeze on the spot. You swore to yourself and Manami that there would be no funny business today, and you were doing such a good job! Did you accidentally leave mud tracks behind? There wasn’t any rain today. Did you leave something else at the office that you needed to bring? No, Manami said he only needed the book… so did you do anything at all that would cause your boss to randomly call out to you during such a menial task?

With a rigid neck, you turn to him slowly with a pained smile and the Book officially set on the coffee table. “Yes, hello. Sorry to interrupt… I was just dropping off the Book.”

Geto peers down at you from the second floor’s staircase. He’s shed his waist coat and has left himself in his grey button up that’s relieved of three buttons at the top, just shyly showing the beginning of his chest and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A rare sight—considering that Geto was often covered from head to toe in fabrics then even seeing him in a short sleeved shirt was a rarity.

“I see,” he says, scanning you from above with his cat-like eyes. 

You don’t know what to do. You just needed to drop the Book off and you were so unbelievably close to completing it without trouble. “Did you… did you happen to need something else by any chance?” you ask nervously.

“Ah, well,” Geto starts to your dismay. He pauses palpably before motioning you to come up. “I actually may need your aid on a piece I’m working on. Come upstairs.”

And miraculously, your throat closes up as you struggle not to burst into tears.

All you wanted to do is just drop the Book off! 

Despite all the curses that marathon through your head that you aim at your boss, you gather up the courage to shove down any questions of doubt and take your tired legs up the winding staircase. Something is telling you that this is a trick—that when you reach the top, Geto is actually just standing there with your termination letter, telling you that you forgot a vital rule to never go anywhere more than the living room in his house. But because you can rarely ever refute your boss in an effort to spare your sanity, you do as he says willingly like an obedient dog.

By the time you reach the top, there is no pink slip for him to display to you, but instead is an open door that faces the staircase directly. Inside, Geto stands in front of something, and you can see a tape measure around his neck more clearly, as well as a pin cushion on his wrist that usually holds an expensive watch. The room itself is rather large, with a variety of supplies garnered across a pegged wall with rolls of fabric decorating two of the walls. It’s Geto’s atelier room for his fashion line, you detail, the one that he stormed out of with Shigemo that time you had to drop off the Book. 

Without turning around, Geto calls to you, “Well don’t just stand there.”

Another thick swallow just barely passes through your dry throat. You prompt out an apology and slowly shuffle into his studio, where you see where the magic happens much more clearly and what exactly he was crafting on so late at night.

Geto moves aside for you to take a proper look at the mannequin adorned in a beautiful A-line black dress with a square neckline and ghostly, sheer sleeves. Around the waist was a loose string of pearls with a matching pearl necklace. It was a simple-looking dress from afar, but up close, you can tell that only a creative genius like Geto himself was capable of making something so minimalistic look so regal.

“Oh my…” you murmur softly as Geto pins a piece into place in its sleeve. “It’s beautiful.”

Geto hums flatly.

“I’m glad you like it,” he begins as he lifts his head to properly face you. One of his arms goes to lean against it (are those tattoos?) and you can feel his eyes scan you up and down like what he usually does in the morning as he examines your outfit. But something about this particular feat feels a little more intimate than usual, and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. “You don’t happen to have an outfit for tomorrow’s gala, do you?”

“Well, um,” you mumble, fidgeting with your fingers. Initially, you were just going to use a plain white, sleeveless dress you had used for a work party you spoiled yourself with before you left your former workplace since it was a rather expensive and nice dress, but as you second-guess, you’re sure Geto wouldn’t approve of a dress that you had bought on clearance at the nearby outlet mall. So you meekly reply with, “... no, not really.”

You’re expecting some sort of scolding from him, possible Geto telling you that you need to be more prepared for such an event and that the last few days’ events were no excuse for sloppy planning, but instead, you’re even more startled when he says something completely unexpected that makes your eyes widen beyond your glasses’s frames.

“Good,” he says and gestures to his creation. “Because I want you to wear this for tomorrow night.”

↩ previous chapter next chapter ↪

a/n ; i have rewatched the devil wears prada for the 123894th time before the year ends and have decided to bring this series back to life because i think it's much to good to give up on 🙂↕️ i don't know if i'll start a taglist just yet, but maybe, we shall see.

i'll also will be using she/her pronouns with an afab-hinted!body from this point on. i'm also still in debate of writing smut since 1) i'm not very good at writing it, 2) i don't usually like to write it lol, and 3) but i still do consider it as some sort of breaking point eventually between geto and reader. so if there will be in the future, it will be tagged and most likely will be extremely mild.

thank you for reading as always! i hope you enjoyed this chapter and this series so far. likes, comments, and reblogs are always noticed and heavily appreciated! (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!! until next time!

[josephquinnswhore]

Her Sanctuary

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader.

Summary: you start pulling away from Joel, he’s scared he’s going to lose you.

Word Count: 1.7k

Content Warning: mentions of anxiety, bad mental health. Joel talking about Sarah!!! 😭 soft Joel!!!!! Hurt/comfort.

Note: kinda just wrote this on a whim after rewatching the last of us. I miss joel. @cool-iguana ily.

You were an outspoken person. About everything. There wasn’t a single topic you didn’t have an opinion on. Always a snarky reply, a joke, or following pun. That’s just who you were.

Joel spent months wishing you weren’t like that. That you’d just shut up so he could have a few moments of silence between you. His limited replies included a scowl, raised eyebrow or an annoyed grunt. He spent months travelling across the country with you, refusing to open up and reluctantly teaching you how to shoot his rifle.

He didn’t like how you made him feel. How he had started looking at you romantically. The sound of your laugh stirred something in him. Your bright eyes lightened the darkness in his own.

He never allowed himself to let you in; as much as a fight he put up. You wormed yourself into the cracks in the walls around his heart and started to mend him. He doesn’t know when it happened exactly, all he can remember is wanting to hear more of her laugh, he even found her a joke book in an old RV he scouted one evening at the trailer park they posted in overnight.

He had learned how to accept your brightness, for all its worth. Your dorky comments, crooked grin and boisterous laugh. Even those small touches to his back and arm when you would pass by, excusing yourself. Always followed by a mumbled, “sorry.”

But this.. this he didn’t know what to do. He was tearing himself up inside for not knowing what to do. You were quiet today, something bubbling inside of you that radiated off and in between them in a depressing aura that had Joel feeling breathless.

He even found himself staring at you, from the corner of his eyes, turning his head to watch you, making sure you kept up as you lingered a few steps behind him, completely silent. Not laughing, not crying. Silent.

It was heart wrenching and he couldn’t figure out how to put the pieces together to finish the puzzle. Nothing extreme had happened that they hadn’t faced before. They’d fought off some infected yesterday but—it couldn’t have possibly been that. They were fine. They survived.

Maybe you just wasn’t coping as well as he thought you were.

He tried to think of things to cheer you up, and the guilt consumed him when he realised he didn’t really know much about you. He had never asked. It was always you asking about him, pestering to know more about him. He cursed himself for being so selfish.

The harsh reality of their one sided dynamic hit Joel hard, he had always protected her, with his physical strength and ability to kill. That primal instinct that kept them both alive and for what? He couldn’t help her when she actually needed.

He felt utterly useless.

Until. He had an idea. That stupid fucking joke book that she treasured, had to cheer her up right? It had to draw out one of those loud laughs that made his insides flip, the smile that made your eyes squint that his heart craved to see.

He reached into his pack, pulling it out. She’d stashed it in there, insisting that her pack had no more room. He didn’t argue, he knew she struggled carrying the weight. He decided that day that he could carry the extra burden for things that she decided she couldn’t bare.

This baggage however, was tricker. He would take it if he could. He hoped this would work.

He turns around to look at you and what he saw made him feel like there was a metal vice around his heart, your slumped shoulders and black eye bags complimented a vacant look in your eyes, you were unrecognisable in comparison to your default sunshine personality.

“Hey, I was thinkin’ about that algae-bra joke you told me the other day.” He tried to make his voice as soft as he could when he spoke to you, trying to nudge a reaction.

Nothing, she barely looks at him. “Hm?”

“Anyways, I was thinkin’ we could pass the time with this.” He held the joke book in his hand, swinging his pack back over his shoulder, adjusting his rifle strap as he shuffles on his feet.

You felt a spark of something, something that was quickly put out by the fear and darkness that felt so consuming.

“Maybe later?” You offer quietly, walking past him. “It’ll be dark soon.”

Joel felt defeated. How had he failed so badly. How did he let this fester inside of her like a fucking disease that he didn’t know how to get rid of.

This was an infection in your mind; that he figured on his own. This kind of infection he didn’t know how to cure. He had always pushed his own anxiety and panic attacks down burying them, until he learnt to live with it.

But you; the one fucking good thing in his life that brought him life, hope. He wouldn’t allow you to ignore it, to let it consume you.

He wasn’t going to let you fall victim. He would do whatever it took.

He set up camp in silence, stuck in his head about how the fuck he was going to help you, a feeling of shame overwhelmed him as he sits by the fire, rubbing his hands together as you sit in your sleeping bag, across from him.

Arms wrapped tightly around yourself, legs pulled to your chest. It made you look smaller, the way you held yourself protectively. A reflection of the flames flicking in her eyes only made the mood more somber.

He can’t say something came over him, possessed him to say what he felt bubbling up inside of him. He didn’t want to lose her. To him, you were too important, you disarmed him and weaselled your way into his heart. He wasn’t going to let you leave, not ever.

“When my little girl used to get upset, she always shut me out like this, like what you’re doin’, I always told myself she’ll come around.” He nods to himself, as if reminiscing the memory.

You stay silent, watching him. Watching his expression soften.

“An’ now she’s gone it’s all I regret. Not doin’ more. Not making more of an effort with shit like that. Fuckin’ haunts me.”

Not once in the months they’ve travelled he had mentioned having children, a daughter, let alone a decreased one. He had mumbled a few times in his sleep, incoherently a name. Serine, Sari, Sarah? You could never figure it out, and never pried.

But here he was, sitting across from her looking on with longing eyes and his features the most relaxed she’d ever seen.

“I ain’t makin’ that same mistake again, seein’ you like this, pullin’ away. Feels like I’m failin’ all over again.” His admission shocks you, enough to stun a quiet confession from your own lips before you could think.

“I thought you were going to die.” He seems surprised to hear you talking, but stays silent, wanting you to talk more, wanting to hear more.

“I know we’ve dealt with plenty of infected.. we’ve had some close calls even, sure.” Your heart clenched as you recall.

Joel lying on the ground with that infected on top of him, Joel’s gun inches away as he fumbles, fingertips desperately grasping the hairs of grass as he searched for his weapon.

Holding the infected away with one arm, grunting in a struggle that he was bound to lose. It’s rotten teeth and fleshy stench was so close to grazing Joel’s neck. Inches away from sealing his fate.

You had somehow mustered some courage inside of you to tackle the infected, throwing it off Joel and giving him a split second to reach for his gun and put a bullet in the back of the infected’s head.

Your jeans still stunk, of gunpowder and blood. A stench so vile you couldn’t help but relive the moment, it was on your mind every second, unable to process it all.

You almost lost Joel. Joel almost fucking died. It was a breath away.

“I thought if I just—shut down maybe you’d get tired and ditch me.. worse yet I’d stop caring about you so damn much.” Joel’s ears perked at her soft admission.

“And I know you think I’m just—some annoying fucking girl that you have to protect and feed and I’m sorry..“ Joel wouldn’t allow another word.

“Hey. Look at me, now.” His tone was soft, but held a firmness, there was no doubt he wasn’t asking you. He needed you to look at him.

His face looked so soft beyond the flames of the fire, his expression was tender and kind; as no one had ever seen before. He looked beautiful, fuck, he was handsome. You’d always thought so.

“I know it was a close call, we’ve learnt from it, yeah? We won’t make the same mistake.” You nod, Joel continues.

“Don’t pull away from me sweetheart. Please.”

You open your mouth to say something, but Joel interrupts by patting the space beside him.

“C’mere sweetheart. C’mon.” You don’t waste a moment to plop beside him. He wraps his sleeping bag around you and his big hands grip around your torso to pull you into his.

“Tell me you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

For the first time since you’ve known Joel. He was the one asking for comfort, reassurance.

“Promise I’m not going anywhere Joel.” You nuzzle into him, his natural musk strung a desire out of her that all she could do was lean into him.

“You get some rest now. I’ll keep ya safe.” He murmurs into her ear, a promise.

All you could do was obey him. Closing your eyes as your body and mind revelled in the intimacy and vulnerability of this moment.

His head rested on top of yours, your hair gets stuck in the rugged coarse hairs of his beard. He finds himself nuzzling into you, allowing himself to get lost in you. After months of fighting you; he lets go. He lets you in.

You were his. And he wasn’t going to let anything fucking hurt you. Not even yourself. He would be your sanctuary. No matter what it took.

[vapekingg]

I saw your requests are open??!! Does that mean I can ask for something very angsty? 🥺

Of courseeee

Pairing: Dom!Mechanic!EddiexFem!Reader Tags: angst, broken up, established relationship, fingering Dividers by: @inklore

Rabbit

Your parents thought they were doing you a favor when they bought you an almost-new Buick Century. It's a pile of shit, and it comes with baggage in the form of flesh and bone.

Your ex Eddie is the only mechanic in Hawkins that will touch the fucking thing, and it gets touched... a lot. More than you do since your most recent break up. And maybe your old hunk of junk knew that you'd been thinking about your ex lately, deep into the evening when your vibrator just isn’t cutting it. The power steering went out this morning and Eddie didn't hesitate to let you tow the thing to his garage after closing hours when you called to reluctantly break your no-contact streak.

Now, you're passing him tools.

Well, you're passing him beers.

He hasn't said much to you since you got here, or since the break up. But you haven't said much to him either. The sound of cicadas screaming outside of the open garage door fills any empty silence, along with the clanking of a wrench (maybe?) against metal. He makes little grunts every now and then, and you can imagine his face. The clench of his jaw, the squint of his focused eyes. You sit on the ground next to your car just like you always have while he works. He liked you to keep him company. If he still does, you can’t tell.

It’s late at night by the time Eddie finally rolls out from beneath that piece of shit. He has gloves on, a habit he’d formed because of you. You always liked visiting him at work, after all of his coworkers were gone for the day. The mechanic get up really does it for you, and Eddie never wanted to dirty you up. He wanted to fucking ruin you for anyone else — and he has — but never dirty your pretty exterior.

“How much do I owe you?” You ask him for the first time ever.

You expect him to laugh, or maybe to smile. Instead his eyebrows knit together with something between confusion and frustration. His face is hard — upset, even. He snaps off the elastic, grease covered gloves and leaves them discarded on the ground near your tire, starting then toward the mini-fridge in the corner for one last beer.

“Tell Jason he can come by and pay your tab,” Eddie responds as he leans over, fog from the fridge swarming his feet and creeping up his calves. Your eyes travel upward with the inching up the clouds to drink in his toned thighs, his narrow waist. It doesn’t take much for you to start daydreaming about the way his boxer-briefs are hugging his flesh beneath all of those clothes.

It hits you though, what he said, and your heart drops. Your eyes snap up to meet his and that look of upset on his face has morphed into something of betrayal. His lips are curled into a hard frown, arms crossing over his chest after that initial ice cold sip.

“Heard you guys were hangin’ out lately.”

“Oh, is that what you heard.” You mumble sarcastically underneath your breath.

But Eddie catches it, and he’s never been one to let your slick tongue go untested. Your attention is caught by the quick cock of his eyebrow.

“Watch it, princess.”

That’s what he’s telling you. But it’s been weeks, and the feeling of Eddie’s palm coming down unforgivingly on your ass is more enticing to you than not feeling him at all, so you bring yourself to your feet.

“If it’s that big of a deal to work on my car then I’ll just take it to someone else.” You smart back.

And that does make him smile. A shit-eating, cocky half grin that creeps crooked up his face and shows off his boyish dimples. You’re a fucking sucker, and Eddie knows it.

He pushes off of the work bench behind him and takes one stalking step toward you.

“Right,” Eddie’s dark eyes wander down your chin and trace your bare shoulders, voice quiet under the scream of insects outside. “Because that’s worked out so well every other time.”

Maybe you had worn his old cut up Corroded Coffin tank top on purpose, but at least he was taking interest. His gaze travels over your form, slowing across the hills of your breasts and the curve of your hips. You regret standing up now. Somehow you feel smaller with every slow, deliberate step that he takes forward.

“What are you really doing here? Jason not giving it to you good enough?”

Eddie’s staring at you like you’re meat, like you’re a feast for picking. The pink of his tongue darts out to wet his velvet lips as his eyes begin to travel back up. Circling your plump thighs, crawling up your soft stomach. He takes another few steps, and then he’s right there, just a foot or so away. Close enough that when he reaches forward, his fingers hook loosely into the belt loop of your shorts.

He tugs gently, thumb teasing the hem to dip just inside. His eyes are glassed over when they meet yours, he’s a little drunk, loose enough to play on the emotion that always draws you back together.

Eddie tilts his head to the side sympathetically and parts his lips, “He not fucking you hard enough, angel?”

Your skin burns. Right where his thumb strokes, a hole is being seared into your flesh. A wildfire spreading throughout your abdomen once he slips another digit beneath the hem of your shorts, joining the other to toy with the lace embroidery of your panties. A knowing smile plays at his lips when he realizes you’ve worn his favorite pair.

“You been thinkin’ ‘bout me?” Eddie’s palm slides against your abdomen as he slips his hand further into your shorts, fisting the thin fabric of your panties gently so that it tightens against your clit.

You bite back a moan, but Eddie knows you. Inside and out. He recognizes how your back straightens and your eyes go all hazy when he’s making you feel good. And making you feel good makes him feel good.

“Yeah, I bet you have. That rabbit just ain’t cuttin’ it, huh?”

It’s absolutely not cutting it.

You think about him, every night. With that silicone working between your thighs. You squeeze your eyes closed and remember the unforgiving snap of Eddie’s hips as he drives himself into you. How he’d sneak in through your bedroom window and hold his hand over your mouth so that your parents wouldn’t hear.

He takes another step toward you, his hand flattening against your mound as he traps you between his form and your car.

“Answer me, baby.”

But when you open your mouth to deny these allegations, his middle finger glides over your clit, stroking through your folds to make note of your obvious arousal.

“And don’t bother lying,” he continues.

Another digit joins his middle finger, calloused appendages moving in gentle motions around the most neglected parts of you. You can’t help but to reach for him. His collar. His wrist. Anywhere that will anchor the two of you together. Anything that will keep him from leaving you.

“I—” you begin, voice shaky but determined, “I’ve… missed you.”

Like the setting of the sun beneath the horizon, Eddie’s face shifts in nature. His mocha eyes blacken. Any restraint he was showing you prior sinks to the ground as he buries two fingers deep inside your sopping cunt and pins you against the side of your car with his hip.

“What’ve you missed?” He spits, free hand ripping up to capture your throat in a vice.

Eddie curls his fingers forward, and there’s that buzzing in your brain. That release of dopamine and endorphins that keeps you crawling back to him. No one else is quite this addictive.

"This," you mewl with no thought behind the words. Your body goes slack and you're held up by his hands alone. "This. I've missed this."

“Yeah you have,” he teases.

And just as quickly as it begins, Eddie yanks his hand out of your shorts. He leaves you empty, soaking, desperate for more.

But instead of being the hand that feeds you, Eddie takes a step back. He brings his fingers to his lips and his tongue darts out to lap at the coated digits.

An audible groan leaves his throat as he leans back against his workbench.

“Just like fuckin’ candy,” he says, then punches the red button that releases the lift rack that’s barely holding your car off the ground. It begins to lower behind you.

“I’d hate for you to keep Jason waiting,” Eddie continues with a cheeky grin.

He knows that Jason prefers his girls studious, timely.

But Eddie just prefers you. And until you’re his again… well, his preference is irrelevant.

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

Oct 21st

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1. Hiii first of all i just wanted to thank you for being able to find the fic i was looking for last time :)) im looking for this fic that i cant find anywhere it was a modern au on ao3 where wangxian dated in hs or college but lqr forced lwj to break up with wwx (through txt if i remember right) but wwx didnt know that lwj was forced so when they meet years later and lwj is working for the lan company they hire wwx and the wens to work on the cybersecurity and wwx is rlly angry while lwj is just pining. TIA!! @draconislyra

FOUND? Tempo Rubato by Spodumene (E, 108k, wangxian, modern, angst w/ happy ending, romance, persuasion au, separations, pining, miscommunication, depression, self-harm, reconciliation, smut)

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2. theres this fic and i forgot the title, but its where jin ling has been wearing wwx's protective bracelet since he was a baby and assumed/thought his mom gave it to him and the bracelet is rlly effective! but in guanyin temple, su she(?) broke it but wwx fixes it and strings the bracelet back together

FOUND! a symbol to remind you that there's more to see by paperminds (T, 9k, JC & JL & WWX, canon-compliant(ish), post-canon(ish), Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Mild/Moderate Angst, angst with happy ending, Yunmeng Shuangjie, Twin Idiots, Reconciliation)

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3. Hi! I'm looking for a specific fan fiction i remember that both wwx and lwj has lived a long and happy life and now they think it's time for them to leave the world lsz is very upset and doesn't want to let his parents go they go upto a field to fall asleep or smth, there was also wwx telling lwj how tired he is, I've been dying to find this one

FOUND? The Sea Calls Us Home. by selfptrts (T, 3k, WangXian, ZhuiLing, Suicide, Hurt No Comfort, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, wangxian are married and have a son, xicheng if you squint hard enough, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Assisted Suicide, References to Supernatural (TV), References to Canon, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Immortality)

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4. Hello! I'm in desperate need of help. I'm trying to find this one fic where NMJ gave WWX Baxia since he couldn't wield her anymore. I remember a scene where he was struggling with her but then JC(?) told him he was still using sword forms so he needed to find a different way. Thank you so much in advance!!!

FOUND? Lynchpin by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 103k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Time Travel, Fix-It) WWX definitely ends up weilding Baxia in Lynchpin, and there's a scene about WWX creating a new Sabre sword style.

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5. Hii, I'm looking for two wangxian fics that I unfortunately don't remember much about. A) The first one was one where the war was solved and WWX joined DafanWen, I remember that Dafan's robes were pink/peach and I think DafanWen became a medical sub-clan of Lan.

B) The second one was a post canon where WWX basically adapted to life in Cloud Recess. He learned to knit and I think the fic had a tag that had to do something like "something about gender roles". @canisirio

5A)

FOUND? 💖 Light Source by abCEE (M, 31k, wangxian, not Jiang friendly, no golden core transfer, fall of the jiang sect, happy ending)

5B)

FOUND? Reeds in the Wind by merakily (T, 26k, WangXian, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Yunmeng bros Reconciliation, Rabbit Therapy, Sewing Therapy, PTSD, Emotional Baggage, Hurt/Comfort, JC is Bad at Feelings, JC Needs a Hug) I feel like it's not the right fic but it does have wwx doing embroidery

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6. hi this is for fic finder!

i think this is starts when wwx is still in the burial mounds with the wens and he's called? because lwj is sick like literally in bed, unconscious with fever sorta sick. I think it turned out to be a curse or smth related to his golden core!

also another fic, also these two fics coild be the same so I'm not sure

it could've been related to the first request, I kind of remember wwx sacrificing or getting harmed to save lwj and then all the Lan elders kind of give wwx a new core in the caves in cloud recesses

this is really messy, I'm just trying to say that I remember these 2 points and they could be in 1 fic or 2 different fics

thank you sm @bunnycoffeeumcat

FOUND! Weep You No More, Sad Fountains by athena_crikey (T, 59k, WangXian, LXC & LWJ, LXC & JGY, Canon Divergence, Fix-it fic, Whump, Curses, Fever, Delirium, Stabbing, Loneliness, Confessions, LWJ’s emotional repression, WWX giving everything as always, LXC realising sympathy is not support, LQR Being an Asshole) for the first point but not the second so I guess this is 6a?

FOUND? 🧡 decay by antebunny (G, 15k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Angst, Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Fix-It, Angst with a Happy Ending, the fluffiest ending, Hurt/Comfort) Are they maybe thinking of decay by antebunny? I know the ending of the fic has a similar scene to what they were describing

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7. Hi. I am looking for a fic where Baoshan Sanren knows about Wei Wuxian’s fate but cannot directly interfere. Instead she raises Mo Xuanyu as a cultivator and Talisman Master who helps Madam Jin keep Jin Ling safe in Lanling Jin before leaving for the Imperial Exams. Before he can reach, he is assassinated by Jin Guangyao. Wei Wuxian then wakes up in the body and decides to write the exams, becoming a high ranking minister. The emperor takes an interest in the cultivation world a few years later.

FOUND? Awakening: Return of the Patriarch - Another Way by SplitGirl28 (M, 35k, WIP, Transmigration, Related to Jin Guangslut again, Nobody has access to WWX's notes, Experimentation Underway, Established SongXiao, A-Qing Lives)

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8. Hi! I'm looking for this fic where wwx and lwj are thrown into an arranged marriage together, and don't know each other. Wwx is generally happy and excited, and lwj sees this and immediately hates him, bcoz he wanted a calm, quiet spouse to live with. The whole thing is orchestrated by Madam Yu, who basically abandons wwx at cloud recesses bcoz she figures he would be miserable here. Lwj doesn't like him to or try to understand him, so wwx slowly gets more and more depressed and suicidal, kind of as a parallel to Madam lan. I think he tries teaching for a while, and he's very good at it, but the elders step in and claim he's corrupting the children, so that's that. He finds the yin iron, and plans to destroy it worth a circle that will also take him out along with it, but before he can go through with the plan lwj realises how depressed he is and starts making an effort to help him. The fic ends with lwj offering to run away from cloud recesses with him, and wwx telling him no, he doesn't want to be some sort of shameful indulgence, if lwj really wants him he'll stay and fight with the elders on his behalf @arsonistbydaylibrarianbynight

FOUND? Concord by Deastar (T, 41k, WangXian, Arranged Marriage, Gusu Lan Sect Rules, Depression, Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending)

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9. Hi! For the next Fic Finder, I’ve been trying to find a fic where LWJ leaves the CR to go help WWX in the Burial Mounds. It kind of starts of with LWJ and WWX confrontation after WWX rescues the Wens. There’s a sequence where LWJ is gathering stuff to take to the Burial Mounds. Then in later chapters it’s LXC, LQR, and a couple of Lan Elders going to Yiling to try and bring LWJ back to the CR. They find him in Yiling, selling produce, only to discover that LWJ is living a happy life with WWX and is no longer following Gusu Lan’s rules as he lets a bunch of kids decorate his hair. Sorry this is super long. I can remember what happens in the fic, but for the life of me I can’t remember the title. Thanks a bunch!

FOUND!🔒Unpack Your Heart by Terri Botta (Isilwath) (T, 22k, wangxian, Romance, Everybody Lives, Canon Divergence, LWJ Has Feelings, Protective LWJ, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, LWJ Stays at the Burial Mounds, Burial Mounds Ensemble as Family, Wangxian in Love, YLLZ WWX, Lan Clan Elders are Assholes, Minor Transgender Character, Qiongqi Path Divergence, LWJ loves his bunnies)

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10. hi - i’m looking for a f/f wangxian fic. lwj and wwx start as friends but there’s obvious sexual tension (wwx still thinks she’s straight, and keeps “baiting” lwj). lwj lives near her mom, and she bikes to visit her with wei ying. there’s a scene where wwx is wearing novelty panties with a weed leaf on it? and wwx turns out to have nipple piercings which makes lwj go insane? eventually wwx is like “i may not be a woman but you’re a lesbian so you can’t love me.” and lwj is like. nah. i love you?

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11. Hi! This is for fic finder. I honestly dont remember if it was a fanfic from this fandom or a chinese bl novel i red years ago. It didnt help that i dont remember much of the story. I will call them mc and ml (if it was a fanfic, wwx is the mc). They are an actor. The mc got a big role and there are a sex scene in the film with the ml. And then the mc catch a feeling to the ml. The plot of the movie they shoot is where the mc always running away. The movie plot kinda resobate with the mc feeleng. And the writting style is tell a twi stoey. The movie plot and the fic. Long story short, the mc get kidnapped. I dont remember if its trully happen or the movies's plot but i think the mc was genuinely kidnapped. The kidnapping is meticulous that make people tell the ml to brace himself for the worst case scenario. The ml helped to find the mc. In the end, the mc is found but in the bad shape. Near the end of the story, they are in shooting where the plot is the ml found the mc. They hugged and the staff say that it feels genuine.

Im 80% sure its a wangxian fic. I read that around 3-4 years ago. Thanks! @idontknowwhattowriteforusername

Hi im #11 in recent fic finder. I dont know if it will help but it involves a cottage (where wwx is held when he is kidnapped), a river (i think their investigation lead to the river and found a red scraf), a red scraf (i think wwx knit it? I dont remember but it his). Its not outsider pov and not a twitter fic (i dont know what is called). I think the film they play is a porn one? (Not sure about this part). Thanks!

NOT FOUND! call me, beep me by myung (T, 39k, wangxian, modern, social media, actors au, celebrities, chatting & texting)

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12. fic finder: does anyone remember this one fic where lan qiren was looking for a way to get wwx a new core and he calls for people to make spiritual donations or something? wwx didnt think anyone would volunteer but when he looked there had been a huge crowd gathered to help him

FOUND! I'm Sorry & Thank You by Iamnotawriter (T, 12k, LQR & WWX, WangXian, Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Golden Core, Canon-Typical Violence, lqr's epipheny, Angst with a Happy Ending)

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13. Hi, can you help me find a fanfic that I missed? It was about WWX who died (supposedly in his world, devoured by corpses) but he travels to another dimension, he thinks it was because of the Stygian Tiger seal, and finds another version of himself that was from that dimension. There is a specific scene where WWX (modern) teaches WWX (cultivator) how to use the shower and WWX (modern) talks about Su She who was his boyfriend and such. In the end, Huaisang reveals that the two WWX have the same DNA and that he has never seen an identity of him. / oi, podem me ajudar a achar uma fic, (hi, can you help me find a fic,) It's from wwx that he dies and travels to another dimension, where he meets another older wei wuxian, this wwx (modern) is investigating a case of dead people, there's a scene where they take baths together (Wwx (modern) teaches wwx (cultivator) how to use showers) and wwx talks about his jerk ex-boyfriend who was su she, there's a specific scene where wwx (modern) confronts su she (ex-boyfriend) he (modern wwx) meets lwj who was a teacher of something and they end up getting close.

(this part moved to Itmf)

both requests by @quwieiidkd

FOUND? so when you go wherever it is you will go, take the moon with you by comforting_monachopsis (T, 138k, WWX & WWX, WWX & WQ, WWX & WN, wangxian, JC & WWX & JYL, past WWX/SS, past WWX/XY, canon divergence, time travel, dimension travel, modern, private investigator WWX, professor LWJ, trauma, serial killers, strangers to lovers, BAMF WWX, hurt WWX)

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14. I'm looking for a fanfic, but I can't find it. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji share an unsatisfying night, but fate keeps bringing them together. thanks! ❤️

FOUND? 🔒 Bad Sex, Good Loving by Nyatci (E, 18k, WangXian, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/referenced WWX/Others, Implied/referenced LWJ/Others, One night stand WangXian, PWP, but like, Bad Porn with Good Plot, The Plot is the Porn being Bad, Self-Esteem Issues, Communication Failure, Idiots in Love, Falling In Love, Practice makes perfect, They work on the communication thing eventually, Under-negotiated Kink, mild angst with a very happy ending, BDSM Undertones, Consensual Non-Consent)

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15. hi this is for ficfinder!

I think this was based in the 1900s? and lwj is an exorcist of sorts, and I think wen qings family calls him for help, because I kinda remember her opening the door for him and granny is also there. wwx is a Gardner in the wen house and he's also the necromancer. I think the phrase used was similar "there's a friendly gardner"

thank you sm!

FOUND? sweet beneath sharp edges by isabilightwood (E, WangXian, Historical, Jazz Age, Light Horror, Demonic Cultivation, Ghost Possession, Haunted House, Cultivator LWJ, Gardener WWX, disabled character (WN), WRH is not a good uncle (or father), Mystery, LWJ is sent to exorcise a house and flirts with the gardener instead, said gardener may or may not be the monster he was sent to kill, Madam Lan Lives, Monsterfucker LWJ, Bottom LWJ, Resentacles, flirting via fruit, Weirdo4weirdo wangxian, Oral Fixation, WWX eats the rich (literally), Power Bottom LWJ but wwx is still in control)

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16. Hi, I’m searching for a fic I read quite some time ago. Wwx actually remembers Lwj confessing to him after the Burial Mounds siege and then they’re kinda forced into a marriage? Lwj goes to live with wwx and the wens but wwx treats him horribly. Lwj by then had been whipped and so he’s terrible pain all the time.

Thank you so much 😊 @bcozwhythefuknot

FOUND? ❤️ A Myriad of Blossoms by Itszero (E, 56k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Forced Marriage, YLLZ WWX, Hurt LWJ, Cruel wwx, he’s cruel until he’s not, Protective WWX, Caring WWX, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Eventual Smut, Bottom LWJ, Dark WWX)

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17. Hi!! I've been looking for this fic for a while, I hope yall can help me. So what I remember is that LWJ becomes the YLLZ's concubine, spouse, bed warmer? They spent years apart, and WWX held some resentment due to a misunderstanding (LWJ was punished with the whip and couldn't be besides him?) I remember this scene where LWJ is wearing a (silk?) robe. Then WWX funds out about the whip scars and It was a whole thing that solved the misunderstanding, I believe. It may be a AU since there was some kind of Magic besides canon stuff? Like, the Wei Sect? members were part something (demons, animals, idk) and It happened to LWJ too for being in the BM. Oh, and MXY and A-Yuan were there too! I hope someone can help me. Thank you!

FOUND? the necromancer's fairytale by iliacquer (E, 17k, WangXian, Top LWJ, Bottom WWX, but they have switch energy, safe sane consensual noncon kink, is the Yiling Patriarch a kink, incoherent worldbuilding is incoherent, Past Torture the lan family are terrible sorry, Rough Sex, Pain Kink)

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18. hello! i'd like to ask for a fic finder! it's at least two-three years old, and on the shorter side i believe??

the first one is CR study arc, where lwj believes wwx's prank was specifically because he found out lwj is a cutsleeve/has feelings for wwx. i think he gets silently angry like canon, and later he confronts wwx about it? (it's not works/32795896 though it's similar)

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19. Hi! I'm looking for a specific fic - I think I read it at least 2 years ago, maybe earlier. WWX is hidden by (I can't quite remember if it's after 13 years or before hand) JC and JYanli, and pretends to be a woman whilst figuring what to do now. Jin Guangshan hits on her, and as always, LWJ falls for WWX in a different form. Whilst at the Golden Carp Tower, WWX is also in a wheelchair - I can't quite remember why. Everything gets revealed eventually.

FOUND? My Leaves Reach Ever for the Sun by nonplussed (T, 26k, WangXian, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fix-It, Crossdressing, Idiots in Love, Sharing a Bed, Canon Divergence, Happy Ending, Mutual Pining, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies)

The Housewife's Guide to Causing Chaos by dvasva (M, 132k, WIP, WangXian, Canon-Typical Violence, Functionally Trans Character, Mild Sexual Content, Domestic Fluff, Love Confessions, Transphobia, Good Parents LWJ and WWX, Pining, WWX is a Tease, Grief/Mourning, Body Dysphoria, Fake Marriage, Canonical Character Death, Misunderstandings, Doting LWJ, Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, WWX is not in MXY's body, Misgendering, Mild Angst, Assumptions, Comedic Elements, non-sexual nudity, Blood, Discussion of Various Bodily Functions, Cloud Recesses Shenanigans, 4 years of mourning instead of 13, Méishān Yú Sect, POV Multiple, Corporal Punishment, Trans WWX, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, pregnancy mention, Timeline What Timeline, Sexual Harassment Threats) Both of these have jgs being a creep towards wei ying

FOUND? Wei Wuxian, Who's That? by bumbledees (T, 48k, wangxian, crossdressing, pining, sibling feels) Both of these have jgs being a creep towards wei ying

FOUND? By Any Other Name by ShanaStoryteller (Not Rated, 31k, Wangxian, Canon Divergence, Crossdressing, Misunderstandings, Identity Porn, Identity reveal) idr if theres a wheelchair involved for sure. i feel like there is but im gonna be honest i always forget abled ppl exist so in my mind when i read everyone is using mobility aids all the time until i get reminded otherwise lol but i do recall that he is weak and regaining energy so its possible he was using a wheelchair atp for that reason ? either way its a good fic

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20. Hello, i love what you're doings! A fic I'm looking for: JC and LWzj time travelled and decided to fix canon. As such, they spent a lot of time together. But that lead to everyone- especially wwx - to think they're a couple. Wwx is okay with it, but really bothered that he keels getting dragged into their dates @midnightlighthowlite

FOUND? ❤️ For Both Of Us (And Time Is But A Paper Moon) by sami (E, 65k, WangXian, Time Travel, Some People Live/Not Everyone Dies, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Yunmeng Shuangjie, Canon Divergence, Asexual JC, First Time, Getting Together, BAMF JC, BAMF LWJ)

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[b1zmuth]

If Hell Itself, Was Beautiful. | Diavolo X Reader

SC \\ implied smut, heavy fluff, diavolo being a goof, jealousy if you really squint hard, mutual pining

TL:DR: Diavolo falls head over heels for you, and battles his own thoughts about if he should go through with his confession. whilst you do the exact same thing lmao

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Diavolo didn't know when ‘’it’’ happened, or really… how it happened. 

As far as his mind will let him remember, he just thinks of the time when he first met you on that fateful day, your bewilderment as to where you were and how you ended up in such a strange, unfamiliar place- and that's when he locked eyes with yours, seeing that same look of astonishment and intrigue that he had in his own.

And your eyes didn't lie, during your first couple of days in the Devildom, you had already managed to make a pact with Mammon- managed to, somewhat, outwit Lucifer, and didn't get killed by Belphegor…just truly amazing feats! Something.. Worthy of a king’s attention for sure!

‘’My lord…you have a….’’

If only he could just.. Have you see him in the way he sees you.

Someone who could rival his own strength, pull their own weight, be so caring for him.. Especially with someone like him and his immense amount of emotional baggage..

He wonders if you would like to be with someone like him one day, someone who could give you the world if you ask- 

‘’My lord! My apologies for coming in unannounced, but your presence is requested elsewhere.’’ a slim and tall figure walks into the bedroom of Lord Diavolo, fixing an unruly strand of his black and green hair before he presents himself in front of the prince- ‘’If you are feeling unwell then I can make arrangements to clear your schedule for today?’’

‘’No, Barbatos. Im alright! Let us prepare to leave.’’ Diavolo said with a forced smile, not liking the interruption to his deep-thinking moment- and really, he was more upset that he would have to face reality for once- knowing that his beloved MC most likely didn't reciprocate his feelings back.

At least he wouldn’t have the gut-wrenching feeling of watching you smile at others- ‘’no, no.. that's just wrong to think!” 

Listening to Barbatos talk about the agenda for today, Diavolo just spaced out for most of the walk throughout the castle- only tuning in when it was something that caught his ear, until he heard Barbatos finally say something that ripped him out of his daydream-

‘’Oh! Apologies for missing one part- Lucifer has requested an audience with you about the ball. Although, he says it is an urgent matter’’ He flashes Diavolo a small shrug on his shoulders and continues walking before Diavolo finally speaks up- ‘’What ball?’’ his confused tone shocking the butler who just turned around and gave him a confused but professional look.

‘’Satan’s late birthday ball, m’lord?’’ Barbatos responded, keeping up his end of the facade- giving a small smile to his lord.

Meanwhile, in the House of Lamentation.. 

It is almost Diavolos birthday! This means Lucifer becomes more strict and everyone is running around preparing for the large event..which includes you..

It's been nonstop running around and visiting different vendors with Lucifer, supervising the rest of his brothers for hours on end with Lucifer, preparing invites with Lucifer, and doing paperwork… with Lucifer. God, someone. anyone! please take you out! Lucifer can be fun at times- but this was just too much.

But, if it was all for Diavolo, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad. 

The plan you and Lucifer devised was to throw Diavolo a surprise birthday party, masking it under the cover of Satan’s Late Birthday Bash, you both decided to enlist the help of the brothers, Solomon, Simeon, Luke, and of course, Barbatos. 

Alas! A foolproof plan was created to make the best birthday party for Diavolo there ever was! Hooray! There was nothing that could go wrong, unless, you know, every vendor in the area just so happened to go out of business at the exact same time! 

You finished up your tasks with Lucifer for the day, exchanging your goodbyes and heading off into your respective rooms- you in yours, quickly getting ready for bed and drifting off into a peaceful slumber, counting the sheep that jumped over the fence in your dream.. 

Ding! 

Ding! Ding! 

You grumbled, watching as the sheep in your dream now started yelling like bells instead of ‘’Bahh!’’ .. which was odd? But you just dismissed it as just your mind playing tricks on you.

Ding ding ding ding ding!

Ding! 

Now half awake due to the annoying bell-sounding sheep constantly screaming- you rolled over to cover your ears with your pillow- only to KEEP on hearing those fucking bell-sounding sheep!

Ding! 

‘’Okay, what gives! Fuckass bell sheep!’’ you groaned loudly, searching for your phone, which the second you picked it up and held it- started flash-banging you with notifications and its turned-up-to-the-max brightness. ‘’ACK!’’

It took a little while before you finally started seeing everything correctly again- but you finally started checking your phone which had been outed as the culprit for the ‘’bell sheep incident’’- ‘’57 missed messages? At..’’ you glanced at the clock, the time reading 4:26- ‘’four in the morning?! Jesus fuck!’’ your eyes widened at the sight, practically doing cartwheels in your eyesockets from how hard you rolled your eyes.  

[3:57] [Prideful Bastard] : Rise and shine everyone. There are a lot of things we have to do today. Please get dressed at meet me in the common room at 4. 

[4:06] [please never go near a church] : you woke us all up with this fuckass message just to tell us to get ready at four in the damn morning? I outta turn you into dust! 

[4:07] [Levichan] : Satans right! There is no reason for us 2 be awake at this hour! 

[4:10] [Prideful Bastard] : When you say ‘’us’’ you mean everyone here excluding yourself, right? We all heard you yelling over losing a raid, AGAIN.

You didn't feel the need to read the rest of the messages complaining to Lucifer- just scrolling through and reading some messages that were asking the reasons as to why the prideful bastard wanted everyone awake so early. 

And then here you are, standing half-awake, barely even conscious enough to register anything Lucifer was ordering of you- the other brothers in the same state, groaning and mumbling about how unfair he was for having them move around boxes full of things at FOUR in the fuckin morning.

But it was all for his birthday, and you would do anything just to see his smile, right?

You haven't got a wink of sleep yet, even after your rude awakening via Lucifer earlier this morning, but you kept pushing on, determined to get the work assigned to you done faster in order to feel the sweet relief of your bed- the washing waves of a peaceful slumber washing over your body, the sweet comforting feeling of your covers…oh how wonderful it would be! 

That whole idea of your bed kept you awake and conscious long enough to get all of your tasks done and finally go to sleep.. To hopefully see his smile beaming at you, thanking you for all of your hard work and demonstrating how much work ethic you could really show off.. Making him praise you, dance with you, and to your hopeful imagination- he would…. Kiss you.

I mean, who wouldn’t want THE Diavolo, ruler of all demons, the finest demon in the lands, to lay his golden gaze on someone who’s been pining after him since the moment you lied eyes on him in the student council room, his rich, deep, chocolatey voice working wonders on your nerves….chocolate.. Mm. 

You slowly started drifting off into a deep sleep, the images of sheep-turned-chocolate-bars jumping over several fences plaguing your dream- although, you didn't really mind since you started to go on a rampage, shoving the chocolate bar sheep down your throat at record speeds.

Chocolate..

And that was the last thing you thought about whilst still in a conscious state- before the milk sheep arrived- and we really shouldn’t talk about that incident.. But you eventually ended up sleeping in for the last two days leading up to Diavolo’s party, and now you sat in your bed, the morning of his party, daydreaming about how you would go about talking to  Diavolo before Lucifer starts hogging all of his attention, AKA, being your only chance to get him alone long enough to confess. 

Oh, how lucky you were that Lucifer came to your room with an offer, the offer to end all others- the offer you were fantasizing about in your dreams! 

Being able to offer Diavolo the first dance of the night.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

‘’I and Barbatos were discussing how the cake that was ordered for Lord Diavolo's party would be arriving late, and that we would need the lights off and Lord Diavolo to be distracted long enough for either of us to get the cake in. The both of us only came up with one solution that would be a long enough distraction for this situation to run smoothly- that being a ballroom dance between someone and Diavolo, preferably someone that he shows interest in as well.’’

You looked at Lucifer with a mix of pure excitement and confusion, his comment about ‘’Preferably someone he shows interest in’’ settling a giddy- schoolgirl’s crush being in the near vicinity of them- feeling deep inside of you, your face trying to mask a gigantic and goofy smile behind a straight one, which totally failed.

‘’I take it that you're very enthusiastic about this position? Well, we should visit Majolish to look for a dress-’’ you cut Lucifer off with an ecstatic shake of your head and an excited squeal, running off to your closet to pull out your sparkly red outfit from the time you and the brothers spent three days at Diavolo’s castle- ‘’No need!’’ you practically shouted at Lucifer, smiling widely at him. 

Lucifer smiled back, excusing himself to let you get your things in order and get ready for this afternoon’s events. 

And then, it was the big event- something both you and Diavolo were anxiously waiting for, awaiting the looks on each other's faces, those mistaken glances that you both dismissed as your mind playing tricks on you, the rhythmic thumping of your hearts in-tune as you traveled to the ballroom- the thought of who would accept their confession, or who would reject it.

Diavolos mind raced at a mile a minute, his thoughts utterly plagued with thoughts of what outfit you would be gracing his eyes with, his hellish soul finally finding some solace in the eye candy that you called your soul, and even though it was Satan’s birthday party, he had no interest in that short-tempered mini version of Lucifer- he only had his eyes on the one person that always managed to brighten his day, make him smile, make his eternal hell more beautiful with every word that you spoke- hell, even down to the simple letters you said made his knees weak! 

All he wanted to see was you tonight, hopefully in that same gorgeous sparkly red outfit you wore to the ball at his castle last time…you looked so breathtaking that he had to manually breathe for a while, of course being a little upset that someone else took up the offer to dance with you..

But all he had to do was just make it through the formalities with numerous noble demons and the..others..and he would be happily frolicking across the room to be the first man to ask you to dance! And even if a certain SOMEONE managed to snatch up the opportunity before him, he would still have another (guaranteed) chance of getting to finally get a dance, and confess, to you! 

He was practically kicking his feet in anticipation of the event- praying to whatever god that would listen to him that you would accept his confession and become forever his..!

And you felt the exact same way, your heart thumping as a single spotlight shone down on your body, making the sparkles on your outfit shine with a fiery red passion, your figure being illuminated with a red aura- the sparkles truly doing their part to make sure you looked your absolute best for your not-so-secret crush- the lights being turned off and everything around you being pitch black helped the sparkles do their part even more.

You started to sweat bullets in anticipation, and the anxiety of Diavolo not accepting both of your proposals- your confession, and your dance- it would be the bane of your existence if he even rejected ONE of your offers, especially in front of the demon brothers who wouldnt let you live that embarrassment down, like forever. 

Until, the man of the hour arrived, in a matching sparkly red suit that sparkled from the reflected light that shone off of your outfit, adorned with a fur coat and golden accessories- his matching golden eyes darting around to presumably look for someone before they cast their golden gaze on you. 

Your hand extends outward towards Diavolo, beckoning him closer with an allusive gloved hand that he gladly abided by soft classical music played in the background as you both joined hands, and before you could even open your mouth, Diavolo stopped you by kissing your gloved hand and asking, ‘’Would you care for a dance, MC?’’ with that same deep chocolatey voice that made the hairs on your body stand up- your head nodding as a answer, and your dance with the devil beginning. 

His hand softly guiding your waist through the song, his golden gaze connecting to yours- never leaving the comfort of the personal sanctuary that you both had created just by simply looking at one another, smiles and blushes that were directed at the other, secret peeks at perfectly kissable lips started the more passionate dance that ended in small giggles and laughs, twirls, and finally a slow dance that ended with your head on Diavolo’s chest, his hands holding you close to him as if you were just going to disappear off of the face of the earth that very second. 

It felt as if the world had stopped, at it was just you and Diavolo together now. 

But still, the same question rang throughout your heads- ‘’Do they love me back?’’ like an unending reminder of the upcoming event that would either have you leaving the room in saddened disappointment or utter glee, you both fished for each other's hands before intertwining them and asking the same big question at the same time, that question that kept you both awake for hours on end, the question that you both fantasized about being an ecstatic ‘’yes!’’ and a not so child-friendly passionate kiss that ended in some bedroom affairs..

‘’I want to be your one and only MC!’’ Diavolo shouted with a massive red blush adorning his face, his eyes closing in some form of weariness before they shot open once they heard what your response was.

‘’I want you to ravish me in bed for hours on end!’’ you had ONE job. 

You only stared into the abyss in horror as you realized exactly what had come out of your mouth, right in front of the demon you were pining after- and with Mammon’s nervous cough, a sputter from Satan, and the sound of Belphies head rising from his pillow didn't help the situation at all. Fuck. 

‘’MC.. I'm flattered, you really are the one for me! I'm so glad that you feel the same way about me as I do you! I also want to ravage you in bed for hours on end! I can't wait for after my birthday party ends, you know?’’ Diavolo smiled, flashing a mischievous smile and picking you up so you would be sitting on his upper arm, watching how your face turned from embarrassment to actual shock to what he SAID to you- mirroring the same faces of quite literally everyone else who stood in total shock considering he just admitted to.. Nevermind. Everyone just took that as the cue to start popping the party streamers and poppers and begin the celebration! 

Pulling yourself out of your daze, you smiled brightly at Diavolo before pulling his face in for a deep kiss- which the latter returned with a smile against your lips before going back to kissing you.

‘’Diavolo?’’ He hums in response, his head now resting against yours- ‘’How did you know the birthday party was for you?’’ Diavolo laughs, pointing to himself and saying ‘’Walking lie detector, that's how my darling!’’ 

You give a dragged-out ‘’oooooooh!’’ before telling Diavolo to join in on the festivities you and the brothers spent a whole day being halfway conscious to prepare- the both of you running over to pester Lucifer about god-knows-what, and enjoying Diavolo’s birthday to the fullest! Given that YOU specifically had an ‘’after-party’’ with Diavolo after the event concluded…and came home to wide-eyed brothers and pestering questions about Diavolo’s private bed life before Lucifer finally chucked a plate at Mammon’s head which shut up the rest of them lickity-split!

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A\N - Yello! biz speaking, this fic quite literally took all of my motivation out, I spent over 8 hours total making this fic and it turned out to be somewhat longer than my LXR fic (12 pages long on Google Docs.. huh.) and I'm pretty happy with how it turned out, and I plan on making fics for all boys before updating on other categories, so drop a follow (if you like) for more obey me x reader content!

Bizmuth 24' | Bizmuth's Workshop

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙇𝙊𝙂𝙐𝙀: 𝘉𝘈𝘊𝘒 𝘏𝘖𝘔𝘌

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: returning back home isn't entirely unwelcome, it's just the guilt and shame that is. things are tense between you and your mom, and you want nothing more than to fix it, but you have to fix yourself first.

word count: 2078

warnings: withdrawal symptoms, the reader is an alcoholic, cigarettes, addiction, allusions to reader's father being sick.

a/n: HII!! so i'm kind of nervous but also excited because i've never posted a series before! i have a loose idea of what i want to do with this story, so i'm riding with vibes right now! i hope you guys like this and let me know how you feel!!

masterlist | series masterlist | AO3

Your head hurts. 

You’ve never been a particularly good flier, the jetlag you experience every time you land never fails to make you feel sick.

The terminal you stood in was loud, the large area booming with people since you had landed in the early afternoon. It was warm in Quantico, Virginia, and it was still the beginning of September. The skies were clear from what you could see through the glass roof, the clouds a welcoming softened contrast to the turmoil stirring within you.

You squint up at the sky through your sunglasses and your already bitten down nails find themselves trying to pick at the peeled skin of your cuticles, but your movements pause at the absent added weight of an engagement ring. 

It’s like a punch to the gut, but you don’t have much time to think when you spot your mother standing off to the side near the entrance. You’d already been through baggage claim, your whole life amounted to two full suitcases. They were just clothes, everything you had back in New York belonged to him.

The nervousness after finally seeing your mother again made your throat close and nerves light up like wildfire. You felt that familiar itch of need under your skin, like you wish you could peel back the flesh and scratch at your bones. 

You could settle for taking a deep breath.

You made your way towards her as she waved hesitantly; she looked older, the brightened coloring of her hair no longer shined its youthful color, instead, it was replaced by almost a full head of gray. It looked good on her, but you have a feeling she aged faster than she probably should have because of certain circumstances.

This was why you dreaded coming back here, back to Virginia, back home; you weren’t ready to face the guilt and grief that you had fought so desperately to try and run from. You felt completely out of your depth, like you didn’t deserve to come back after what you did. 

It surprised you when your mother willingly answered your phone call – seeing though she hadn’t bothered to try and reach out to you even though your number was still the same – you were to blame for it though, there were only so many instances where someone can stand being ignored before they just give up all together.

“Mom.” You breathed out, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. You push your glasses up into your hair and you know you look like shit. You had called her and left right after it happened, so yesterday's running makeup still sat dried on your face. You tried to make yourself presentable during the flight, but there was only so much you could do with airline water and a tissue.

It wasn’t just the makeup, and you know it; it was the dark circles under your eyes due to basically years of shit sleep – and even days without it – bloodshot eyes and sunken features, on top of your tremoring figure due to withdrawal.

She gives you a once over, a quick, fleeting up and down look, but you can see it, the absolute devastation and concern written on her face.

“Hi.” Is all she says. “Is that it?” She gestures down to your suitcases. “Yep, that’s all of it.” Another look. “Okay.”

It’s awkward and tense and no one knows what to say. You sure as hell don’t, because if you open your mouth, you’re not sure what would come out. An apology? A snarky remark or an ugly comment? You’re a mix of emotions right now, and all you can focus on is the want for a cigarette and a drink.

It doesn’t take long to approach the car, and it’s the same shitty Kia Sedan that your dad had let you drive when you were just a teenager with a permit. You soften at the sight and your mom pops the trunk open with ease. She takes your suitcases from you, and you don’t stop her. When she gets fretful like this, you just have to let her do her thing and take care of you.

‘Even though I don’t deserve it’ you can’t help but think bitterly.

It still smells the same when you sit in the passenger seat of it, the faux leather seats still withered and chipping.

“So…” Your mom begins. You can see her grip on the steering wheel is tight, her posture tense as though she doesn’t know what to do now that you’re here. You can’t stand it. She used to be so confident, so self-assured. Maybe not everything stayed the same.

“How are you?” She questions meekly. “Tired and jetlagged.” You choose to indulge her. “Right.” She says, tone light. “How about you?” You ask, “How are things?” You know there’s so much she wants to say, but she doesn’t want to risk starting a fight, so she settles for, “I’ve been fine.”

“Right.” You reiterate, nodding while turning your head to stare out the window. 

“Your first AA meeting is in a few days.”

Down to business, thank God. “Alright.”

“I really need you to stick to this, okay? We had an agreement.” The trust between the two of you is completely broken, and you have no idea how to fix it. There’s so much about her you need to relearn, half a decade of missed moments and memories that could’ve been made.

“Okay.”

“And you’ll call my therapist?”

“Yes mom.” 

“I’m serious. I want you to try and put in an effort. I know things are hard right now, but I really want to help you, and I can’t if you won’t work with me. I refuse to let you turn into some couch surfing drunk that does nothing but self-destructs the whole day –”

“God, mom I said okay!” You snap.

It goes silent. Just great.

It’s mid-afternoon when you finally make it home.

That’s what really takes the cake.

The lawn is well kept, your mom most likely paying someone to come out here. Before you left, your mom’s arthritis had been getting worse, but she rarely cared about herself when your father was sick.

The porch was decorated with all sorts of plants either sitting or hanging off the railings, a different assortment of windchimes and crystal sun catchers scattered about the awning.

You take the initiative to get the suitcases out yourself as your mom starts for the front door. A sick sense of nostalgia settles over you. The street was still the same; your house was one in three within the little cul-de-sac, sidewalks still marred with childlike chalk drawings, lawns scattered about with chairs, bikes, and toys.

Your eyes fell on the house across from yours and that same itch found itself resurfacing.

When you got inside you could have thrown up; it felt like a weight was being placed on your chest, your heart aching as you took in the family photos on the walls. You knew you were shaking by now, your tremoring getting worse and sweat perspiring on your brow. You felt so bare without your protective vices.

“I’m gonna make lunch, okay? I’ll give you some time to set up.”

“That’d be great, thanks.” You say through your dry throat. She places a reassuring hand on your shoulder before giving it a squeeze.

You keep your gaze focused forward as you brace the hall to your old childhood bedroom, which was on the right at the end. 

Opening the door, you take in what looks like a snapshot in history, the room so untouched that it was frozen in time. 

The blankets on your bed were left askew like you had left them the night of your departure, your side table decorated with a box of tissues, your old sketchbook, and a cup of pens and pencils sat on top of it.

Your desk is still holding old textbooks and what not, but you had practically stripped the room clean when you left.

You abandon your suitcases to sit on your bed, and when you do, a small gust of dust flurries around you and you can’t help but laugh. It wasn’t that it was funny, but if you didn’t react in some sort of way, you would’ve cried.

You felt so emotionally unbalanced, and you blinked hard to rid yourself from the burning behind your eyelids. Just then, you remembered something.

Standing up, you make your way to your closet, opening the sketched doors to dig around for a shoe box, when you find it, you make a small ‘whoop!’ sound. It opened to reveal your old smoke stash. You were young and taking care of your dying father pushed you to pick up cigarettes. 

You hid it as a courtesy to your mom, but you’re sure that now at the ripe age of twenty-seven, you don’t need to be that careful. You take out the old carton and it still has a whole role of filters left. Then you flicked the gear on the lighter and it lit up. Finally, a win.

“I’m gonna step out for a bit, okay?” You announce to your mom as you retreat down the hall. “Oh?” She says in surprise. “Where are you going?” You wave off her question. “Just gonna sit out on the porch for a second. Is that cool?”

You know your mom is worried about you, now that you are trying to get clean, she feels as though she has to keep an eye on you. You went completely cold turkey, the last drink you had was the day before you flew out.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s fine.” She rushes to say. “I’ll be back inside before the food’s done, okay?” You reassure her. You’re trying to get used to finding an old balance with her, because you missed her, more than anything. You want her to trust you again.

“Okay.”

You find yourself sitting in that familiar spot on the porch step, the same one you’d sit on when your dad couldn’t sleep and you’d find yourself out here in the middle of the night. Someone else used to sit with you too.

Your eyes flicker over to the house across the street while you light up the cigarette between your lips. The nicotine and tobacco helps to ease the itch in your veins and you sighed, blowing the air out with it.

There was another relationship you needed to fix.

You haven’t seen or talked to Spencer in years, but he was your best friend up until you left for New York with your then boyfriend. I mean… it’s not often you’d meet a twelve-year-old that goes to college. He was the exact opposite of the boy next door with his big nerdy glasses and meek demeanor, like he didn’t know how to carry himself.

You knew the bullying was bad, so you were his only friend.

You liked that he was smart, and he knew how to listen, you loved his mom, and you were there for Spencer when her schizophrenia started to get bad. Two hurt people that found themselves acting as a crutch to the other.

That same sickening feeling of guilt reappeared, and you took in another deep drag of smoke. You held it there, longer than you probably should have and when you released it, you were dizzy, and your throat burned uncomfortably. 

Your blinks were slow, and you grew nauseous.

“Fuck.” You murmured, running the filter up and down the bottom of your shoe to put it out before flicking it away. 

You hang your head between your legs and attempt to ground yourself.

“Hon?” Your mom calls out from behind the screen door. “Are you okay?” She rubs up and down your shoulders and you sniffle. “Yeah just…” You take a deep breath. “Just a little nauseous.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything because you’re a grown woman that could make her own decisions, but don’t make me take those things away too.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at her chiding.

“Yes, mother.” You say dryly but without any malice. It’s nice to be able to joke like this with her. 

“Now, how about a sandwich? I bet it tastes better than those things.”

“Ham and cheese?” You question hopefully and finally lift your head. You’re greeted with her fond smile that makes her look younger. “Yes, baby. Ham and cheese.”

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @celtic-crossbow @hallecarey1 @bunnybabe-babydoll @dixonzzgirl @violettavirus @khxna

[asunsetgrace16]

✧ 18 ⎥ 𝗠𝗧19

Pairing: Matthew Tkachuk x fem!reader

Summary: Matt and Y/N's relationship chronicled by a One Direction song

Warnings: none

Notes: based off of 18 by One Direction

masterlist ⎥ navigation

Word Count: 1.2k

We made a start be it a false one I know

Baby I don’t want to feel alone

“You want me to what?” Y/N asks incredulously. Her voice is shrill and her eyes are wide, staring at Matthew, “Please tell me I heard you wrong.”

Matthew cringes, hating himself for asking this of her, “I need a fake girlfriend to take the heat off, just for a while, then we can go our separate ways, decided we are better off as friends, y’know. I hate that I have to ask you, but there isn’t anyone else I’d wanna ask.”

Y/N sighs, rubbing a hand across her forehead. She can’t believe what she’s hearing. Of course Matt would ask her, they have been friends forever, but this kinda crosses the friendship line. 

“I don’t know, Matt. I’m not used to that life, the people. I also don’t really want to move my entire life from here to Calgary, for what, three months max.”

“Just think about it, please.”

One Month Later

Y/N walks through the Calgary airport with a carry-on. Matt is waiting by baggage claim. He looks up from his phone, an electric smile moves onto his face. He jogs over to hug her, picking her up off the ground.

“I can’t thank you enough, Y/N.” Matt whispers in her ear. 

“You better be glad that I can work remotely.” Y/N teases, unconsciously hugging him tighter. 

“C’mon, let's get your bags and get you home. The boys can’t wait to meet you, so be prepared for an ambush in a few hours.

Five Months Later

The whole night was charged, something shifting in their relationship. Maybe she was reading too much into the lingering glances Matt sent her way, or how his fingertips trailed in her hand once they made it to Johnny’s. She shook it off and chalked it up to Matt simply wanting to keep their ruse believable.

Matt and Y/N are giggly and warm as they walk through the door. They are holding onto each other, a little more than tipsy after the New Year’s party. Y/N squints at the clock on the wall that says three in the morning. 

“We should eat something.” Y/N murmurs, watching Matt move through the kitchen. She grabs two glasses and fills them with water, fishing out a bottle of Advil before she forgets. 

“How do some cheesy eggs sound?” Matt asks, pulling the eggs from the fridge.

“Amazing.”

A comfortable quiet falls over the kitchen. Matt cracks the eggs, Y/N grates the cheese. She walks around the island to the stove and sets the plate down and wraps her arms around Matt’s waist. One of his hands comes to cover her own, warm and gentle. He turns in her arms, pulling her tight to his chest. They stand in silence before Y/N backs away enough to look at his face. This moment feels inevitable, something that was a long time coming. Y/N’s eyes trace every detail on Matt’s face. He looks at her just as intently, a dreamy look on his face. Her breaking quickens, noticeable enough that Matt’s heart starts racing.

“You know, I never got my real New Year’s kiss.” Y/N says softly. He slowly brings his hand to cradle her face, as if giving her time to change her mind. Her chin dips in subtle nod, and then Matt is there. His lips on hers, her hands in his hair. They kiss like they need it more than oxygen, and everything finally, finally, falls into place. It’s passionate and messy, a testament to both their not-sober state and the feeling of needing to make up for lost time. Y/N smiles into the kiss, nothing has felt more right. Y/N is content to stay here kissing Matt forever, but the not-so-romantic smell of smoke pulls her out of her head.

“Matt! The eggs!”

-

So kiss me where I lay down

My hands pressed to your cheeks

A long way from the playground

“Matty, just come and kiss me already.” Y/N whines playfully from their bed. Matt smiles that cheeky smile from where he stands, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. She groans, flopping back into the copious amount of pillows. 

“It’s not fair,” She says, “you standing over there, leaning all sexy against the door, looking like that, and leaving me all alone over here.”

With that, Matt pushes off the doorframe and walks over to the bed. He flops down in a similar manner to Y/N, and right on top of her. She laughs, trying fruitlessly to push him off, but Matt just holds on tighter. He sneakily tickles her ribs, so she tries even more to squirm away from him.

“Matt! That tickles!” She half-shouts, almost out of his grip. Breathless, she wiggles out of his grasp and leans against the headboard. Matt lays on his side and props his head up on one hand, gazing at Y/N with a smile on his face. The soft, genuine one that he saves specially for her. 

“You are such a child. It’s like we are five years old and you are chasing me around the playground again.” She chides, no bite to her words at all. Matt sits up, tugging her ankles so she slides down the bed and he hovers overtop of her. His hand moves to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, cradling her cheek. She bites her lip before taking his face in her hands and kisses him with such a passion it takes his breath away. With her hands pressed to his cheeks, they kiss until they are breathless, barely breaking apart enough to be able to breathe. 

“We’ve come a long way, baby. It’s been a long time since we were on the playground together.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

-

I have loved you since we were 18

Long before we both thought the same thing

To be loved and to be in love

“And Matt, your vows.” Sasha, the officiant, says to Matt. Y/N’s vows have nearly reduced him to a puddle of mush, but her thumbs softly stroking across the backs of his hands keep him grounded.

“Y/N, you are my best friend, my partner in crime, my better half. You, you are my world, and there is no one I’d rather do life with than you.” Matt pauses, voice thick with emotion, “I promise to stand by you, love you completely, and always spray you with whipped cream.” Their guests and Y/N laugh, remembering that photo from sophomore year. “I have loved you since we were 18, and I promise to love you for the rest of my life.”

Y/N wipes a tear off her cheek, smiling and absolutely radiant. 

Sasha starts, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Matt you may kiss your–” He is cut off by Matt moving towards you, leaning you backwards into a saucy dip, not wasting a second more. “–bride.”

All the guests clap and cheer and laugh at Matt’s antics, and he stands them upright. Hands clasped, they make their way down the aisle, pausing for another kiss.

“Since we were 18, or how long before?” Y/N whispers against his lips. Matt simply grins and kisses her again.

[cbk1000]

I'm bored and feeling slightly under the weather, so I decided to post some of the almost 15,000 words I have of a luxury train holiday fic that I started after learning that luxury train holidays were a thing. Why did I write a fic about such a random thing? Because I fell down a rabbit hole of luxury travel videos, discovered luxury trains, and naturally turned those videos into a Merthur fic.

Waverly Station, not to put too fine a point on it, was the most wretched hive of scum and villainy ever to be stolen by the British Empire; though possibly this was because Edinburgh had rained on Arthur, rather prodigiously, whilst he was legging it for the station; possibly because he had been woken, at the hour of No, to catch a train into Scotland; and possibly because he was carrying everything which Morgana owned, over every limb he owned; and consequently hated everyone. The sad fate of the baggage mule was his own: to be flogged, viciously, by a master too precious to carry their own bloody rubbish, through the most wretched of conditions (mizzle), with as little thanks as can be given by a creature throated to give it: and with that especial garnish, which was that he was being hit by Morgana’s voice, rather than a nice little crop, which would have only broken his flesh, and not his spirit.

He was trying to decide in which order to kill them both when he spotted, at the other end of the station, the sculpted dark head, modelled in the image of a wave; though the wave would have blushed to hear it. And beside it, a head similarly coloured, if not similarly coiffed; though he had got it into some order, and not an entirely hideous one. Gwaine nodded; and then Merlin turned round, and showed Arthur the smile he hadn’t seen in two weeks. And he felt it call up from the depths of him an answering smile, though he still hated, in the following order, Morgana; the weather; everyone.

“Should have asked me and Gwaine to carry your stuff. Arthur’s clearly crumbling under the weight of being overestimated,” Merlin said, exchanging cheek kisses with Morgana.

“I just love how funny you are,” Arthur replied, chucking off the various pieces of baggage, and letting them land where they landed.

“Don’t throw my stuff, you absolute knob.”

“Then carry it yourself!” Arthur snapped. “Did you remember your suit?” he asked Merlin, who in a blazer and shirt which appeared, miraculously, not to have got his breakfast, blood, or tea on it, was so uncharacteristically smart that probably he considered himself to be entirely done improving on himself. “You’ll have to wear a proper suit for the formal dinners.” He paused, squinting at him. “Do you have product in your hair?”

Merlin wiggled his eyebrows. “Gwaine helped me with it. Don’t worry; I won’t embarrass you on your posh train.”

“You embarrass me on the Tube.”

“I think that’s just because you feel a heightened sense of shame at having to ride public transportation with the plebian class.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Where are Gwen and Lancelot?”

“Gwen’s in the loo; Lancelot’s gone to look for something to eat. He’s worried the train’s going to serve tiny rich people portions.” Merlin pocketed his hands in his trousers. “Want a coffee?”

“Sure; I could use one, having got up at the arse crack of time this morning,” Arthur said, glaring at Morgana, who as usual was perfectly untroubled by her conduct. He gave Merlin a little slap on the shoulder, and then draped his arm round it, steering him toward Caffé Nero before he could do something unforgivable, like choose Costa. He had enhanced the blazer and hair product with a little aftershave, so that as they were walking, Arthur caught a whiff of something not entirely abhorrent; though his manners, doubtless, would make up for it. If they got him on the train, in the blazer, and no one was very much harmed in the process, that was the most which feeble humanity could expect of God’s capricious mercy. “How’s work?”

“Like arse,” Merlin said, paying for their coffees, and handing Arthur his. “I think they would have asked me to push off my holiday, except they know I’m a biter. And not just the sexy kind.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Just something to consider, a luxury train holiday with a spa and 24 hour steward service might be the place to consider not being a totally classless knob who talks about his sexual preferences in public.”

“The train has a spa?!”

Arthur ignored that. “You didn’t answer about the suit.”

“Yes, I packed the suit we FaceTimed about.”

“Nice to know you can occasionally conjure up enough sense to listen to me,” Arthur said, sipping from his coffee, and looking across the platforms to where Gwen had now joined Morgana and Gwaine, and the women were talking with their heads close together, and laughing, whilst Gwaine arranged himself for the admiring masses. 

“Sometimes I wish he weren’t so straight,” Merlin said, cocking his head a little to one side, and drinking from his coffee. “Just a little bit gay; that’s all I’m asking for.”

“Gwaine?” Arthur sputtered, choking on his coffee. “Why on earth?”

“Because he’s the fittest man I know.”

“Of everyone you know, Gwaine is the fittest.”

“No, I didn’t say everyone, I said of the men I know. I would never say fittest of everyone I know, when Morgana’s right there.”

Arthur stepped on his foot, and got the maddening dimples which told him that Merlin was being trying for the sheer and unadulterated pleasure of it; though he made up for it, marginally, by stepping out from underneath Arthur’s arm, so that he could have a proper look at him, the measuring appraisal of a (not terribly) discerning bisexual, who was not so simple, at least, as to not notice that Arthur was practically the pinnacle of attractiveness, in regular shirt and trousers; and in a proper jacket was planting his flag at the peak of it. “You look ok, though,” Merlin said, tweaking one of his lapels a little.

Arthur cuffed him across the back of the head. “Ok.”

“Yeah. For a total arsehole.”

Lancelot had returned, and Arthur and Merlin were cordially punching one another, when the Royal Scotsman arrived, and Gwen gave a little squeal, and leapt up holding two very reasonable bags, whilst Morgana and entourage looked at Arthur expectantly.

“I am not hauling all that on the bloody train. You could have asked yourself at any point, ‘Do I need my entire closet for a week-long holiday?’ and come to a sane conclusion, but you didn’t,” Arthur said; and so having stated his piece, hauled his own rucksack over his shoulder, forsaking hers.

They were piped aboard the train, a rather troublesome portent, Arthur felt; all week people would be making noise which they felt to be music, whilst he was trying to work or read or bathe; whilst it was his right to exist with the Highlands of Scotland, doing their piece to be stunning, whilst he did his. He had his luggage taken, and was shown through into the Observation Car, which was kitted out like a lounge with armchairs and sofas, and a small balcony for watching the stars. Merlin, true to his complete lack of noticeable decorum, said, “Holy shit.” There was a decent carpet underfoot, the colour of wine; and the wood panelling was the same as he had seen in hotels of distinction. There was the bar at the end of the car, which he would need, once Morgana boarded with the Luggage, having got Gwaine to do the hauling for her, and still feeling that Arthur owed her his time and lumbar spine.

“Why did you book us a double, you weirdo?” Merlin asked when they were taken to their cabin, having shouldered ahead of Arthur, to get a look at it first, before Arthur could spoil his first impressions, by being, as Merlin put it, ‘a poncey indifferent bastard.’

“I didn’t. It’s a twin.”

“Looks like a double bed to me.”

“What?” Arthur cried, and pushed him out of the doorway. 

Merlin, contrary to all that was sane, or expected, was right: there was the one lone bed, lovely but singular. They had made it up with a little tartan duvet in the spirit of their culture, as if that would make up for the insult. “We’re supposed to have a twin room.”

“I’m sorry, sir, this is the room.” This from the liveried employee who had shown them to the cabin, and was now realising he had done something, inadvertently, to anger the kind of patron who could drop twenty-six thousand pounds on an eight-day holiday. Merlin pinched him. “It’s fine,” he reassured the man, dimpling at him. 

“It’s not fine!” Arthur cried.

“Yes, it is. If you don’t have any other rooms, and I’m assuming you don’t, otherwise you would have said so immediately, as soon as he started turning all red in the face, we can manage. He’s not the worst thing I’ve woken up to,” Merlin said, and dimpled again, this time in a way that made Arthur coincidentally sweat.

“You didn’t have to be a knob to him,” Merlin said when the man had left, tossing his blazer over the armchair. 

“I wasn’t a knob to him, he mucked up my booking!”

“He didn’t muck up your booking, and put your tits back on. I think we can survive sharing a double bed for a week. I don’t know what you’re complaining about, anyway. You’re the one who snores.”

“I do not snore,” Arthur said, outraged. “You’ll have to sleep in the armchair.”

“I’m not sleeping in the armchair.”

“Well--on the floor, then. I’m sure there’s extra bedding to be got.”

“I’m not sleeping in the armchair, or on the floor; if you’ve got a problem sharing, you’re free to kip on either one,” Merlin said, as if it were settled; and now began, with every appearance of serenity, to begin unloading his bag, into the loo, and all over the writing table and bed, as if he were entitled to the calm dispersal of his belongings, whilst Arthur was stood in the centre of the cabin, clutching at his bag, and staring. The bed was an ordinary double; no giant of its kind, but a mere representative, with no girth but the girth to accommodate them, just. Doubles were for couples who didn’t mind mingling their breath and their limbs and their--other limbs. And now he would have to share, with Merlin’s aftershave and thighs, the romantic space in the spirit of platonicness. Already Merlin had sprawled out on it, demonstrating how it was to be, for seven nights, for Arthur’s personal bubble. Already he had taken off his shoes and blazer, and put his fitted trousers all over Arthur’s bed, as if it were decent, or sensible, or respectable, to take off any clothes whatsoever, in that close, warm space in which they would have to violate the edicts of platonic accord.

“So all week, I’m to have your elbow in my ribs, and just deal with it?” Arthur demanded, still clutching at the bag on his shoulder.

“Yeah, and probably my morning wood too, but I wouldn’t worry about it; if our friendship can get past your personality, it can get past anything.”

Gwen poked her head in the door. “Hello! They’re serving afternoon tea soon.” She stopped, and looked at Merlin on the bed, and looked at Arthur, not on the bed, because he was in possession of common decency. “Why have you got a double?”

“I dunno. Apparently Arthur and I are on our honeymoon,” Merlin said, scrolling through his mobile with his thumb without looking up.

“I booked a twin,” Arthur repeated, loudly but uselessly, in the face of Merlin’s indifference, and Gwen’s eyebrow. She was giving him a Look, very capitalised. It was Arthur’s unfortunate but not unexpected cross to bear; he was one of those unlucky blokes who had got some miscreants, instead of those decent, ordinary folk of common friendship; though he had expected better from Gwen. 

“Anyway,” she said, still giving him the odd Look, “are you coming down for tea? We’re in the first dining car.”

“In a minute,” Arthur said, unloading his bag, by the satisfactory method of smacking Merlin in the face with it.

“Ow!”

“Arthur,” Gwen scolded gently, and was gone, leaving him in that strange shrunken space, where before had existed a normal-sized room; even a rather kingly one, for a train. He felt there was a sort of odd pressure round him. He felt already that he had the awareness of Merlin, before he had Merlin--his close, stifling body, in the bed, that was--the close, stifling presence, offensive if not downright repulsive; anyway, he was quite plagued, quite unsurprisingly, as he had been, all their long and troublesome friendship. 

“Get up; we’re going for tea,” he said, poking Merlin in the side, and getting a yelp out of him. 

They watched Edinburgh and the Castle vanishing beyond the windows from the dining car, whilst Lancelot ate an alarming number of canapes, and Gwen warned him, in the roundabout way of innuendo, by someone who actually knew how to make it, that he oughtn't to be too full, for the sake of--of dinner.

“And dessert,” Merlin said, in a dining car full of blazers and cocktail dresses, in a tone which specified, clearly and resoundingly, that he was not referring to a nice little jelly or sorbet.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to embarrass me on my posh train?” Arthur asked, kicking him in the shin. 

“Technically I embarrassed Gwen,” Merlin pointed out, shovelling one of the canapes into his mouth. “What are we doing tonight?” he asked, like an animal, through the canape, rather than after it.

“Drinking, I think,” Gwaine replied.

“There aren’t any excursions today,” Morgana said. “We’re getting off tomorrow at Glenfinnan, but tonight you’re free to do whatever you like, till dinner. Have some drinks, watch the scenery, break in your double bed.” She smirked at him.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “For the last time, I. Booked. A Twin.”

“He just missed me, is all,” Merlin said, turning on him a smirk almost as bothersome as Morgana’s.

“I don’t see how,” she said, sipping her tea. “I’m sure he has a little doll made of your hair that he sleeps with every night.”

“Yeah, but it just can’t live up to the real thing,” Merlin replied, ruffling it.

“I wish you’d never met. Or been born,” Arthur said pleasantly.

“Merlin, why don’t you give your bride a proper seeing-to in your double bed? He’s getting tetchy again.”

“Piss off,” Arthur said, and went to find, in the arms of some champagne, solace from the bitter reality of his genetics.

[voltaspistol]

Ok guys. Tumblr just cured my friend of hallucinations, and my therapist said that this was potentially AN ACTUAL BREAKTHROUGH for treating moderate psychosis, especially difficult-to-treat cases where the patient is convinced that their hallucinations are more "real" than reality. You remember that thread about Magenta? How it isn't real??

We used that shit to cure someone's hallucinations. First, a bit of background: I'm mentally ill (anxiety, Bipolar II, depression, PTSD-- all held in check by medications and therapy), and I've been helping this kid for a while, let's call him K, who also suffers from mental illnesses (anxiety, drug addiction, and some other things) in sort of a Big Sister capacity. K has been struggling with extremely realistic hallucinations ever since doing DMT, aka, the drug that apparently gives you lasting lifelike hallucinations long after you stop taking it? K was specifically seeing demons. Straight up devils clawing at him. Probably because he was raised Evangelical and is LGBTQ, and his parents bombard him with that shit 24/7.

He described what he was undergoing as "spiritual psychosis" and was adamant that what he was seeing was reality pulled back to reveal the truth of what was going on: That demons were coming for him. Going to a church and getting blessed would make them disappear for a little bit, but then they'd come back stronger than before. There was no way to convince K that hallucinations this real could be anything but the absolute, objective truth.

So I'd seen that thing about Magenta come across my dash, did an edible, watched a Nicholas Cage movie, and I had an idea.

I introduced K to the concept that Magenta does not exist outside of the human mind. He was confused at first, but after explaining that (basically) that the color magenta does not exist outside of the human mind, it made him FINALLY understand that what we perceive is NOT objective reality. So that's Step 1: Use Magenta to understand that no matter how irrefutable your senses tell you your hallucinations are, they are a trick of the mind. Everyone in the whole goddamn world walks around thinking that Magenta is a totally real color that actually exists in the world. That's why you can't trust your hallucinations.

But that left the next problem: If he wasn't experiencing a "spiritual psychosis", that meant that he was experiencing hallucinations, and everyone knows that hallucinations are the product of a diseased mind and honestly isn't it better to have demons that you can chase away with holy water than having a diseased brain that's having hallucinations??? Every time he said the word 'hallucinations' he got visibly agitated. So I suggested we stop calling them Hallucinations. That's a loaded word with so much baggage it isn't helpful anymore. We're calling them "Magentas" now. Wait, why "Magentas"? Maybe-- MAYBE-- your mind IS perceiving SOMETHING that the rest of us aren't seeing. Maybe it's a shift in electromagnetism. Maybe it's a stray neutrino whizzing past. Maybe it's a shift in temperature that's so subtle the rest of us can't detect it, but to your DMT-opened mind, you're seeing it as, well, like the rest of us see magenta when there is (say it with me now) objectively no magenta outside of the human mind. Because, just like Magenta, your brain meat is being ticked by SOMETHING, but what you're seeing isn't what's actually there. But, also yes, I can see the scary face in the wallpaper design if I squint, so he's not crazy for your newly-opened mind to see some pareidolia-- Let's just avoid looking at things that look like scary faces, ok? So that's Step 2: Take the power out of the word "Hallucinations" by calling them something powerless. In this case, Magenta. (Also, stop staring at the wallpaper if it scares you.) Yes, haha, clever fae trick. Steal a thing's true name and it no longer holds power over you, I guess? Step 3 is trickier because you just have to be there for the person and reassure them that while yes, it was a crazy experience, they are not crazy for seeing things after doing DMT and yes they can cancel the upcoming re-baptism and when his parents get cranky at you because they LIKED that their son was suddenly so desperate for church and they hate that your solution does NOT involve getting blessed several times a week or getting re-baptized, you have to NOT scream at them that their fucked up religiosity was the entire reason their son thought his soul was being devoured by demons from hell. (Even though you'd be entirely right for doing so, because it's 100% their fucking fault their kid has deep-seated guilt that's manifesting as hallucinations from the drugs he took to escape his parents profound disappointment that he doesn't want to fuck who they want him to fuck.) K is now doing better. It's been a month, and not only has the severity of his.... Magentas..... Lessened, but the frequency and duration have also dwindled to levels that are manageable and he's confident that eventually they'll vanish entirely. All because Tumblr did a science on us. Now.... If anyone can drop some science that I can spin into an analogy that gets rid of night terrors, K would be grateful. I'd also be delighted to know if this works for anyone else. Please reblog and maybe someone with a grant budget can do a clinical test and will be forced to cite Tumblr as a source.

[tuberchelsea]

Come Out to LA

Pairing: Yoongi x f!reader

Summary: What was supposed to be a simple trip to LA to visit your childhood friend turns into a weekend of a life time

Genre: idol au, smut, fluff, strangers to lovers

CW: sexual content (grinding (we in da club), oral, fingering, exhibitionism (if you squint), dom!Yoongi, sub!reader, p in v), unwarranted Kiss Cam, Yoongi is just too fuckin cute. Also, we may have some sad girl times.

A/N: I have not been in the basketball circle for a while, so my knowledge is meh (also am not a Lakers fan). Also, for somebody (me) having a JK bias, Yoongi’s been on the (my) mind lately 🥴

Title inspiration: Come Out to LA - Don Broco

“Question - how would you feel about seeing a Lakers game while you’re here?” Your friend, Becca asks over the phone.

“I mean I’m not the biggest lakers fan, but it’s been a while since I’ve watched a game - I’m down!” Why not? You’d never been to Los Angeles, so it’d be a good idea to do as much as you can in the 4 days you’re there.

“Awesome! The game is tomorrow evening! Did you want to borrow a jersey? I have plenty hanging around!” Becca asked, knowing full well what your response was going to be.

“…I’ll just wear something nice.” There’s no was you’d be caught dead wearing a Lakers jersey.

“Okay! I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon then!! Love you!!” As Becca hangs up the phone, you glance over at your half packed suitcase and the pile of rejected outfits sighing - packing shouldn’t be this hard. Looking over at your closet, you eye the new lavender pantsuit you’d bought months ago - might be time to put it to good use.

🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

“Why do I keep punishing myself with bum-fuck early flights?” You curse to yourself as you off board your last connecting flight to LAX. You needed to find Becca - thankfully she was waiting by baggage claim.

“Girl, you look like you need caffeine.” Becca stated as she gave you a giant hug. You nodded in agreement - 4 am flights aren’t exactly your jam. Grabbing your bag off the carousel, you follow her out to the car. Not even buckled in, Becca started rambling off the schedule for the day - something that didn’t surprise you.

“So, I’m thinking we drop stuff off at the house, you can change, then we do brunch? Get coffee and eat - kill two birds with one stone.” You nodded, sending the necessary texts to your family.

“What else do we have today? Better question, when is the basketball game?” You inquired - she hadn’t really disclosed that to you.

“Oh! That’s tonight! We need to be there at least an hour before tip off, it’ll be a bit easier to get to the seats courtside, plus I-“

“Did you say courtside?” You interrupted her, looking up from your phone. She nodded, smiling mischievously. “How did you land courtside? HOW MUCH DO I OWE YOU??” You KNOW you couldn’t afford the ticket at this point, even if you didn’t go shopping.

She shakes her head and laughs, “you don’t owe me anything, hun! Besides, I got them for free bec-“

“Did you win a contest??” You interrupted again.

“No, I got them fr-“

“Oh! Gifted from work?” You interrupted once more. Becca then glared at you, reaching for her flip flop.

“Well! I! Could! Tell! You! If! You’d! Stop! Interrupting! Me!” She yelled, striking you on the thigh with each word. “Now hush!” She tossed her flip flop at you. Your eyes the size of dinner plates, you nodded obediently, rubbing your thigh to help with the sting. “Oh I didn’t hit you that hard. AS I WAS SAYING, I got the tickets because I’m dating one of the guards on the Lakers. We haven’t gone public with our relationship, so I can still enjoy sitting courtside without media in my face. I was able to get him to get another ticket tonight so I could take you to see a game - they’re actually pretty fun!” You nodded, processing the new information.

“Wow - you moving out here last year really changed you for the better.” You sigh, looking down at your hands.

She reaches over and places a hand on yours, sensing your change in mood, “how are you handling all of that, by the way?” You go silent for a moment, thinking over the events from the past year.

“I was able to have closure - his family is still on my side with everything. Nobody’s really heard from him since his family and I found out why he left me for her.” You let out a frustrated sigh. “But I’m hoping it’ll be easier for them and myself once I move away.” You look back down, fidgeting with your phone again.

“Where are you planning on moving to?”

“I’m hoping here - I’m gonna check out UCLA’s Marine Bio Grad program tomorrow. It was one highly recommended by my professors.”

“Well if everything works out, I could talk to the landlord of my apartment complex. He’s actually a pretty decent guy. Plus you’d be in a pretty decent location.” Becca shrugs, turning into the complex.

“And I’d be close to you?” giving her the side eye and a smirk.

“I mean I think that’s the best perk if anything! Now come on, grab your stuff and let’s get you changed so we can start the day! Race you to my place!” She says, already running for the door.

“Becca hold on, I need my ba - I DONT EVEN KNOW WHERE TO GO!” Groaning, you grab your bags, trying not to trip over yourself as you follow suit.

🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

“I still can’t believe you wore a pantsuit, hun. I still think you should’ve worn a jersey.” Becca shakes her head as you both enter the Staples Center.

“Well, I think it’s appropriate - it’s a tint of purple AND I wanted to look nice since we’re gonna be court side. Plus lots of people will see us, even if we’re not sitting with the celebs.” You shrug, placing the blazer to drape off your shoulders.

“Hun, you do understand that court side isn’t like the VIP lounges, right?” Becca quirks an eyebrow at you.

“Meaning?” You send her a confused look.

“Meaning we will be sitting with famous people. Like there’s only one ‘court side’, hun.”

“Well now I just hope there’s not any cute celebs.” You scoff, following Becca to the seats. She grabs her seat, pointing to her left to direct you to yours. As you take your seat, you hear a conversation to your left - one that’s not in English. Your curiosity wins and you (assumingely) nonchalantly turn to see where it was coming from. Almost immediately, you make direct eye contact with the person that’ll be sitting next to you for the night -

Suga.

He gives you a small wave and smile before sitting down, you do the same to him. Once sat, you turn to Becca with a bemused look on your face, earning a small shrug from her.

“Becca, I feel I don’t deserve to sit here!!” You whisper yell through a toothy grin, earning a laugh from her.

“You’re fiiiiiiine, hun. Just enjoy the moment! Now, do you want anything to drink?”

“…Red Bull please. Flavored is preferred, but no coconut.”

“Got it!” Becca saunters off to the drink stand, leaving you alone. Already feeling warm from the arena (the anxiety wasn’t helping), you decide to slip off your blazer. You stand to drape it over the back of your seat, leaving you in a sleeveless mock turtle neck.

Suddenly, you hear a small voice from your right - one you wouldn’t have heard if they weren’t right next to you. “I’m assuming you’re a fan of The Ocean?” You look up to see Suga pointing to your right arm, sporting a sea-themed sleeve.

“Well I hope I do, seeing as I’m a Marine Biologist.” Sitting down, you instantly regret what came out of your mouth - hoping the sarcasm wouldn’t be too lost in translation.

He laughed, surprising you that he didn’t think the line was cringy. “Marine Biologist? Do you study ocean animals then?”

“Not right now - kinda hard when you live in the mid western part of the United States. Currently I’m working with more lake, river and pond life. I’m hoping to switch to more oceanic when I finish my Master’s though.”

“So you’re not from LA?” Apparently he’d caught something in your ramblings.

Shaking your head, you answer “nope, I’m visiting my friend, Becca” you pointed to her still empty seat. “I currently live in Montana.”

“Ahh okay!” He nods, “I’ve never been there, but I want to someday. I hear it’s really pretty. Also! I didn’t catch your name!” Suga gives an apologetic look as you mentally slap yourself for not introducing yourself.

“I’m y/n! I didn’t mean to come across as rude, Sug-“

“Yoongi” he interrupts. You look at him with a confused look, your brain short circuiting. “You can call me Yoongi. Also, you weren’t being rude, I was the one that caught you off guard.” He gives you a soft smile, holding out his hand to shake yours. He then introduces his manager that’s sitting off to his left. As you two finish introductions, you feel something cool press against your cheek. Grabbing the can from Becca, you thank her before you take a drink.

“Oooh! They had my favorite flavor.” Tonight may just be okay.

🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

“How did the refs miss an obvious travel?? Like he went almost half way across the court.” It’s coming close to the end of the 2nd quarter (not period, as you were immediately corrected by both Yoongi and Becca. “Don’t mind her, she’s more of a hockey fan.” Becca leans across you to apologize, getting a smile out of him), and while you are enjoying the game, you’re also enjoying the company around you. When the three of you aren’t yelling at the refs for missing blatant calls, you would carry conversations amongst the three of you (as well as you could in a loud arena); small talk quickly turning into more personal topics. Soon, the buzzer went off; indicating the end of the quarter.

“I’m going to head to the locker room to go see my man, then grab drinks on the way back - you want another Red Bull?” Becca asks you as she’s standing up. You nod, then she heads off. At the same time, you see Yoongi’s manager leave, leaving Yoongi and yourself alone. You feel the anxiety come back to you - while you were comfortable being around Yoongi, not having Becca there to back you up was slightly intimidating. As soon as you zone out though, you’re quickly brought back by a small touch on your forearm. You look to your left to see the hand belonging to Yoongi, who was wearing a slightly concerned look. “Are you okay, y/n?”

You blink a couple times before you nod, “yes! Sorry, I tend to zone out when my anxiety gets to be a bit much.” You then let out a breath you didn’t even think you were holding.

“Is the crowd becoming a bit much for you?” He asks, hand still on your arm. You nod. He sighs, “I’m glad I’m not the only one overwhelmed.”

It’s your turn to wear the concerned look, “I’m guessing this isn’t the same as performing, is it?”

He shakes his head, “there’s a reason I’m more of a background person” he laughs nervously.

“We suffer together then?” You suggest, hating yourself again for the cringy comment. He smiles, making you feel a bit better. The announcer then comes over the arena speakers, announcing the arrival of the Laker Dancers. You both shift your attention to the dancers on the court as Mic Drop begins to play over the speakers. You see a shift in Yoongi’s demeanor, becoming more stoic, bobbing his head to the beat. When the camera spans over to him, he gives a tight smile and a wave. Once the dancers left the court, Yoongi turns back to you, going back to being relaxed. The two of you trade more conversation while waiting for the second half to start, not even noticing when Becca and his manager return to their seats.

���🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

The game is closing in on the end of the 3rd quarter. At this point, you and Yoongi aren’t paying a lot of attention to what’s going on on the court - too engrossed in your conversation. You two were so engrossed in conversation that you didn’t even notice the play stop, what was said over the speakers or Becca calling for you.

“Y/N LOOK UP!! AT THE JUMBOTRON!!” You direct your attention to the screen above you - to see yourself.

And Yoongi.

Featured on the Kiss Cam.

He must have caught it too; because if looks could kill, most of Staples Center would be gone. Instead of getting the hint that you two weren’t happy about this, the Cam stayed focused on you two for a lot longer than necessary. Becca then reached over and grabbed your face, just to plant a big kiss on your cheek. The Cam moves on, giving some much needed relief to both you and Yoongi. Once the awkwardness of the moment had passed over, both of you turned to face each other.

“I’m so sorry!!” You both blurted out at the same time.

Yoongi throws you a confused look, “why are you sorry?”

“I feel me sitting here conversing with you in The Public Eye may look questionable to those around us - I don’t want to ruin anything for you.” You quietly confessed, looking down at your hands.

Yoongi smirks, shaking his head, “if I was so worried about that, I wouldn’t have said a word to you in the first place! Besides, I was the one that started our conversation. If anything, I’m sorry you had to be put on the spot like that. I wasn’t even aware they were gonna feature me on that - not that they had a reason to anyways.”

“Well I have a small feeling somebody is gonna lose their job today.” You looked over Yoongi’s shoulder to see his Manager in a heated conversation with Lakers Staff. He looked over to his manager, then turned back to you wearing a grimace. You both began laughing, covering your mouths with your hands as an attempt to hide it.

Sometime later, the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game. “Do you mind waiting a bit, hun? I wanna see my man before we head out. Should only be about 15 minutes.” Becca asked, gathering her stuff. You shrug, nodding - there was no other way you would get back to her house anyways.

As she walked off, you began gathering your stuff, then turned to Yoongi. Taking a deep breath, you blurted out without thinking, “thank you for making the game a bit more enjoyable! It was really nice meeting you!” You immediately cringed at yourself, apologizing. I really need to think before I speak my dear god, you thought.

“You’re okay, y/n! I enjoyed your company too.” Yoongi gave you a small smile, causing you to smile back. There was a moment of comfortable silence between the two of you - even though the arena was still loud. “Oh! You said you were here for the weekend, are you busy tomorrow night?” Yoongi asked, breaking the silence.

“Other than I’m visiting UCLA before noon and probably going to go shopping once Becca is off work, I have nothing else planned!” Your heart began to race, you cannot believe this is happening.

“Awesome! Well we’re thinking of hitting a club downtown tomorrow evening, around 9? Would you guys want to join us? If that’s your thing, haha” Yoongi asked, looking nervous while looking for his phone.

“I would be down! Though you’d have to tell me where to go cause I no idea where that place is at.” You smile. Yoongi smiles back, looking like he let out a sigh of relief. He then hands over his phone, asking for your number.

“I’ll text you when I get back to my hotel?” He asks.

“Okay! Can you send those photos over that you took then?” You respond, Yoongi nodded in response. His manager then came back to his side, noting his departure. You two waved, sharing huge smiles. Becca soon returns to your side. “Why the big grin, hun?”

“I’ll tell you in the car!” You say, wearing a huge smile on your face, silently praying to your higher powers to not mess up this weekend.

🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

Unknown number: Hey! It’s Yoongi! ☺️

Y/N🐙: Hey! I’m assuming you made it back to your hotel okay?

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: Yes! Only had to deal with Army’s; no paps thank goodness.

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: Did you make it home yet?

Y/N🐙: Yes - like we just pulled up to her apartment.

Y/N🐙: Also didn’t have to deal with paps 💁🏼

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: Oh thank goodness 😮‍💨

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: Attachment - 2 photos

Y/N🐙: Ooh! I like those!

Y/N🐙: Attachment - 3 photos

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: Ooh these ones are cute

Y/N🐙: Cute?? 👀

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: Like I said, wouldn’t have talked to you if I didn’t want to - wanted to cause I think you’re cute 🤷🏼‍♀️

Y/N🐙: …🤭

Y/N🐙: That’s as good of a flirty comeback as I can conjure at the moment cause it’s past my bedtime 🥲

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: I understand - it’s past mine too. I have a mid morning photo shoot tomorrow; I’ll text you in the morning?

Y/N🐙: Works for me! 😌

🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

“What time are you going to the college?” Becca asked the next morning while she was feeding her dog, Vanya.

“I meet with the Head of the Post Grad Biology department at 11, so probs head out at 10. Will that be enough time for me to get there?” You asked, pulling up the subway schedules.

“It should be. But I’ve gotta go - I’ll be home around 4 and we can go shopping for outfits for tonight?” You nodded in response as your phone pinged, showing a new message. Becca leaned over to peek at your phone to see a message from Yoongi. “My dear Gods this man must like you enough to text you at 8 am on a Saturday!” She smirks as you try to hide the blush on your face.

“Get to work, loser. I’ll see you later!” You laugh as her and Vanya run out the door.

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: Morning! ☺️ What time are you headed to the college this morning?

Y/N🐙: Morning!! I meet with the Department Head at 11, so I’m headed out a bit before 10!

Y/N🐙: What time is your shoot?

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: It starts at 9 - thankfully I’m not having to go far cause I’m not even awake enough to order the right coffee this morning

Y/N🐙: Speaking of, I should probs make sure my route to the college includes a coffee stop. I’m still dealing with jet lag.

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: You’re preaching to the choir, Y/N.

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: Aish, my manager is calling for me, I’ll give you a call after I’m done with the shoot!

Y/N🐙: Okay! Have fun! ☺️

After finishing breakfast, you changed into a simple pair of Khakis, a hunter green blouse and white vans. Donning a simple make up look, you completed the look with a simple ballet bun. Throwing on your AirPods, you headed out the door, making your trek towards the Subway station and hopefully some coffee.

🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

“MIss L/N, I feel you would be an excellent addition to the Master’s Marine Bio Program! We could use a new Reseaarch Lab manager as well - plus you’d get credit for working.” You’d spent the last hour with the Department Head, him chatting your ear off. You’d grown more excited about attending; the lab job making the deal more enticing. Off hand, you’d mentioned your earlier lab work with your professor; the name immediately catching the Dept Head’s ear. “I thought I’d seen you were coming from MSUB! I had the honor of working with your Animal Bio professor years ago! Still love his research on scorpions - fascinating work.” You nod, having worked on it as your first lab project. Walking back to his office, he’d asked if there were any questions you’d had.

“Yes! I’d heard that Research Diving would be added to the curriculum - when is that happening?” You’d just finished your SCUBA certification for the subject - might as well use it.

“This next school year - right when you’d be starting if you enrolled by the end of next month!” You nodded, seriously contemplating applying. He handed you a business card, mention to email him once you had enrolled - if you choose to. You place the card in your wallet, standing to shake hands. Once you were out of his office, almost out of the building, you’d decided to check your phone. You look to see 3 messages from Yoongi, 2 from Becca and the Family Group Chat flooded with messages. Ignoring the group chat, you see that Becca is stuck working a double and won’t be able to join tonight. Internally cursing, you reply that it’s okay and you’d probably see her later tonight or in the morning. You then check the messages from Yoongi; 2 of them complaining about the shoot, and one asking if you were still at the college. You decide to call him instead.

“Hey, Y/N!” Yoongi picks up after 2 rings.

“Hey, Yoongi! I just saw your text messages; I just finished the college tour! Also, sorry about the shoot being so boring.”

“It’s no problem, but I was wondering if you’d have time to do lunch right now? I’m near the college and there’s a small restaurant nearby that I frequent anytime I’m in town.”

“Sure! I’m free for the afternoon. Can you send me the address?”

“Of course! Do you need a ride there?” You hear the text notification and check the address on Maps.

“Nah, it’s a block outside the campus - I can be there in 20 max!” Thank goodness you didn’t wear heels.

“Okay! I’ll meet you there then!” Hanging up the phone and putting your AirPods in, you began the trek to the restaurant. I’m really getting my steps in today I guess, you thought.

As you approach your destination, you pull out your phone to see if Yoongi is here yet (you’d made it in 10 minutes instead of 20), when you suddenly get a text notification from him.

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: You know, that was one of my favorite songs to perform live - wish we could’ve performed it more than once.

Y/N🐙: …wut

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: UGH! It’s one of my favorites.

Yoongi🐈‍⬛: Also, it’s not good to listen to your music that loud.

Y/N🐙: …you’re scaring me

You feel a tap on your shoulder, so you quickly spin around and nearly give the perp, Yoongi, The Elbow. Pulling out one of your headphones, you shout “DONT DO THAAAAAT YOU SCARED ME!” wearing a frightened look. Yoongi was wearing a mischievous smile in return, which then made you glare at him.

He laughs, “I am so sorry - I just saw an open opportunity and took it!”

“I could’ve hurt you though!!”

“I don’t think you would’ve cause that much damage - now follow me!” He quickly changes the subject and you follow him into the restaurant, which happened to be Tradtional Korean. The older lady at the host stand looked up and her face lit up as soon as she saw Yoongi.

“Yoongi!! It’s been a while! How are you doing??” Yoongi bows to her, you follow in respect.

“Hae Won-nim, hello! It has been a while! Everything is going well! You have room for two more in here?” Yoongi jokes, looking around the crowded restaurant. Hae Won chuckles, giving the two of you a huge smile.

“Of course I do! I’ll have you and your friend follow me this way.” She then glanced over at you, putting emphasis on the word ‘friend’. Following the two, you decided not to put too much thought into it. Once sitting and handed menus, Yoongi helped you order (you asked him if there was something not too spicy; or at least milk to help with the spiciness), then filed you in on how the shoot went. You updated him on your decision for college; having chosen to apply to UCLA. When the meals came out, a comfortable silence enveloped the two of you; even with a busy restaurant.

“Ooooh Becca is gonna LOVE this for her after work meal! Thank you again, Yoongi.” You beam, happily full from lunch. Yoongi and you are wandering around the neighborhood, still in-depth with the conversation you were having at lunch. As you were meandering, you’d passed by a Record Shop - Yoongi insisted you both stop in. Which it’s a good thing you did - you were able to finally get your hands on some B-Side 7-inches from Slipknot and Foo Fighters.

“I’m taking it you’re a vinyl collector?” Yoongi inquires, chuckling as you dove head first into the vinyl section.

“…yes. It’s a soft spot of mine. My ex used to complain about how many I had, so I stopped buying any for a while. Now that I don’t have to worry about his opinion, I’m going a bit crazy with it. Besides, I have a lot of catching up to do.” Fishing out your vinyl list on your phone, you show it to him.

“You were not joking. But no BTS?” Yoongi looks in surprise.

“I already have what’s available on vinyl. But it’d be cool if you’d release Map of the Soul 7. And maybe Young Forever?” Tilting your head to the side, you smile and wiggle your eyebrows.

“…I’ll see what I can do.” Yoongi repsonds, smirking as he shakes his head.

After letting time slip from the both of you, Yoongi walks you back to the subway station. “Are you still on for tonight?” He asks as you reach the station.

“Yes! Though Becca won’t be joining - apparently she’s stuck working.” You sigh.

“That’s too bad - but I’m happy you can still join. I’ll have a driver come pick you up from her place at 9 - I’ll need you to send me the address.” You nod, sending it over to him.

“Well, I had fun, Yoongi. Thank you again for lunch - and the vinyls! I’ll see you tonight!” You open your arms to hug him, and thankfully he did the same. After holding each other for what feels like forever, you both let go. You look down at his lips,he does the same. Just as the both of you were moving in closer, the subway is pulling up, screeching to a halt. The announcer calls for your destination over the intercom, signaling its your time to leave. Sighing, you gather your stuff and head for the open doors. Before you board on, you turn to Yoongi, waving and yelling “I’ll see you tonight!!”, almost tripping as you enter the car. Yoongi giggles, shaking his head with a smile.

🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

“I need to see your ID, please”, the bouncer outside the door asks. You hand him your ID, noting to him that you’re supposed to meet somebody in the VIP area. Checking his list and your name, he confirms you, letting you in. “He’s in the third booth on the left, just so you know.” You thank him as you head up the stairs. You immediately notice Yoongi within the crowd; he must have been watching the door. You immediately rush over to him, being enveloped in a bear hug before you can say anything.

“Hey, Y/N! I was just about to grab drinks - come with me!” Yoongi weaves his arm through yours, pulling you towards the bar. Once up to the bar, he ordered a neat whiskey for himself and a blueberry Red Bull for you. “This outfit is a 180 from this afternoon!” He points out, giving your outfit a once over. You’d ditched the khaki outfit for a pleather mini skirt, black bralette, mesh top, fishnets and Dr. Martens.

“Well I wanted to go with something more…comfortable.” You smirk, moving closer to Yoongi.

“Well, I think this outfit looks amazing on you.” He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. You blush, biting your lower lip and look away. It’s Yoongi’s turn to smirk, passing you your drink. He offers his hand, which you take, and leads you over to the booth; where you’re introduced to some of his friends.

“So, did you want to go dance?” Yoongi asked, tilting his head towards the dance floor. You nod, following him out. Once you two are towards the center of the floor, Yoongi grabs your waist from behind, pulling you into his chest. As you two start dancing, all you can hear is the music and Yoongi’s soft, deep voice. One song turns into a few; simple dancing turns into sensual grinding. Yoongi is leaving small kisses and nips on the back of your neck; each one shooting sensations down to your core. You reach back, looping your arms around his neck as he pulls you flush with his front. You can feel his hard on, so you begin to tease him more, eliciting a low growl from him.

As another song ends, he pulls you back to the booth and before you can even try to sit next to him, he pulls you into his lap; your back to his chest and legs hooked around his. The implied dominance turns you on even more. As he is talking to his buddies, his gorgeous hands sit on your thighs, playing with the strings of the fish nets. While you nonchalantly carry on conversation with those around you, you shifted in his lap, eliciting another low growl. His hands begin to go higher up your legs, almost under the mini skirt. You look over your shoulder to try and catch his eye - he’s enveloped in a conversation next to you. You ‘readjust’ in his lap again, trying to catch his attention - he moves one hand dangerously close to your core. You sharply inhale, trying to pull your skirt hem down a bit. You feel Yoongi’s lips on the tip of your ear, “you best behave, baby.” Your face and ears feel like they’re on fire - his fingers brushing over your bare folds, making you inhale sharply again. He stops his movement, pulling his hand from you skirt. “Let’s go dance again.” He pulls you from his lap, then grabs your hand, dragging you across the dance floor before you can even register what’s going on.

On the other side of the dance floor, in a dark corner, sat a couple private rooms. Yoongi opened a door, made sure nobody was in there, then pulled you in. He slammed the door shut, then pinned you against the door with your hands over your head. With the hand on your thigh, he pushes your skirt up, resting his hand on your hip. He leans close to your ear again, speaking in a deep voice that made you even more wet. “First, you come here looking irresistible” his hand moves to your core. “Secondly, you feel the need to tease me” he finger slides along your slit, eliciting a small moan from you. “And the final strike, you’re not wearing panties?” He beings to play with your clit before inserting a finger into your pussy. “Y/N, I thought you were a good girl?” A second finger joins, causing you to moan even louder.

Gathering yourself for a moment, you look up at Yoongi. “I AM a good girl! Most of the time.” You smirked. Yoongi stopped his ministrations, pulling his fingers from you. The two of you lock eyes and Yoongi grabs your face, hungrily kissing you while pinning your body with his to the door. Letting out a moan, he takes the chance to explore your mouth with his tongue. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you grab his hair at the nape and slightly pull, causing him to growl and bite your bottom lip. He begins to kiss your jaw line, making his way down your neck and finally making purchase at the junction of your neck and collar bone. He sucks a mark there, drawing another moan from you. “I honestly don’t think I could ever get tired of that sound” Yoongi begins to kneel, propping a leg on his shoulder. “Now, let’s hear how you sound when I do this-“ licking a strip from the bottom of your slit to your clit, causing you to moan out his name. “Fuck, baby; you sound AND taste AMAZING.” Yoongi moans against your clit, causing you to moan as well. He dove in, lapping at your hole like a starved man. He soon moved his tongue up to your clit, inserting two fingers into your hole. You started feeling your core tightening when he found your sensitive spot, your hand immediately grabbing onto his hair.

“F-f-fuuuck, Yoongi. I’m close!” Your thighs begin to tremble, causing him to hook your other leg over his shoulder. He inserted a third finger into you, eliciting his name from your lips again.

“Baby, cum for me; let me have a taste.” As if you were a puppet under his control, your orgasm washed over you while Yoongi lapped up your cum from your pussy, not letting a drop go to waste. He kept lapping at you after you came down, causing you to pull him away due to overstimulation. Yoongi then adjusts your mini skirt, standing to meet your slightly fucked out gaze with his own. He then gently cradled your chin, kissing you softly. Breaking the kiss, he leaned his forehead against yours, releasing a deep, but content, sigh. “Would you like to continue this at my hotel room?” His eyes felt like they were looking into your soul at this point; but you couldn’t look away either. With a big smile and a glint in your eye, you say in a small voice:

“Yes. Please.”

🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

The hotel room door isn’t even fully shut before you two were all over one another, a trail of clothing following the two of you while making your way to the bedroom. Once fully stripped, Yoongi lifted you under your thighs and placed you on the bed. As he hovered over you, he gazed down at your figure - your hair fanned over the pillow, eyes dilated and bottom lip bitten. To him, you were the most beautiful thing on earth. He leaned down, placing a chaste kiss on your lips, “baby, I don’t think I have condoms with me, I cou-“

You quickly interrupted him, “as long as you’re clean, I’m good. Had my check up a couple weeks ago and I’m in the clear, plus haven’t hooked up with anybody since my ex. Also, am on the pill religiously, so if you’re good to go, so am I.”

Yoongi looks at you with his signature gummy smile, “fuck, baby.” His lips find your sensitive spot on your neck immediately, sucking another mark there. His hands glide south gently along your curves, then onto your inner thighs, touching just enough to send sparks up your spine and to your pussy. As his fingers lightly touch your folds, his mouth begins to move to your chest, capturing a nipple with it. He then plunges two fingers into you, “still so wet for me, baby.”

“Yoongi, fuuuuck”, still slightly sensitive from the orgasm before, you feel yourself coming to the edge a bit quicker than usual. He moves from one nipple to the other, using his fingers to scissor you pussy wider. “I’m gonna cu-“ Yoongi then pulled his fingers out, leaving you on edge. Your eyes grew big and you let out a strained whine, completely astonished at what he just pulled.

“I want you to cum on my cock, can you be a good girl and do that for me?” He asks as he sticks his fingers into your mouth, having you taste yourself. You nod, then he pulls his fingers from your mouth, pumping his thick cock before he slid the tip along your pussy lips a couple times to collect some of your arousal. He wraps your legs around his waist, then began to slowly enter you. He leaned over to trap your lips and the loud moan that they would inevitably release as he filled you to the hilt.

“Fuuuuck, I already feel so full”, you moan out. Yoongi’s cock was probably the biggest you’d taken, the stretch causing a little pain, but it was immediately blocked by the immense pleasure. Just from him entering you, you already felt you were gonna cum.

“Ahhh, Y/N baby, I can already feel you clenching around me. You gonna cum already?” Thrust. “My cock feel that good, baby?” Thrust. “You even look fucked out already, can’t even answer me!” Thrust. “Cum for me, baby - now.” You then let go on command, feeling your core unravel as Yoongi continued to thrust through your comedown. He then took your legs up, pushing the back of your thighs to bring your legs down to your chest - putting you in a mating press.

As he began to pump into you again, you looked down at where you two connected. “Oh my god, right there, Yoongi. FUCK.” He was hitting that spot again, better than last time. Your brain was starting to turn cock-drunk; all you could think of was the pure pleasure Yoongi was giving you as you looked down again.

“Ohhh, you like seeing my cock split this pretty pussy, don’t you? This. Pretty. Pussy. Feels. Amazing. Like. It’s. MADE. For. Me.” He punctuated each word with a thrust, his hands pushing your legs wider so he could see more of you. “Fuck, Y/N, I’m getting close. Gonna fill this pretty pussy full of me - gonna make it mine.” He brought a thumb to you clit, drawing figure eights to bring you to his level again. You were a bumbling mess; not even able to form words or thoughts as you were getting close. Just as your orgasm hit for the third time tonight, your clenching triggered his release, painting your walls white. After a couple thrusts to get out all the semen, Yoongi then collapsed on top of you, still inside. Both of you took a moment to catch your breath, staring deep into each other. Yoongi smiled, kissing your nose, then bringing his forehead to yours. “You okay, babe?” You smile and nodded, still feeling slightly fuzzy. As he softened, he pulled out, watching some of your mixed cum leak out. Letting out a content sigh, he stood up, picking you up bridal style. “Come on - let’s get cleaned up.”

Once out of the shower; which included you being fucked on the wall from behind (his excuse: Not my fault all of you is irresistible). You got dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers, then went to grab water as he got dressed as well. As you hand him his water, Yoongi notices a glint of a worried look on your face. Putting a finger under your chin to have you make eye contact, he asks, “penny for your thoughts?” You sigh, contemplating just saying no. But you couldn’t, as it immediately bugged you.

“Do I need to have Becca pick me up? And if so, do you want her to do it soon or earlier in the morning? I mean I don’t want to cause any dra-“ Yoongi pulls you into an intense kiss, shutting you up immediately.

“Y/N, baby, you worry too much. I want you to stay the night and I’ll take you back tomorrow when we both feel like it. Maybe we’ll get brunch first or something like that. I would like to get as much time with you as I can before I leave.” You left as though a weight was off your shoulders as you smile at him. After finishing your waters, you both head to bed, lying on Yoongi’s chest. His steady heartbeat, breathing and his fingers combing your hair helped you fall asleep. Yoongi then softly cradled your cheek, placing a kiss on your head. I hope to be able to see you again, baby, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱🐱

Waking up the next morning, you and Yoongi decide to go to a small cafe a couple blocks from his hotel. After orders are placed and juices are brought to the table, he grabs your hands with his. You look up at him and he asks, “So since you’re going to UCLA, when are you moving here?”

“I will probably move here next month, depending on when the apartment next to Becca’s is ready to go. Why?”

“Well, somebody has to help you move - that somebody being me.” he kissed your knuckles.

——————————

A/N pt 2: This legit was sitting in my drafts for almost a month because writing the not smut part was harder than it needed to be 🥴

[chaxiu]

what fish feel

pairing: osamu x fem! reader

summary: what we hold in the time we have – a return to japan and the unfamiliar roads of your heart. title stolen from a bashō haiku that loosely translated goes something like

what fish feel

birds feel, I don’t know—

the year ending.

notes: my official petition to let osamu have an absolute disaster of a partner. post-timeskip spoilers for occupations (specifically of the inarizaki crew). reader is japanese-diaspora (heavily implied to be japanese-american.) my japanese is poor so please correct me if there’s something not right! loosely inspired by the documentary jiro dreams of sushi (which you can watch for free on youtube, i think!). 

for all my diaspora lovelies and for everyone who, as a child, used to think i want to go home, no matter where they were. here’s hoping the road there is warm and well-lit. 

cw: casual mentions of racism, sexism, xenophobia in relation to japanese culture. second-gen immigrant guilt (and by default an obsession with food as a love language.) very in-your-face flouting of health and safety codes for restaurants.

___

Summer, and the sky is nothing but blue. 

Your airplane touches down on the runway in a fit of grinding gears and last-minute jolts, but it pales in comparison to the way your legs are cramped and sore, a product of so many hours sat in the same place – the perils of a window seat – alternately staring out the window and dozing against the shade.

Your neighbor, next to you, smiles at you. You’ve spent some time talking to her – listening to her talk, really, the nice old obaa-chan in the middle seat who is just coming back from visiting her son and his wife and their newly-born daughter abroad, who spent at least an hour of the trip painstakingly swiping through photos while you smiled and nodded along.

“日本へよこそ,” she says. Welcome to Japan. You wonder if it should feel more momentous, this first welcome to the country in which your roots are deepest. The first few minutes of a month-long stay, your longest time in this country by far.

Instead, what is: you really do have to pee.

Finding a bathroom in the airport is simple enough, as is making your way through the customs line, although there’s a brief moment of confusion when the customs agent sees your face, your features, and attempts to wave you towards the line for returning nationals. You put your hands up, bow apologetically. “日系人,” you say, and her face clears of confusion. 

She points you to the right line. 

At the very least, you think, standing with your passport dangling between two fingers, at the very least you speak the language – slowly, in fits and starts, with gaps where your vocabulary should be and absolutely no understanding of any slang – but at the very least you can do things like tell the customs officer what you are. Foreign-born, Japanese descent: close enough by generation that this land should maybe be familiar to you, should maybe be something approaching yours. Far enough that it’s not, not really.

Once you’re through customs and baggage claim – luggage collected, both you and your suitcases a little worse for wear – there’s nothing to do but make your way to the exit, where your cousin is waiting. She looks like you, maybe, if you squint and tilt your head a little. You try your best not to think about it, about how maybe this is what you’d look like if you stayed. She regards you for a moment.

“Hey,” she says in Japanese.

“Hey,” you say back. It is not the first time you’ve felt uncomfortably aware of your accent – how much it must stick out. How everyone who comes into contact with you must know right away how much you're not from here. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

She raises an eyebrow, grabbing one of your suitcases, ignoring your half-hearted attempt at protest. “Come on. Mom’s making dinner.”

Dinner, at least, is something you know. You grip the handle of your remaining suitcase. Follow her out into the sunshine.

Your aunt lives in the suburbs of Tokyo, and you make it there just as the sun begins to set. Stepping out of the car, you shield your face against the glow. “It’s pretty,” you say, half to yourself, half because the car ride had been awkwardly quiet enough that you’d begun to say any inane comment that sprung to your mind out loud, in hopes of starting any kind of conversation.

Your cousin spares it a glance, then pauses. “Yeah,” she says. “I guess so.”

Inside, your aunt fusses over you in a way that makes you feel equal parts uncomfortable and longing – this is what I could’ve had, over and over in your head like a drumbeat. Dinner is already on the table, uni – sea urchin – as the crowning glory.

“You liked this when you were little,” your aunt says, “the last time you came to visit us. Do you remember?”

You don’t. You say you do anyway.

The truth is you think probably you would say you liked anything – even as you take your first bites and realize sometime between childhood and now, you’d unlearned how to like the texture. It’s okay, you think. It’s enough to be here, in the light around the table.

You eat without waiting for your uncle, who gets home halfway through the meal. He toes his shoes off in the genkan, and you stand when he steps inside. From what you remember of him, he is a quiet man. His wife does enough talking for the both of them. Still, when he smiles the corners of his eyes crinkle, and it strikes a chord of remembrance. 

“Tadaima,” he says.

You mouth it along with your aunt and cousin. “Okaeri.”

That night, with the grime of the airport washed off of you, wearing your softest T-shirt and pants probably a size too large, you sit on the futon that’s been unrolled for you – in your cousin’s room, right by the window – and stare at the moon. It looks the same. You feel the same. Your cousin, in bed already, is only illuminated by the glow of her phone screen. “Good night,” you say, tentative.

“Good night,” she says, rolling over in bed to face away from you.

The next morning your uncle is gone before you wake up – off to work. Your cousin has class at university, and so you follow your aunt around. It settles in a pattern of the next few days, and you have to actively fight against feeling like a lost duckling. She takes you to the Tokyo Skytree, and you make all the appropriate sounds and take the right photos to send home, of Tokyo’s beautiful skyline. She takes you to Shibuya, and you marvel at the densely packed crowds of people together. She takes you to Tsukiji, the smell of the brine and the ocean lingering on your clothes for hours. She takes you grocery shopping and in the evenings you cook next to her, losing yourself in the familiar repetition of the knife. It could probably be enough, if you let it.

On the sixth day of your visit your aunt’s friend has to go to the hospital – nothing serious, your aunt assures you, but better that they go now – and for the first time since your arrival you are left to your own devices, with nothing but time and the sky above you.

You attempt to go back to the places your aunt’s taken you, to get some shopping done – gifts, maybe, for the people you’ve left at home – but there’s something in you so uncomfortably aware that all the places she’s taken you are tourist destinations, first and foremost. That no one from Tokyo really ever goes. 

You pivot away from Shibuya and start walking.

Down the streets, turning when you feel like it, almost definitely walking in a circle more than once – there is something about the act of it, about walking these streets. About pretending, for just a moment – pretending what, you’re not sure. You walk until it’s far past lunchtime and your stomach is reminding you incessantly, until you’re scanning the signs you walk by – an udon restaurant here, an izakaya closed until the evening there – for something you might want to eat.

One of the signs, simple white characters on black font, catches your eye, and you slow to a stop. Sound out the characters in your mouth, clumsy and fumbling. Onigiri Miya, it reads, and you rock back and forth on the heels of your feet as you ponder. This time of day – too late for lunch, and too early for dinner – it’s likely to be just you in there. This could be good: you could be able to eat quickly and quietly, in and out. Or it could be awful: everyone who works there could whisper about you behind their hands, talking about the odd foreigner with the too-loud voice and too-crooked accent, always a beat behind the conversation. As the seconds tick on your thoughts turn towards dread, and you make to turn away instead.

“Hey,” says a voice. You startle.

The man standing behind you is dressed in what must be the uniform of the shop, black pants and black shirt with the Onigiri Miya logo embroidered on the breast. He smiles at you, crooked and reassuring. Says something in the most heavily accented Japanese you’ve ever heard – not that it’s much of a competition – and you blink at him. He must not be from Tokyo, then – must be from a rural prefecture – although where, you certainly couldn’t hazard a guess. 

The realization – how much of a stranger you are, even in this country that should know and be known by you – fills you with hot, irrational shame.

“I’m sorry!” you squeak, bowing to him, shoulders so high they’re almost touching your ears. You turn and flee without a backwards glance.

____

The next day, a little calmer, a little clearer-headed, you think through it again and realize that fleeing was almost certainly the absolute weirdest thing you could’ve done. 

He must think I’m such a freak, you mourn, chopping the green onions with a little more force than necessary. Such a weirdo. What kind of person stands in front of a store for minutes on end, and then when an employee comes to help you, runs away? What kind of person –

“Hey,” your cousin says, dropping her bag by the door. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve just lost all your life savings and your house burned down in a fire. What’s wrong?”

It all spills out, then – the streets, the store, the man, his polite confusion. How you had essentially run away. She blinks at you, nonplussed.

“Oh… kay,” she says, finally. “Listen, I’m not gonna pretend that was a super weird thing to do –”

You moan, setting down your knife to bury your face in your arms. It’s nice here – dark. Safe. Quiet. Maybe you should never leave.

“But,” she says firmly, “the way I see it, you have two options. Number one, live on forever in shame, knowing for the rest of your life that man will be thinking about the weirdo who showed up at his store and then ran away for the rest of his life. You will forever be Weird Runaway Girl to him. Like some fucked-up version of Cinderella.”

You bury your face deeper.

“Number two, you go apologize. And it’s weird and maybe super awkward but then it’s over and you have closure and you never have to see him again.”

You inhale. Exhale. “Can’t I just get deported,” you say into the crook of your elbow. The words come out muffled but she must hear you anyway, patting your back semi-awkwardly. 

“We’ll call that Plan C,” she says, before rolling her sleeves up. “Here. What else needs chopping?”

The next day you make your excuses to your aunt – not telling her about the Great Onigiri Miya Debacle, because having one other person know about it is already embarrassing enough – and set off on your own again, attempting to retrace your steps. Somehow you make enough wrong turns and backtracks that when you make it back it’s almost the same time of day it was yesterday. You pause when you catch sight of the storefront banner fluttering the breeze, hands fisted in the hem of your shirt.

“Just go in,” you mutter to yourself. “Apologize. Then you’ll be done with this and no one has to know ever again.”

“It’s you again,” a familiar voice says, half-confused and half-amused, and for a second the idea of getting deported becomes more appealing than anything else in the world.

“It’s me again,” you agree bleakly. “I’m sorry – would you mind – speaking a little slower? My Japanese – it’s not –”

“‘Course not,” he says, voice a little more enunciated, the deep bass of it picking carefully through the syllables, and you finally gain the willpower to peek up at him. He’s rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, a little abashed. What he could possibly have to be embarrassed about when the sum total of your interactions with him have been 1) you running away from him and 2) you telling him he talks too fast, you’re not sure, but it fills you with an odd amount of confidence. 

“Sorry,” you say again. “I just – I wanted to –”

He pauses, regards you regarding him. His cap is slightly askew. You want to reach out and adjust it. You want to see if his hair is as soft as it looks. (You want to file a restraining order against yourself, on his behalf. Before it’s too late.)

“Why don’tcha come in?” he says finally. “We’re closed right now, but I’ll make ya something.”

Closed –! 

All of this and they’d been closed this time of day anyways. What an absolutely humiliation of a punchline.

Face burning, you follow him in. 

“Have ya had onigiri before?” he asks, flicking the lights on, the air conditioning humming to life. You watch him tie an apron around his waist. Normally a question like that would make you flush with embarrassment – of course you’ve had onigiri before, you’re not that much of an alien – but something about the way he says it, the drawl of it. Something about the sleepy-slow light of the store, pale wood and tables gold-lit by the sunlight.

“Yes,” you say. “But really only mostly from konbinis.”

“The best kind,” he says. “We used t’ get those after school all the time. Walk home together eating ‘em.”

Your childhood had involved nothing of the sort, but you can imagine it – the long walk home. A boy jumping up, hand outstretched, to slap the leaves of a tree’s low-hanging branch. You hum. He washes his hands, salts them. You watch as a clump of rice begins to take shape between them. 

“Yours aren’t the best?”

He grins at you. “No, they are,” he says readily. Watching him in the summer light, you’re inclined to believe him. “Just a different kind of best, ‘s all.”

“You didn’t grow up in Tokyo,” you say. More an observation than a question, but he hums assent anyways.

“‘M from Hyogo. That’s why my Japanese sounds all funny – it’s the Kansai-ben.” He does not ask where you’re from. You’re grateful even as you hate yourself a little for it. It’s not that you’re ashamed, really. More like you’ve spent your life as one kind of other and it is less pleasant than you imagined it would be, to suddenly find yourself as the exact opposite but still on the outskirts.

“Sorry,” you say, abrupt. “For… for…”

“The running?” he asks. He doesn’t look up at you, focusing on the rice between his hands. “‘S okay. Ya had places to be.”

At the time the only place you’d had to be was away from here, but you recognize the out for what it is and take it gratefully. “Still. I imagine it was pretty startling.”

He shrugs. “I have a twin brother who does weird shit all the time. I’ve gotten kinda used to it.”

You have to laugh a little at that, and his eyes flick up to yours, looking – maybe you’re imagining it – pleased at the sound. “‘M Miya Osamu,” he says. 

“You own this place!” you say, delighted but mostly unsurprised – something about the way he holds himself in this space gives it away – before hurrying to introduce yourself. He repeats your name to himself, as if testing how the syllables feel in his mouth.

“‘S a good name,” he says. Places the onigiri in front of you. “‘A plain one, to start. Want ya to be able to taste our rice. Next time you come I’ll make you something different.”

There’s a flush of delight in your chest at the next time. Obediently you pick it up, feeling the heft of it in your hands. 

The rice is soft and good and a little bit like childhood, the ache of it. The lingering sweetness. You tell Osamu as much, and he grins at you, satisfied. “‘S my old senpai who grows the rice,” he says. “If anyone knows good rice, ‘s him.”

“He does,” you say fervently. The rice is sticky and filling and you’re definitely getting grains on your face but it’s hard to care – it’s simple food, but it’s good, and it’s oddly comforting for food from a restaurant you’ve never been to before in your entire life. 

Osamu wipes down the counter, watching you eat out of the corner of his eye. He seems oddly pleased by how much you’re enjoying the food. When you tell him as much, he grins, a little sheepish. 

“I want the people who come here t’ eat well,” he says. “Good food is better food when it’s shared.”

You smile at him, a little tentative. “Thanks for sharing this with me.”

“Thanks for sharing it with me,” he says back, then shoos you out without letting you pay. “Next time,” he says, and you let him tuck your credit card back in your wallet and your wallet back in your pocket.

Your cousin eyes you over the dinner table, but doesn’t say anything about the secret smile at the curve of your lips. In her bedroom that night all she says is “Okay?”

“Okay,” you agree. It is summer, and you have nothing but time. 

When you visit again the next day the store is already open. You can see him through the windows, and it’s enough to make your lips tug up again in an involuntary smile as you step through the doorframe.

“Hi,” you say, a little shy, suddenly. A little envious of how grounded he seems, here in this space. 

“Hi,” he says back, jerking his chin at the counter. “Wanna sit?”

It’s umeboshi filling that day, plum tart on your teeth. Tuna mayo the next. Unagi the day after, and he slowly takes you through the menu, watching your face keenly as you eat each one. 

The month passes slowly, honey-dripped and sweet. You tell your aunt that you’ve made a friend, maybe, and watch as her face splits in a smile that makes her look years younger. When you were little your mother used to tell you she could see the resemblance between the two of you. Now, more than anything, you want it to be true. 

“Not a fan, huh,” Osamu says on the day he gives you uni-topped onigiri – unigiri, he’d joked as he’d handed it to you. One of our experimental ones, ya know? – and you blink at him. You’d gotten good at hiding your discomfort with the texture.

Osamu clicks his tongue at you, the sound both disapproving and fond. “Don’t make yerself eat it,” he chides, sliding it away from you. “I’ll make ya another one.”

“Oh – no, you don’t have to, it’s okay, I couldn’t –”

He reaches over and carefully flicks you on the forehead. “I know I don’t hafta,” he says easily. “But I wanna. I want ya to eat well.”

Abashed, you watch as he makes you another one. The careful press of his fingers. The arch of his wrist.

“My parents are from here,” you say suddenly into the silence. He glances up at you, but doesn’t say anything. 

“From Japan, I mean. They left the country before they had me.”

“Where’d they go?”

You tell him, and he whistles, low. “‘S a long ways away.”

“It is,” you say. “Makes traveling hard. I haven’t – haven’t been back here since I was little.”

“Ya got family here?”

“An aunt – my mom’s sister. Her husband. Their daughter. A few other relatives, though I think those are scattered around Japan. I don’t know them too well.”

He hums, considering. “Didja like it? Where you grew up?”

You think about it. About a sepia-toned childhood, about wide streets and dry summer grass, pricking your skin.

“I was very well-loved,” you tell him. “But I was still – I think I was still lonely.”

Osamu nods. “Ya know my twin, Atsumu? When we were in high school we played volleyball t’gether. ‘Tsumu sorta – I think he took it for granted that we were gonna play together forever. That we’d always want the same things. Took a long time for me to be brave enough to tell him I wanted to do this – ” he gestures to the shop around him. “ – for a living. Took me even longer to stop bein’ so mad at him that I had to tell him in the first place. That he didn’t know me as well as I wanted him to.”

He finishes making another onigiri. Pushes it over to you. Then rounds the counter and sits next to you, picking up the first one he’d made you, the one delicate bite taken out of it.

“And now?” you ask. 

Osamu, partway through a bite of your abandoned onigiri, freezes mid-chew. He swallows. “And now?” he echoes.

“And now? Do you think he knows you?”

He snorts. “That idiot would need to get his head out of his own ass, first.” He pauses, considers you. “But. I think these days ‘m less worried ‘bout being known perfectly.”

You blink over at him. He’s turning the half-eaten remnants of the onigiri over and over between his hands. On instinct, you reach over and place a hand on his. The skin of it, the bone of it. The pull of tendon and the flex of muscle and the fluttering pulse. 

He doesn’t look at you. Under your fingertips a muscle jumps, then quickly relaxes.

“These days,” he says, “‘M much happier t’be loved. In spite of all the parts of me he doesn’t understand.”

You think about this, even as he pops the last of his onigiri in his mouth. “Come out with me, tonight,” he says.

“To where?”

He shrugs. “M’friends are in town. Want you to meet ‘em. Even ‘Tsumu will be there, though can’t guarantee he’ll behave.”

“This is the brother that does weird shit?”

Osamu rolls his eyes heavenwards. “Yeah, ‘n I’ve only got the one brother, thank God. Would be willin’ to bet our ma saw how he acted ‘n decided it was enough for her.”

You tactfully avoid mentioning that Osamu himself would probably have been a factor in that decision, if that were the case. Instead you busy yourself with the onigiri in your hands, fiddling with it, breaking off one of the corners before catching yourself. Osamu always laughs at you when you do that. Quit playing with yer food, he’d said once, flicking you gently on the forehead. The mark hadn’t lasted more than a few minutes. The feeling stayed for days.

“Come out with us,” he says, again. His eyes, when you peek at them, are gray and the steady of a long winter.

“Okay,” you say, without much thinking. It’s almost worth it to see the crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes when he smiles. 

You stuff another bite of rice in your mouth to avoid the thought.

____

Us turns out to be Osamu himself, of course, broad-shouldered and dependable and somehow uniquely capable of being a pain in the ass; Suna Rintarou, a sleepy-eyed man with the worst posture you’ve ever seen and a unique talent for instigating; and Miya Atsumu, the infamous Miya Atsumu, with brassy-blond hair that must come from a bottle and a voice pitched at exactly the right frequency to be as annoying as possible. 

“What a funny accent!” is the first thing Atsumu says upon meeting you, grinning in a way that, if he weren’t Osamu’s brother, you would call a leer. “This is the cute little foreigner ya’ve been tellin’ us about, then, huh, ‘Samu?”

Calmly, without surrendering his grip on the tongs he’s been using to grill, Osamu smacks his brother upside the head with his free hand, hard enough to make him pout. “Just ignore –” he begins to say to you, apologetic. 

“You should stop dying your hair yourself,” you say to Atsumu, frowning at him over the table. The smell of the yakiniku is a sore temptation – never mind that it hasn’t finished cooking, according to Osamu – and you can readily admit to yourself that the hunger is making you more irritable than you’d be otherwise. “You’re frying it, and besides, the color is awful. You can’t tell me you were going for that shade on purpose, were you?”

At the sound of his twin’s spluttering noises Osamu starts to laugh – a borderline cackle, mean-spirited and still somehow so lovely. He laughs like how Atsumu does, you realize. There’s something very lovely about it.

To distract yourself from that thought you grab a too-hot piece of meat with your chopsticks and shove it in your mouth. It burns your tongue but rather than spit it out, you shovel in a load of rice, to counteract it, and pray you don’t choke.

Suna watches you with the kind of fascination that you’d thought previously reserved for seeing a particularly exotic zoo animal for the first time. 

“I can see why he likes you,” he remarks, absentmindedly.

What do you mean, you try and say. There’s too much rice in your mouth. You choke.

Osamu somehow manages to simultaneously pat you on the back, put more meat on your plate, and punch Suna’s shoulder at the same time. You resolve to study his abnormal skill at multitasking at a later date. “Y’alright?”

“Fine,” you gasp, trying your best to take a deep breath. “I’m fine.”

Conversation flows smoothly. It’s all-too-easy to tell that they’ve known each other for years, falling into a rapport that’s clearly practiced. It’s even easier to let yourself get swept along in the banter, to pretend that you, too, have known them for years, that the lives they’ve painstakingly carved out for themselves here have always had space for you, too.

It’s an achingly sweet thought. You refuse to let yourself dwell on it for long. 

Osamu insists on walking you home. “‘S almost two in the morning,” he says, “‘sides, I’ve had about enough of him –” he jerks a thumb at his brother, now slumped against Suna’s side, whining about something or other about their volleyball careers (a botched serve, maybe?) while the latter pokes and prods at him. 

You consider this. “Yeah,” you say. “Fair enough.”

Outside the air is warm and Osamu’s presence by your side is warmer. “Thanks for inviting me,” you say to him. The words feel inadequate, for all that he’d let you pretend tonight, even though he couldn’t have been aware of it.

“Thanks for comin’,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “They liked ya.”

“You think?”

“I know,” he says, firm. “They wouldn’t spend so much time teasin’ someone they didn’t like.”

The thought suffuses you with an oddly warm glow. You duck your chin into your chest, hoping he doesn’t notice. If he does he doesn’t mention it.  

“Are ya comin’ by the store tomorrow?” he asks, and you hum, affirmative.

“It might be the last time, before I go.” Saying it out loud is somehow both better and worse.

“Ah,” Osamu says. You walk in silence for a few beats, footsteps falling in time. 

“Come by tomorrow,” he repeats – a statement this time, not a question. You nod anyways, and he walks you right up to your front door, lingering there as if waiting for something. 

“Goodnight, ‘Samu,” you say. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“See ya tomorrow,” he affirms, but makes no move to leave. You frown at him. He pulls a face right back, half-mocking, half in deliberation.

In one fell move he takes the cap off of your head and puts it on yours. It fits strangely – your heads must be too dissimilar of a shape. You would go to sleep wearing it if you could. 

“Goodnight,” you say again, dumbly. 

Osamu’s smile in the moonlight is sharp and a little something else, something you can't read. “G’night,” he says. When he turns to leave the streetlights make the black of his hair look almost blue.

Your cousin, when you slip back up to her room, is still awake. The glow of her smartphone lets you see the jaw-creaking yawn she lets out when she sees you.

“Tadaima,” you say, quiet.

“Okaeri,” she mumbles.

“Sleep well,” you add, but she’s already set her phone on the nightstand, breaths slipping into something quiet and even, as if the only permission she’d been waiting for was the sound of your footsteps at the doorway. You are so full of love you think you could choke on it.

The next day when you show up to Onigiri Miya there’s no onigiri waiting for you. You deliberate feeling betrayed for a second before Osamu steps out of the back, throws a wad of fabric at you. You just barely manage to catch it, uncrumpling it to reveal an apron.

“An apron,” you say.

He grins. “Nice hat.”

You flush almost immediately, resisting the urge to tuck your chin into your chest – it would really only make the hat more visible. “Thanks,” you mutter. “Apron?”

He swings open the gate dividing the front of the restaurant and the kitchen. “You wanna learn?”

The prospect of this world opening up to you leaves you feeling more trepidation than anything. You slip the apron over your head, tie the strings around your waist. “Do I look professional?”

“That’s a Michelin-star chef right there,” Osamu says.

And he’s right, in a way – if ‘Michelin-star chef’ meant ‘uniquely creative in one’s ability to mess up’. The rice doesn’t clump. It sticks to your hands. You grab it when it’s too hot and burn yourself, even through the gloves. You salt your hands too liberally. You don’t salt your hands enough. The clumps of filling are too large. You shape it too firmly and it all falls apart, crumbling in your hands. The remains of your failures are scattered all over the kitchen – “Don’t worry,” Osamu had told you, “I’ll feed ‘em to ‘Tsumu.” – by the time you have one half-presentable one. Half-presentable as in not falling apart. Mostly not falling apart. You cup it in your hands with all the reverence one would hold a baby bird that’d fallen out of its tree.

Osamu plucks it out of your hands. Inspects the way it sags between his fingers. “Huh,” he says.

“Huh?” you parrot, hopeful. He ignores you, taking a bite. Chews. Swallows. The expression on his face is inscrutable. 

“Tastes surprisingly good,” he says.

“Thank you! I – what do you mean, surprisingly?”

Osamu grins. “We’ll make a chef outta you yet.”

The afternoon is spent at his side. “Packin’ an order,” he says. “Wanna help?” You make one onigiri to every five of his, determined to neaten up your technique, but it’s fun anyways. 

“Why onigiri?” you ask him, frowning down at the mass in your hands. “Why not – I don’t know, ramen or yakisoba or something?”

He hums. His hands are steady and large and careful. “I mean, for starters, I like eatin’ ‘em.”

You wait for him to continue. Eventually: “They’re a simple food. Nothin’ fancy. No crazy ingredients. No one’s gonna get a Michelin star for doin’ the stuff I do.”

“Except me,” you say, and Osamu lets out a bark of laughter.

“Except you,” he agrees. “But they’re a comfort food, y’know? I told you we used to get ‘em from the konbini on our way home from practice. Or – for lunch, sometimes, I used t’ make bentos for me n’ ‘Tsumu. The first thing I learned t’make was onigiri. My ma taught me.”

“You love them a lot.”

He scrunches up his nose, displeased. “Not like I’d ever tell ‘Tsumu,” he says. “But – well. ‘f course I was gonna make him food. ‘f course I was gonna learn from my ma. ‘S just what we do.”

The depth of it – the quiet love, the steadiness – leaves you a little breathless. Osamu keeps his eyes fixed firmly on his hands, although you’re certain he doesn’t need to.

“I was – such a lonely child,” you say. He knows this already. You’d told him this already.

He finishes shaping the rice in his hands, deliberate. Strips his gloves off. “Wanna go sit on the steps outside?” 

Outside the sun is setting, and the sky is streaked with color. You sit shoulder to shoulder and watch the people pass by. 

“I can’t imagine,” he says, “growing up so far away.” Far away from what, he doesn’t elaborate. You know what he means anyways.

You think about your hometown, think about the summers and the smell of chlorine, the winters and the whole world muffled and still. Think about the wide-open sky. How close and how far away it all felt, all at once. 

“There were good parts,” you say.

“There must’ve been,” Osamu says. “Look at how you turned out.”

“It was very – very far,” you say, “from the people that were supposed to love me no matter what I did.”

He hums. The crickets are beginning to sound. You dread to think about the mosquito bites you’ll find on your skin tomorrow.

“I – it’s not that I’m not grateful,” you say, because you are. “Not that I’m not grateful for the things I have. The life I’ve built.”

“I know,” he says.

“I know I’m lucky to be where I am. To have grown up where I did, in the way I did. My parents wanted the best for me. They gave up a lot for it.”

“Probably,” he agrees. 

“And maybe – maybe I’m romanticizing it. Painting living here as something a lot grander than it is. But – ”

In another life you are sitting in your cousin’s bedroom and listening to her wax poetic about some topic neither of you will remember in the morning. It’s late but in this life you’re young and the moon is full and reassuring. In another life the most intimate way you know your family’s faces is not reduced down to three pixels. In another life each street of this city holds a different memory. In another life you know this place like breathing.

“I could’ve lived here,” you say. “I could’ve had this.”

Osamu regards you, considering. In a way it’s almost a relief, that he’s neither quick to assure or to laugh in outright disbelief.

“You could’ve,” he says at last. “I think you still can.”

“It’ll never be like it could’ve been,” you warn.

“No,” Osamu says, affable. “But I think we could still make it good.”

He offers you his hand. You take it.

“Hungry?” Osamu asks. You consider this, the feel of his hand in yours. You picture: standing outside of his store and watching him, gentle and careful and good, with his callused hands and his patient smile. Here are hands that were made to hold. 

In this dream you step inside, and he looks up at the sound of the door.

Welcome, he says to you. You know what he means by it.

In a few days there will be a plane seat with your name on it – an ocean and everything that lies between. Still, it’s summer – here and now and the rest of your lives – and you have nothing but time. Summer, and there is a space for you at the table. 

You grin at Osamu, squeeze his hand. He squeezes back: once, twice, three times.

“I could eat.”

[pappydaddy]

i'm yours (j.m.)

tv show/movie: outer banks | pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader *cis!female anatomical parts mentioned

requested by another lovely anon as part of my 800 follower celebration

synopsis: not having labels muddles things up. luckily, they don't need labels to know they are mad about each other. though, labels might not hurt - might even save some noses.

taglist: @luvhann | @thelakespoets  | @lonely-simp | @smarie7543| @tenaciousperfectionunknown | @k-k0129 | @maybankslover*line through you user means i could not tag you lovelies!

warnings: spicy, spicy, spicy. dry humping. dirty. reader is horny. blood. broken nose. punching. fluff (if you squint) 18+ please and thank you. characters are aged up as per usual!

navigation | masterlist | taglist sign-up

- not my gif -

 It was as if the stars aligned just the right way, because there she stood, the girl that had been consuming JJ’s mind twenty-four-seven lately. The moonlight rained down on her like a glowing spotlight, pointing her out to him as if he needed any help finding her in a crowd. And then, the stars must have shifted because as the dancing crowd moved just right, it revealed someone unpleasant standing beside her - talking her ear off, Topper. With his stupid shorts and polo top matched with his stupid boat shoes. 

  Bitterness swirled in JJ’s stomach as his face twisted into a scowl, his heart lurched, almost as if it wanted to jump out of his chest and strangle Topper. He knew what her opinion on Topper and other Kooks were - she hated him, but she doesn’t like making scenes so she suffers through conversations. She was too nice (or shy, he wasn’t too sure which yet) to tell him to piss off, but JJ wasn’t. However, something did hold him back. They weren’t official yet. And that was completely on him. He was the one dragging his feet on this one, but now he realized his mistake. 

  He’s taken it slow with her. She was too perfect and too innocent for him, so he was scared of either ruining her and her life or scaring her off with all of his baggage. Her friend’s opinions of him didn’t help his self-doubt. He knew they hated him. He knew they were telling her to move on, to forget him. But she didn’t listen. Even if there wasn’t a label, it was clear to both of them that this thing was more than just fooling around. They had feelings for each other. It was obvious when he kissed her and her first reaction is always to blush or do that cute little panicked hand flap as if she was surprised he would kiss her before her body melted into him.

  “Screw it.” JJ’s eyes zeroed in on Topper as he inched closer to Y/N, obviously flirting despite Y/N clearly wanting out of the situation. He was a large guy, standing at six feet and having a decent amount of muscle, so it didn’t surprise him when he reached the pair quickly, but it did surprise him that he reached them in what felt like five seconds - he stumbled a bit, feeling like he was transported there instead of walking. 

  Y/N spotted him first, those beautiful eyes JJ loved looking into so much, catching his and widening as if asking him for help, which was exactly what he planned to do. “What do you want, Pogue?” Topper’s snarl made JJ look over at him, blue eyes cold and hard, as if he was aiming to kill him. 

  “I was coming over here to ask what the hell you’re doing flirting with someone who is clearly not yours to flirt with.” JJ squared his shoulders, stepping up to Topper, showing the slight but noticeable height difference between them when JJ pulls to his full height. Y/N’s mouth fell open, eyes watching JJ as he puffed his chest out slightly. ‘Hot damn!’ She thought, eyes flicking all over his body before looking back at the tense stare off. 

  “Last I checked, she was single.” Topper gestured toward Y/N, shooting her a wink, but JJ shifted to hide her from him, scoffing at this. 

  “Oh, news to me, because I don’t think what we’ve been doing screams ‘just friends’,” JJ put air quotes around the phrase, looking back at her with his jaw set in a way that made her want to drop to her knees right there. “What do you think, Sweets?” He asked her, his voice deep and dark, almost as if it was strained. The nickname. The voice. The look. The protectiveness. It all went right between her legs. 

  “Definitely not.” She confirmed, bottom lip being sucked between her teeth as she crossed her legs as discreetly as she could while standing, squeezing. She had to admit, she was already hot and bothered from watching from across the party all night, and now it was like someone opened the floodgates. She could jump him right then and there, but Topper just won’t let go. 

  “Still single, man,” Topper shook his head with his stupid smirk, making JJ whirl his head back around at such a rate it startled both Y/N and Topper. For a moment, Y/N was concerned that he had hurt his neck, but didn’t realize since he was hyped up on a mix of one beer, testosterone, and adrenaline. “She’s fair game for the rest of us-” 

  Topper didn’t get to finish his sentence before JJ’s fist met his nose, a sickening crack sounding as a loudly hissed ‘Fuck!’ left Topper’s mouth, his hands flying up to his nose which must have been broken from the amount of pain, blood, and the sound. “Hey, you saw he was disrespecting her, right?” JJ looked over to the group of people who were standing around, trying not to look like they were listening from the jump. 

  They all nodded furiously. “One of you put your information in my phone.” Y/N pulled her phone out, unlocking it and opening contacts, handing it to the group. After graduating, JJ learned his lesson - always have a witness or two to confirm his story (true or not). Y/N usually was the one who got a witness' contact information to keep in case they needed it. With Topper, they would definitely need it, he’s pressed charges before. 

  Glancing over at Topper, she saw a mass of people around him, someone holding their discarded shirt to his nose to stem the bleeding. Over the balled up fabric, he was glaring at the two of them, saying something but they couldn’t hear through the shirt and over the loud nose. Eyes flicking over to JJ, she looked up at him, his back still turned towards her, heaving. His fists were still clenched, almost as if he was ready for someone to come try to avenge Topper or Topper to come flying at them. 

  “Here you go, we put her number in.” A shaky voice pulled her eyes away from JJ. A boy held her phone out to her, his hand and whole body shaking slightly, eyes pleading with her to take the phone before JJ turned around. He was scared of JJ. He was intimidating, probably, she assumed since all she saw was a guy with such a large heart and an urge to protect anything he cares about with all his might. 

  “Thank you,” She took the phone, locking and pocketing it. “JJ, we should leave.” She shuffled the rest of the way over to JJ, her toes getting buried in the sand despite her sandals. For the first time since the punch, JJ looked over at her as she gripped his arm. As soon as his eyes met hers, they softened, but seemed to get darker. His chest rested, no longer heaving, and his fists relaxed, one arm snaking around her waist to pull her against him. 

____

  When she suggested they leave, she was more concerned about the possibility of cops showing up to bust the party since there was a strong possibility of someone snitching after that punch was thrown. She didn’t even think this could happen. She didn’t think he would want to. Part of her even thought he would be mad that she let Topper flirt with her, but as he muttered into her neck not long ago, he knew she didn’t want him. Didn’t want him the way she wanted JJ. Didn’t want him talking to her. Didn’t want him anywhere near her. He knew that.  

  Really, they barely even left the party since they managed to make it to the Twinkie and that was as far as they went. In all fairness, JJ was the one who brought it since everyone else had drives already. So the van was all theirs according to him. Imagine her shock when JJ’s lips landed on hers, lips moving against hers with such passion she kind of thought it was a dream. She had expected a fight. Maybe that was her own messed up trauma coming forth, but she least expected to have his tongue in her mouth and his hands roaming around her body. 

   She hummed into his mouth as he gently started to guide her down on her back. ‘God bless the Twinkie’s lack of seats.’ She thought once her back met the floor of the van, JJ’s weight shifting as he settled between her legs, his body pressing against her in just the right way. She could feel everything. From the heat radiating off of him to every single dip and ridge of his muscled abdomen. 

  Her eyes opened when JJ pulled his mouth away, catching a glimpse of the dark interior. JJ had parked in a rather secluded spot. With trees hanging over the van, all planted in a row behind the van, they were perfectly hidden. A bit of moonlight slipped through the leaves, illuminated the inside so softly. Her eyes shifted, looking at JJ’s body pressed against her. The way the soft lighting surrounded him, it made him look pure and soft - just like she always pictured him. “You got quiet,” JJ muttered against her skin as he kissed along her neck and shoulders. “What’s going on in there?” He asked, pulling away to look at her for a moment. 

  A ray of moonlight hit his eyes, making them sparkle like two ocean blue gems. “Just thinking about how beautiful you are.” She uttered, her hands sliding up from where they rested on his sides to cup his face. Pulling his lips back to hers, he let her lead the kiss. Soft. Loving. Tender. JJ felt like they were in one of those romance movies she loves to watch. She took a deep breath in, lips pulling back only enough to do so as if she was trying to breath him in. 

   Eyes fluttering open again, her eyes stared up at him - big and darkened with want and need. Looking into those eyes was all it took for JJ to snap. Instantly, his lips were on hers again, but only for a moment until they trailed down to the spot he knew so well - sucking. Harshly. 

  Y/N’s eyes nearly rolled back into her head, mouth opening and head falling back as she moaned. She always responded like that and JJ knew it. She also knew he knew by the feeling of his smirk against her now widely exposed neck. “JJ, careful-“ She panted, back arching off the floor as he slid his hands under her, dragging against the smooth skin of her back. “What if-“ As his hands hit the thin strap resting on her back that was holding her bikini closed, it was like she couldn’t speak in full sentences. “Someone sees the mark.” 

  She warned, but she knew it was futile since his attack seemed to have shifted from that spot and was now inching down to her collarbones as he pulled on the string of her bathing suit. “So what,” He muttered against her skin, the vibrations tickling her slightly but she was too turned on to pay anything but the need for friction any mind. “That way everyone will know you’re mine and I’m yours.” 

  His words went right to two places. Her heart, but mostly her vagina. Maybe like one percent to the heart. More will go later, after he rails her in the back of his best friend's van. “I’m yours, JJ. In every way.” 

  Too overcome with the need for some sort of relief, her hips rolled against JJ’s. A synchronous moan filled the air. She didn’t stop the movement, making JJ still his merciless teasing. She wanted to open her eyes to look at him, to see why he was frozen as she continued to rub herself against his still body. Thankfully, he was a strong guy with good endurance so even with her trapped under him, she could rub against him and get herself off. She was well on her merry way to doing just that. 

  Moans spilling out from both of them, her movements quickened and became sloppier. She was squirming now, face screwed up. Before she met JJ, she was sure this was an orgasm. She couldn’t understand how it could get any better than this, but then JJ showed her just what she was missing and she was proven wrong. 

  That’s why she sobbed when one of JJ’s hands freed themselves from where they had a death grip on her bathing suit and gripped her hip, stopping her movements. “JJ!” She cried desperately, panting as she tried to roll her hips again. 

  “Gorgeous, if you keep doing that, this is gonna be over way too quick, and neither of us want that.” He practically growled and she gasped. Partially from the shock that ran through her, feeding her beating heart and also feeding her pooling wetness. Also from the fact that with a yank of his hand her top was untied and with another, her top was off and thrown elsewhere. “Now, let me savor everything my girlfriend has to offer.” His voice was deep, in a dark and an arousing way. 

  But what really got her was how his blue eyes remained locked with hers as he dragged his lips down her body. A trail of goosebumps and tingles were left, marking the path he took. From the base of her throat, down the valley of her breasts (where there was a brief pit stop to nip and suck - knowing she loved it), down her stomach, and stopping at the top of her jean shorts.    Their eye contact was unbreakable and somehow he managed to make it a form of sexual teasing. He didn’t even look as he unbuttoned her shorts, pulling them and her bathing suit bottoms down together. Those too were thrown carelessly. He only broke their eye contact for a second, if you could even count it as a full second, to look down at her bare core. “My girlfriend is all sprawled out here looking like a whole-ass buffet. All you can eat, I hope.” He winked before dipping down, hands pushing her legs apart. The last thing she saw was that damn smirk before his lips disappeared and she gasped out a sudden moan. Eyes closing, legs widening before trying to snap shut around his head (his hands already placed to stop her), and her back arching off the floor with her head flying back.

[ladylooch]

hi babe!!!! could you possibly do one where the readers being really towards nico? maybe while they’re out with friends or in public or something? she’s just trying to love on him 🥹 or nicos being clingy towards her!!! 🥹💗 thank you sooo much!!! your fics are the most adorable things ever

A/N: Okay, I went back and read your request after I wrote this and was like…  TBH, I read this a little different than you wrote. Mostly just the publicness of it. But I think it’s sweet and fluffy and hits the notes you were going for. Thank you for the request!

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: smut if you squint LOL. I actually think I wrote something without swearing. WHERE IS MY GOLD STAR!?

It’s late when you return to Newark from your Devils girl’s trip out to the West Coast. You were supposed to be back, in Nico’s arms, hours ago. You can’t help but feel grumpy about that while saying goodbye to the pack of WAGs. Everyone is splitting off in different directions whether catching a ride from their significant others, heading to the bathroom, or grabbing a cab together to the same neighborhood. Nico is waiting for you. He already texted you that he was by the Dunkin’ just outside of baggage claim.

When you come down the escalator, you grin at him slumped forward on a bench, arms resting on his large thighs, hat hanging low. The airport is pretty much closed for the night so he stands out. Honestly, he’s so gorgeous he would even if it was bustling. His AirPods are in and you can see his mouth moving. A quick check of your Apple Watch makes you gather he’s likely talking to his parents. No one else is awake right now if they don’t have to be.

“Ich muss gehen. Dich lieben.” He says, standing as you approach. His lips pull into an excited grin. “Baby!” He greets, leaning down to press a long, welcoming kiss against your mouth. His hands wind around your waist, lifting you off your feet and into his chest. “Mmm, I missed you.”

“Hi Neeks.” You muse, placing loving kisses on his lips, soaking up his warmth. His brown eyes glitter, only caring to focus on your face.

“You look good. Relaxed.” He notes, setting you back down.

“I feel relaxed.. minus all the travel trouble.” It all seems like minor inconveniences now that you can feel Nico’s hand slipping into yours. He takes the handle on your rolling suitcase so your only job is to walk next to him to the car.

“Yeah that sucked. I was getting frustrated for you.” He shakes his head. “I mean six extra hours at the airport? Woof.” 

“Yeah I had a nice buzz going by the time we got on the plane. I even slept for a couple hours.”

“Wow! Practicing for Switzerland this off season, yeah?” You laugh, nodding. You are so looking forward to that with him.

Nico places your suitcase in his car and soon you are on your way back to your apartment. Nico’s fingers slide into yours, bringing your hand to his mouth. 

“I missed you so much, babe.” He whispers against your skin.

“Missed you too.” You murmur back to him, turning to watch him while he drives. His face has a bit of stubble and his hair is hidden by a black baseball cap. He chews on his bottom lip, watching the traffic in front of you. He sneaks a few peeks of you every so often, grinning each time your eyes meet.

“Tell me everything. What is the hot goss? Is there pipping hot tea?” You know he is making fun of you. But you missed him so much, you’ll let it slide.

The rest of the ride home is spent chatting about the trip and the various activities and events we participated in. Most of them included indulgence on food and wine. The Airbnb was incredible with so many rooms and spaces to hang out. Plus, a really beautiful, secluded pool and hot tub area. 

“So basically, you missed me when you were sleeping?” He jokes, placing a hand on your lower back as he unlocks the door to your apartment.

“Yes, and when I was super, wine drunk.” 

His laugh electrifies your body.

“Yeah I remember that FaceTime call.” He wiggles his eyebrows at you. You cringe, red filling your cheeks at the awful strip tease you gave him.

“I’m hungry. Do we have any food here?” You ask as he wheels your suitcase down to your room.

“Uh… No.” His airy laughter flows down the hall. Nico is not the grocery shopper in this relationship. 

“Okay.” You take a peek in the fridge and then the pantry, finding enough ingredients to make Kraft Mac and Cheese. You put water in the pot, letting it come to a boil.

“You gonna share that with me?” He asks, gliding his hands around your body to rest against your stomach. His back warms you through your shirt as he kisses all along your covered shoulders. His hands begin to travel. First to your hips, then down your thighs and back up. His touch has electricity buzzing in your body. 

“Babe, I need a little space.” You mutter after testing a noodle and finding it ready.

“No.” He sighs into your back, nuzzling his nose there.

“You’re going to get a monster if you don’t let me eat.” You warn lightly. Nico knows you’re a completely different person when you’re hungry and steps aside so you can separate the noodles and boiling water. His hands are back on you when you return to the stove top. Nico helps by putting in the butter while you measure the milk out. He cringes as you shake the cheese pack in. 

“It’s a disgrace to call that cheese.” 

“Probably, but it gets the job done.” You stir it all together, mouth watering at the sight and smell of the cheesy, nostalgic goodness. You dish yourself up a bowl and Nico who says he wants to at least try it before calling it trash to your face.

“Okay, this kinda slaps tho?” He says it questioningly, thick eyebrows drawing together in confusion, slowly chewing his first bite.

“It’s the best. I don’t know how it works, but it hits different as an adult.” Nico devours his bowl, then slides you across the couch to finish your bowl resting against his chest. He flicks the TV on, putting on The Kardashians. You look over your shoulder at him. 

“Wow….” You trail off, pausing to take another bite of mac and cheese. You run your tongue along the front of your teeth. “It’s almost like you want something from me tonight.” 

“Dying for it. Literally.”

“I’d say your chances are about 90%.” 

“Okay… I like those odds. But, how do I get to 100%?”

“Hm.” You contemplate, pushing some more noodles around your bowl. “I think I need a massage.” Nico sits up, eager to please. His hands come to your shoulders, immediately rubbing the tense muscles. “And maybe let your hands wander a bit.”  You shrug as you delicately chew another bite of food. “And I think I need ice cream after this.”

“So many things.” Nico groans. “You know I can bring my chances to 100% by myself, right?”

“How so?” You ask, scooping up another bite. It pauses right before your mouth when he pulls you back flush with his body and begins to bite gently all along your collar bone. You look down at the remaining golden noodles and say goodbye.

Suddenly, you have better things to put in your mouth.

[strange-and-off-putting]

Smegtober Prompt Eleven: Jealousy

Actually, Prompts 11, 12, and 13 are up on AO3. It's 3 pm local on October 14th, so I still have time for todays, lol. Response to "Jealousy" under the cut.

“People like you,” Rimmer slurs, half hanging off the bunk, his gangly arms and legs draped haphazardly over the edge of the mattress. “People see you, and their faces light up like it’s Christmas. Me?”

He points unsteadily at himself, his raised eyebrows disappearing beneath a tuft of disheveled curls hanging in the center of his forehead.

“Me? Like a shot of orange juice after brushing their teeth. Unpleasant, unwanted,” he rolls over, groaning, “unloved.”

“People like you, Rimmer,” Lister sighs, squinting as he tries to keep count of his stitches in his half-inebriated state. “Or they would if you weren’t so–”

He fumbles, trying to think of the right word.

“--Rimmer-ish,” he finishes, lamely, catching the yarn with the tip of his right needle. “You get in your own way, man. People’d like you if you could just chill the smeg out for a minute, you know?”

“I don’t know,” Rimmer groans. “I don’t know how to ‘chill the smeg out,’ I don’t think I’ve ever come close to feeling ‘chill’ in my entire life. Or death, come to that.”

“You think too much,” Lister says. “You’re too wrapped up in making yourself look important. I don’t know how to explain this to you, Rimmer, but most people don’t really care about how important you claim to be, how many pips you have, what rank you are...”

“Well, what else do I have?” Rimmer’s voice is fast approaching a whine. Lister blinks.

“What else do you have?” he says incredulously. “Smeg, Rimmer, you don’t even have that! You’re a second technician, repairing vending machines!”

Rimmer stares at him with wide, pathetic eyes.

“Are you trying to make me feel better?”

Lister sighs.

“Looks, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being a second technician, man,” he sighs. “But it doesn’t exactly elevate you above anyone else, does it? The problem is your whole attitude, Rimmer! You act like you’re king of the hill, but you’re not. And even if you had the rank, no one likes the bloke who lords his privilege over everyone else.”

Rimmer blinks up at the ceiling.

“I don’t have anything else,” he says again. His voice is wavering, a plaintive, pleading note that corkscrews right through Lister’s chest. Lister puts down his knitting and sighs. He stands up and walks over to the bunk unsteadily, throwing himself onto the bunk with a grunt.

“Listen,” Lister says, resting a hand on Rimmer’s knee thoughtlessly. “Somewhere in there is a likable guy, ok? I’ve caught little glimpses and glances of him, yeah, those times you manage to let your guard down.”

Rimmer raises himself up to a sitting position, resting most of his weight on his arms, braced behind him. He looks doubtful, but there’s a tentative, hopeful twitch, just at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lister reassures, clapping his knee again. “That bloke’s got real potential. He’s open, and honest, and affectionate. And he doesn’t overthink things, you know? That’s so much of your baggage, man; you kill yourself overthinking things, over-complicating things. Sometimes you’ve just gotta go with it, you know? Be spontaneous.”

“Spontaneous?”

“Yeah. Act on your feelings,” he says, “Like I do.”

Rimmer snorts.

“You do do that, don’t you? No thoughts, head empty,” Rimmer mused, his voice thick with longing, “‘Do what the wilt shall be the whole of the law’ and all that.”

He shakes his head.

“But what if I regret it? What if I just traipse off, willy-nilly, doing anything and everything I please, and then regret it all?”

“How much smeg do you regret not doing cause you’ve talked yourself out of it?” Lister points out quietly. “Regret’s always gonna be a pocket on the roulette wheel, Rimmer. But so is happiness, right? I’d rather take my chance and do the thing, eh?”

“Do the thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Just – spontaneously. In the moment. Without thinking?”

Yeah.”

“Hmm,” Rimmer muses a moment.

He pulls Lister in and kisses him.

“Whoa, hey–” Lister pulls away in a panic, a flat hand on Rimmer’s chest holding him at bay. “That’s not – you – not, not that, Rimmer. You – you’re too drunk to know what you’re doing.”

“But you said–”

“Yeah, I know what I said, but–”

“You’ve kissed people drunk,” Rimmer slurs accusingly. “You’ve done plenty, absolutely smashed out of your gourd. Do you think I didn’t know what you were up to all those night you had me locked out of our bunk? All those nights you came back reeking of beer and sex??”

Lister’s face goes crimson.

“That’s… that’s different, Rimmer,” he murmurs, avoiding Rimmer’s gaze.

“Oh.” Rimmer’s voice is flat; Lister can feel him pulling away, in every sense. He crosses his arms across his chest and turns away petulantly.

“Of course. Of course, the great Dave Lister is different. The rules don’t apply to him.”

Lister sighs, deflating slightly. There was really no talking to him once he got to this stage.

“You’re drunk, Rimmer,” he says gently. “And in the morning you’ll be relieved you have that to hide behind.”

“Of course, when you do it, it’s an impetuous whim,” Rimmer mumbled. “But for me it’s just a drunken mistake, I suppose.”

Rimmer is silent, back to Lister, the hem of his pajama shirt riding up against the small of his back. There’s something about that small sliver of exposed skin that makes Lister inexplicably sad.

“We can talk about this in the morning,” Lister says, stumbling back over to the desk and picking up his knitting. “If you want to. Which you won’t.”

“Of course, I won’t,” Rimmer says. “You don't get it, do you? You can do this sober. Do what you want, go after what you want. Who you want.”

Lister stares at his knitting, the stitching a jumble of knits and purls swimming in front of his eyes. He feels vaguely guilty, but he’s not sure what for.

“Must be nice,” Rimmer murmurs, drifting off to sleep, “to be you.”

He casts a glance at Rimmer’s back, the sweaty curls clinging to the nape of his neck, his shoulders rising and falling in the simulated rhythm of breathing. He turns back to his knitting, trying to make sense of it – the project, the pattern, the state of his life. He sighs.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “you would think.”