#i'll post this on ao3 at some point i don't have time for now | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hyprfixate · 21 days ago

Text

a genetic disposition (to loving you) :: [BC x Reader]

read on AO3

summary: seeing chan at the genetic clinic when he told you he was too busy to hang out was one thing. noticing he was now significantly taller than he was a couple weeks ago was another.

learning he's been diagnosed with the werewolf disorder is something different entirely.

pairing: bang chan x reader

tropes: childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, modern werewolf au, no transformations tho, chronically ill reader, reader has EDS (ehlers danlos syndrome), some angst, slight miscommunication trope

smut warning: masturbation (m), handjobs, blink-and-you-miss-it subby chan, voyeurism, pussy eating (x2), no actual ABO dynamics but that's not stopping Chan from calling himself Alpha, dirty talk, lots of begging, standing/wall sex, cumming inside AND cumming outside.

content warning: talks about being in pain, self deprecating talk, anxiety spirals, very brief internalized ableism, panic attack

word count: 21.6k

author's note: if you saw the three different attempts to post this, no you didn't. enjoy! <3

Chan was acting weird.

To be fair, he always acts weird. Weird might actually be his default. But this was a different type of weird– a weird that involved canceling plans last minute and making up flimsy excuses about why.

Today, he was supposed to accompany you to your doctor's appointment. A simple, low stakes kind of hangout. You looked at your phone with a sigh.

Channie: sorry, can we do a raincheck for our hangout? not to sound like a fuckboy but something came up

Channie: i really am sorry babygirl. i'll make it up to you i promise. please tell me how it goes okay?

You let out a small huff of air. You would love to be annoyed, mad even, but at the end of the day, this is Chan, your best friend since elementary school. The guy who held you through heartbreaks and stressful semesters. The guy who memorized your ridiculously complicated Dunkin order. The guy who dropped everything to stay with you at the hospital a few months ago when things got really bad.

The guy you're secretly in love with.

Okay, maybe that was a minor and insignificant detail in the grand scheme of things. Either way, you can't be mad at Chan.

You: don't worry channie. i'll be okay. I hope your stuff goes well ok?

Channie: love u, good luck with your appointment, it's gonna be ok

Right. Your appointment.

You'd been having some increasingly bothersome and worrying symptoms for the better part of 2 years now. It started with a noticeable dull ache in your knees that wouldn't go away, reaching a peak now where there's not a single day you wake up pain free. The doctors were just as stumped as you were, and as sort of a last ditch effort, they sent you to a geneticist in the expensive part of the city. Thank goodness for adequate health insurance.

You were a bit nervous, which is why you asked Chan to come with you, but it wasn't that big of a deal. You've been to specialists before.

Still, disappointment rises in your chest as you finish pulling your hair away from your face and securing it with a scrunchie before grabbing your essentials and heading out the door. You're more disappointed about the fact that he's not coming instead of what he's not coming to. You're getting a little weary and tired of the excuses and him bailing on plans.

But then you think about the way his voice sounds when he calls you babygirl, and everything seems right again.

The trip to the geneticist office is long, and by the time you arrive, you feel the exhaustion in every joint. For such a high caliber place, it's decorated just as sterile and modern as you were expecting, with white walls and white furniture. When you go to check in, the receptionist hands you a tablet with various forms pulled up and points you to the waiting room.

You settle into one of the white waiting room chairs, balancing the iPad on your lap as you begin working through the forms. The questions start simple enough - name, date of birth, insurance information. Then they get more involved, diving into your medical history.

Have you experienced any of the following symptoms in the last six months?

The list that follows is daunting - joint pain (obviously), muscle weakness (sometimes), unexplained fatigue (who doesn't have that?), difficulty concentrating (depends on the day). You find yourself checking more boxes than you'd like.

Your mind drifts to Chan again. You wonder what was so important that he had to cancel. Usually, he at least gives you a concrete excuse, even if it's something silly like having to wash his hair or visit his parents. Today's vague "something came up" feels different. Worrying.

Before you can stop yourself, you pull out your phone.

You: this intake paperwork feels like the ending of a medication commercial

You: i’m surprised they haven't asked me if i or a loved one has been diagnosed with mesothelioma

The message stays on delivered for a while, longer than you expect. You give up on staring at your phone and turn your attention back to the paperwork.

After a ridiculous amount of questions and an even more ridiculous amount of signatures, you finish the preliminary stuff, heading back to the receptionist desk to hand her the iPad. She gives you a polite nod and smile and lets you know the nurse will be out in a second, so you can wait in the small chair by the double doors.

You're lost in thought, mindlessly scrolling through your phone when you hear the gentle sound of your name called. The sound makes you look up, tucking your phone away and grabbing your bag. A nurse stands by the double doors, clipboard in hand, wearing deep purple scrubs and a smile that somehow makes the sterile environment feel a little more human.

You push yourself up from the chair, joints starting their songs of protest after sitting still for so long. The nurse offers pleasantries that you respond to with your usual politeness. As you're walking towards the open door, you hear a beep and the whirr of an electronic lock unlocking. The closed side of the door swings open and–

There's Chan.

You both freeze mid-step, eyes wide and locked on each other like this is the first time you're seeing each other in years. It feels like it, but you did just see him last weekend at a mutual friend's birthday party. It was a fun night, but he was acting strange and dodgy then, too.

something came up.

You squint at him, not sure whether confusion or anger is winning the war in you right now. He opens his mouth once, twice– words are failing. The most he can do is let out a shaky, “Babygirl…”

You take that moment to really look at him. His hair is in its natural curly state, but significantly more messy than usual, wisps falling over and around themselves. His eyes are red and bagged heavily, and his shoulders seem like they're scrunching in on themselves. He hasn't looked like this since that night in the hospital with you.

Something is definitely wrong.

The nurse clears her throat, and you remember you're being waited on. You motion wordlessly towards the nurse and he gives you a shaky nod.

“I'll, um. I'll text you,” he mumbles weakly, holding the door open for you as you walk past. When you do, you can't help but look up at him, like way, way up. More than you usually do. You almost pause again– are your bone problems making you shrink, or is he somehow taller? Why does he look like that?

It's you who nods shakily this time, forcing yourself to tear your eyes away so you don't bump into a wall. It takes concentrated effort not to look back at him while you walk down the hallway, but somehow you manage.

The nurse brings you to an exam room and tells you to sit tight while she gets the vitals cart. You obey, still dazed and confused and maybe even a little hurt if you allow yourself to really feel it. Your phone buzzes less than a minute later, and you don't even have to guess who it is.

Channie: i'm so sorry.

Channie: i can explain. i promise.

Channie: i just.. i need some time before i can

Channie: im such a fucking idiot. i'm so sorry babygirl. please.

There are a million and one responses in your head, each with varying levels of confusion or annoyance. But, among the haze, the image of his exhaustion floats back to you, and you find yourself folding.

As usual.

You: breathe, Chan. it's ok.

You: whatever it is, we'll figure it out, yeah?

You: i do wish you told me but. it's okay. I can wait for an explanation.

Channie: you're so amazing. i don't deserve you.

Channie: i'll call you when you get out ok? i love u

The nurse comes back with the vitals cart and begins prepping materials before you can respond properly, so you send back a heart and slip your phone into your pocket. When the blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm, you wonder if the nurse will notice how fast your heart is beating – though you're not sure if it's from anxiety or the way Chan's voice cracked when he called you babygirl.

Maybe both.

To his credit, Chan truly does make it up to you, in the form of an extended weekend away at his parents’ cabin upstate. The invitation, or request rather, comes a couple days after the geneticist incident while you're in bed feeling anxious over your test results.

Channie: picking u up thursday night, we're going to my parents’ cabin till monday

Channie: had plans?

If anyone else were to text you like that, you'd balk at their audacity. But because it's Chan, there's a growing heat in your face when you simply reply:

You: no plans. promise you won't bail?

He sends you a picture of his already packed duffel bag and backpack sitting by his door, then another picture of him and his laptop that's clearly pulled up to Google Maps. His eyebrow is raised, sinfully plump lips pulled into a smirk as he points at the screen.

Channie: give me some creditt

Channie: im already packed and the route is already planned

You giggle, feeling the perpetual knot of nerves in your chest loosen. A weekend away with Chan sounds like the perfect thing. It'll be a way to get your mind off the maybes and anxieties from your appointment, and a way to spend time with your best friend.

A win-win.

You spend the next few days packing and gathering supplies for a weekend at the cabin, which isn't as simple a task as it sounds. Chan is adamant that you worry about nothing except getting your stuff together, so he won't tell you what he has planned or what to pack. After losing many back and forth arguments, you toss a little bit of everything in your small suitcase, leaving your backpack for entertainment and snack purposes.

Thursday creeps up slowly, then all at once. Unfortunately, you wake up to deep pain in almost all of your joints– even your fingers seem to be screaming with every movement. Getting ready takes longer than you want, but you push through, and it isn't long before you're sitting on your living room couch, waiting for Chan to let you know to come out. It was a wonder what large amounts of Ibuprofen could do.

You hear the familiar puttering of his engine before his text even comes through, the soft ding of your phone cutting through your apartment.

Channie: i'm here babygirl

Channie: coming up to help w ur bags

A warm flutter runs through your chest at his thoughtfulness. You're not sure you'll ever really get used to it.

You push yourself up from the couch, breath hitching when the movement causes a dull ache to radiate down the length of your legs. You pause, gripping the arm of the couch and squeezing your eyes shut for a moment.

It's fine, you reason with yourself. It's not that bad. You're fine.

You're thankful that you had the foresight to pack a suitcase instead of a duffle, at least this way you'll have something to bear your weight on while you walk.

Your jacket is slipped over one shoulder when you hear the buzz from your doorbell. Chan's smiling face greets you when you open the door, looking both insanely handsome and–

“Am I shrinking, or are you growing?”

He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest, which is somewhat concealed by the oversized sweater he's wearing. You want to scold him for such a light outer layer in the bitter late autumn, but your words get stuck in your throat as you find yourself tilting your head up further than usual to look at him.

And then you give yourself the pleasure of really looking at him.

His hair is its usual wispy, beautiful mess. He cards his fingers through it as he looks at you, smiling as though about to say something, when suddenly his smile drops, his eyebrows furrowed as he stands up straight.

“You're in pain.”

It’s not a question. He's providing the information to you as fact. You blink in surprise.

“Yes, I am, but how did you–”

"I can–” He cuts himself off, looking uncertain for a moment before shaking his head. "I just know you, babygirl. You're not putting much weight on your left leg, anyway."

Hm. He caught you there.

“How bad is it?”

You finish shrugging on your jacket. “Um, maybe six out of ten. But I took medicine, I should be– Are you sweating?”

It's a stupid question, because he is, and you don't need a verbal response to confirm it. Sweat is beating at his temples and dampening his hair. Something flickers across his face, but then his expression is back to normal again.

You watch him flip through a million different responses in his mind, but before he settles on one, he spots your bags next to the door and goes to grab them, slinging your backpack over his shoulder with profound ease. He's moving so fast and he's so jittery that you barely get a second to process everything.

“Chan,” you finally say when he whizzes past you again to put your remote back in the organizer. He pauses, back stiffening like he's a little kid again about to be scolded. He turns to you slowly. “Are you okay?”

You watch him take a deep, shuddering breath, his entire body seeming to expand and contract. The unnatural stiffness in his body seems like he's forcing himself to stay still, and you see his finger drumming patterns on his thigh.

You repeat his name, softer this time. “What's wrong?”

He shakes his head a bit too fast. “No, nothing, I–” He runs his fingers through his hair, pausing to grip the roots to ground himself to this moment. It works for a second. “I'm… okay. I can explain everything later babygirl, I just… I really just want to focus on spending time with you.”

There's a raw edge to his voice that makes your chest tighten. You study his face, taking in the exhaustion, the sheen from sweat, the way his eyes won't meet yours. Every instinct screams that something is wrong, but…

“Okay,” you relent with a sigh. It should be embarrassing how easily you fold for him. It should maybe even be studied. “But you promise that you'll explain?”

He deflates, eyes brightening with relief. “I promise. Chris-Cross my heart.” He punctuates his sentence by putting his hand over his chest.

You can't help the smile that takes over your face at that– the reference to the silly rhyme you'd made up when you were kids based on his English name. A bit of the anxiety in your chest loosens. “Now let's go before the traffic gets unbearable.”

You grab your keys and headphones, giving your apartment one last glance over before following Chan out of the door. By the time you finish locking up, he's already halfway to the elevator, his abnormally long legs quickening his pace. As you try to catch up with him, you can't help but notice his stature– how his shoulders seem broad under his sweater, how he just seems… more.

The elevator ride to the parking garage under your apartment building is quiet, but not uncomfortably. Chan is humming something under his breath, his increasingly restless fingers tapping out the rhythm on his leg. Despite all of it, you feel relaxed. No matter what's going on, this is still your Chan, your person.

He tosses your bags into his trunk with an ease that perks your entire body to attention. When you go to pull open the passenger door, he beats you to it, adding a dramatic flourish as he holds it open for you.

Your heart almost jumps out of your chest.

In the passenger's seat is a small pink box with a label from your favorite bakery, alongside a nice variety of drinks in the cupholder. He's got a pair of fluffy slippers on the mat by your feet, too, and you can see on the dashboard he's turned the seat warmers on.

“Chan,” you breathe. Your heart is doing strange things in your chest, and you're either feeling extremely touched or about to pass out. “You didn't have to–”

“I wanted to.” You turn to look at him, and he's looking away, scratching the hair at the base of his neck. “Felt like an ass, you know, being so distant and weird. Needed to make it up to you.”

It's entirely unfair that he can just… say those things to you. He's your best friend, so of course he's affectionate– that's just how he's been since you met in third grade. What started with bringing extra GoGurts and tying your shoes when you broke your wrist has just now turned into spoiling you with cabin vacations and things you mention offhandedly that you like.

No biggie.

He nudges you in the car playfully, making some lighthearted joke about him getting too soft on you. You can barely hear him over the thrumming of your heartbeat in your ears, choosing instead to follow his movements in the rear view mirror. You watch as he pauses by the trunk, carding a hand through his hair and taking a big breath, before eventually making his way over to the driver's seat. He tosses his phone to you, effectively putting you on music duty, and then you're on the road in a matter of minutes.

Time with Chan is always easy. You talk about any and everything for the first hour of the drive, including his job, your lack thereof, and your appointment, and he listens to every detail carefully.

“So, they think it's a collagen issue?”

You nod, wiggling your feet in your new slippers as you shift your position. “They aren't entirely sure, but they're looking at collagen based connective tissue disorders, like Ehlers Danlos and Lupus. They think that could explain the other issues too.”

He looks contemplative as he peers around you to the mirror by your door, trying to merge into the next lane. “Are you scared?”

You shrug, body moving with the car. “Its.. complicated. On the one hand, it would be scary to receive a life changing diagnosis. On the other hand–”

“You're just happy to have answers.”

You nod again, taking a sip of the caramel latte he bought for you and wincing as you shift again. Long drives are always hard, but paired with the changes in the pressure as the two of you drive further into the mountains, your joints feel like they might disintegrate.

“Scale of one to ten?”

You blink. Chan hadn't taken his eyes off the road, so how could he have seen you shifting? You open your mouth, prepared to lie, but he glances at you with a single eyebrow raised. You sigh.

“Maybe a six,” you breathe.

“So the Ibuprofen didn't help?”

“It did, it's just wearing off.”

You put the latte back in the cup holder, using your hands to bear your weight as you try to find a comfy position to sit in.

“What do you need, babygirl?”

You fight the shiver his voice sends down your spine. “Nothing. Well– I don't know. Maybe a nap? Is that okay?”

“‘Course it is. Here.”

With sinfully dexterous fingers, he reaches across your lap to recline your seat for you. You let him, body going still as his strong forearm helps ease you back with the chair. When you're comfortable, he reaches behind him to the floor of the backseat, fishing around until he produces–

“Is that your couch blanket?”

His answering grin is soft. “The one you've been threatening to steal? Yeah. Maybe.”

He drapes it over you skillfully, with you having to do very minimal adjusting. The familiar, homey smell of his apartment– warmth and something else very distinctly Chan – floods your senses and wraps you in the warmest hug. It feels like coming home.

You adjust yourself again, sleep wanting to come now that you're cozy, but the dull ache in your legs doesn't want to let go. Without warning, Chan's free hand slips under the blanket and finds the knee of the leg that hurts with amazing accuracy. His hand feels blazing hot through the fabric of your sweats as he rubs his thumb in soothing circles.

“This okay, yeah?” he asks, his low voice a soothing sound to your ears. Words are caught in your throat, so you can only nod, but you don't miss how the pain starts to dissolve by his touch. You also try very hard not to think about how big his hand is on your knee.

“Get some rest, babygirl. I got you.”

The combination of his gentle touch, the music, and the smell of his blanket is making your eyelids heavy. As you finally drift off, a contented smile pulls at your mouth because no matter what, this is where you're meant to be.

This is home.

Chan wakes you up about half an hour before you're expected to arrive. However, paired with delays, the pitch blackness of the mountains, and the general unrestrainedness of Murphy's Law, you were only now getting to the cabin at just past 1am.

The cabin is beautiful, as always. It's nestled amidst a thick grove of evergreen trees, and its tall, warm wood exterior seems inviting even at the ungodly hour you two arrive. As he swings the car onto the gravel driveway, the headlights illuminate it, like it’s a secret just for the two of you.

“Cabin sweet cabin,” he murmurs as he kills the engine. He picks his phone up from the cup holder and gives it a few flicks, then suddenly the porch lights come on. You give a little stretch in your seat, your joints feeling pleasantly loose and mostly pain free– the nap worked wonders.

The two of you pile out of the car, the fresh mountain air filling your nostrils. It smells like pine needles and freshwater, with an undercurrent of something wild and electric, like the air before a storm.

“Is it supposed to rain?”

Chan barely hears you, his antsyness now back full force. He's got both of your backpacks and his duffle bag slung over his shoulders, and he goes to grab your suitcase, but you appear by his side and pull it away from him. He blinks down at you, seeming surprised to see you there.

You tilt your head to the side. He still looks sweaty, and from where you're standing, it still seems like he's radiating an insane amount of heat. His breaths are labored, and you find yourself reaching over to rub your thumb over his hand. However, once your hands connect, he jumps and pulls away like you've shocked him.

At your hurt face, he tries to backtrack. “Static,” he supplies weakly. You say nothing, and the tips of his ears turn bright red. “Come on, let's get you out of the cold.”

You try not to jump to conclusions. At the end of the day, if something is really bothering him, if something is really wrong, Chan will tell you. He has always been the brooding type, but there is but so long he can keep things from you.

Still, no matter how much you try to take things at his pace, you keep seeing his face at the clinic: the deep bags under his eyes, the messy hair. The last time you looked into those eyes and saw that same pain, you were in a hospital bed hooked up to more monitors than you could count.

Chan had been brooding then too, refusing to leave your side, asking the doctors all the right questions, keeping your parents up to date when they had to go back home. You remember one night in particular, when you were chalk full of pain meds and falling asleep under the whirr of an oxygen mask, he'd stood at your bedside and rubbed his thumb over your forehead to soothe you. You couldn't speak, too exhausted and in pain to move in any capacity, but you didn't need to. He spoke to you the entire time about everything and nothing, switching his murmuring to quiet comforts when you started to cry. Just before sleep took you under, you met his eyes– his exhausted, red rimmed eyes– and he gave you the softest, most tender look.

“We'll get through it, babygirl,” he had murmured. “You're gonna be okay. You'll come home.”

You did come home, of course, but that's when things became different. Chan was distant, constantly canceling plans, avoiding you.

You shake the memory from your head as you watch him fiddle with his keys in the lock. This weekend was meant to be about the two of you having fun. You could worry about everything else later.

Chan flicks on the overhead light in the living room area and the room floods with warmth. Everything looks just as familiar and homey as you recall.

Before you can take a good breath, he's got your bags and suitcase and is bounding up the stairs with them like they weigh nothing. You choose to busy yourself with getting comfortable, peeling off your coat and hanging it on the nearby hook.

You're tugging your hair back into a ponytail when he comes back down, and when you look up and spot him the scrunchie flies across the room.

He's taken off his hoodie, leaving him in a fitted white tee that does nothing to hide just how different his body looks. It's no secret that Chan works out, but he fills out this shirt like it was painted on him. You quickly pull your spare scrunchie from the other wrist to tie up your hair, trying not to dwell.

"Do you want me to put these in the kitchen?" you call out, holding up the bag of road trip leftovers.

"Yeah, just–" his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "Just throw them on the counter. I'll organize everything later."

You pad into the kitchen, bare feet silent on the wooden floors. Everything is exactly as you remember it – the mismatched mugs in the cabinet, the worn wooden spoons in the ceramic holder, the string lights Chan installed last summer that give everything a soft glow. If you close your eyes, you could almost pretend nothing has changed.

Almost.

You find, unsurprisingly, that the cabinets and fridge are stocked full. Chan's parents likely came out to pack up some groceries when he told them you'd be coming. You find yourself leaning against an open cabinet, staring into space, your mind a million miles away.

"You okay, babygirl?”

You jump slightly – you hadn't heard him come up behind you. He's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, running his hands through his hair again, that restless energy still evident in every movement.

"Yeah, just..." you gesture vaguely around you. "Memories, you know?"

His expression softens, and for a moment he looks exactly like your Chan again. "Yeah, I know."

The moment stretches between you, comfortable and familiar, until your stomach decides to break it with an embarrassingly loud growl. Chan's laugh is startled but genuine.

"I don't remember that.” He jokes. “Hungry?"

You feel your cheeks heat. "Yeah, I think so.”

He starts rolling his sleeves up. “I could probably make some eggs and toast, if–.”

“It's one in the morning,” you scold him gently. “Nobody is cooking.”

He gives you a pout, which is comical considering his current stature, but you still feel a tug in your chest. “But–”

You shake your head, turning away from him so you don't relent. “No buts. We have tons of snacks. Help me find something.”

At your request, the two of you rummage through the drawers and cupboards. Everything either requires too much effort or won't agree with your stomach at this ridiculous hour. You're ready to call it quits and sleep for dinner when a lightbulb goes off in your head.

“Oh, can I have one of your protein bars? You always buy the good kind.”

His smile is soft, dimples catching the light in a way that makes his entire face seem like a dream. “Of course. They're in my backpack, next to the couch.”

You slide your way to his bag with an excited pep in your step. Chan, being who he is, always buys the amazingly expensive protein bars that manage not to taste like chalky disappointment. They're surprisingly filling, and you know they'll settle your stomach without causing a stomach ache.

You find his bag quickly in the low light of the room, squatting down to rifle through it. With your hand in the front pocket, you dig around until your fingers find something that feels like the protein bar box. In your hungry haze, you yank it out without thinking.

It is not the protein bar box.

Instead, it's a thick packet of paper. You go to put it back when the letter head of the genetic clinic you visited catches your eye, along with the words “After-Visit Summary”.

Maybe if your heart wasn't thrumming in your ears, you would've heard his panicked footsteps coming after you. But the only thing in your ears is the erratic beating of your heart, one that only gets worse when you turn the packet over and read the small words on the margin:

You were seen today for: Hormonal Changes. The following issues were addressed: Genetic Lycanthrope Syndrome (Werewolf Gene).

You hear your name through the roaring in your ears. It's a soft, tentative sound that cracks around the edges. You turn, slowly, to see Chan almost right behind you, his face drained of all color and his eyes blown wide.

“Chan,” you breathe. You turn a bit more towards him, the packet still gripped in your hand. “What–”

"I can explain," he says quickly, desperately. His hands are shaking. "I was going to tell you, I swear, I just– I needed time to–”

He trails off, looking around the room as though looking for someone to help him.

Genetic Lycanthrope Syndrome.

You came across this condition when you were researching the clinic, as they mentioned that they were the only place in the area that had the facilities to test for it. It was, as the paper put it, the werewolf gene. People with the condition experienced heightened senses of smell, increased strength, sensory sensitivities– they were werewolves, just without the whole full moon transformation thing.

To say the condition was rare was an understatement. Both parents had to be carriers for the trait, and even then it only occurred in 25% of those births.

And Chan happened to be one of them.

Everything clicks into place now. The sudden growth spurt, the feverishly hot skin, how he knows when you're in pain without you saying a word.

“This is why you were at the clinic,” you say softly. It's not a question.

He nods jerkily, still looking like he might bolt at any second. You stand up to take a step toward him and he actually backs away.

“Don't,” he breathes. “I'm… I don't want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” You almost laugh. “Chan, you're not going to hurt me. How could you think that?”

“No, you don't understand,” he cards his hands through his hair, pausing to tug on the roots. “I can't… I don't know how to control myself yet. I'm different now, I'm–”

“Still Chan.”

The sound he makes is painful. “You can't say that,” he breathes. His hands drop to his sides again. “You don't know what it's like.”

“So tell me," you urge. You move as though you're about to take another step towards him, and your heart drops at how his entire body flinches. “Chan. Chris. Christopher. Look at me please.”

The use of his full name does something to him, and you watch as he settles, eyes drifting over to you slowly. His gaze is intense, and in the dim light of the living room, you feel akin to a deer staring down a wolf, no pun intended.

It does not frighten you the way it should.

“Talk to me, please,” you beg. “You're my best friend. I'm here for you, always.”

“I can smell when you're in pain,” he grits out. It's not what you're expecting to hear. He clenches a hand into a fist, then lets it go. “You usually smell sweet, like caramel and linen. But then your scent gets an undercurrent of something harsh, like burnt sugar and metal, and I… I feel like–”

He lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes as he cuts himself off. “I can't control my strength. I've broken so much shit around the apartment. Don't wanna touch you. Don't wanna break you.”

“You won't hurt me.” You take the opportunity to get closer, but he must smell the closing distance because his eyes fly open. You're in front of him before he can move. “Do you know why?”

Chan's breaths are ragged and labored. “Why?”

“Because you're still my Chan. Still the guy who's been taking care of me since elementary school. Still the person I trust most in the world."

His breath hitches. "How can you say that? How can you just... accept this?"

You can't help the small laugh that escapes. "Chan, I'm literally at the same genetic clinic getting tested for a collagen disorder. Did you think I wouldn't understand what it's like to have your body change in ways you can't control?"

That seems to catch him off guard. He turns away, a frown tugging at his lips. "That's... that's different.”

“Is it though?” You pretend to be thoughtful. “Last I checked, it's like both of our bodies are changing in ways we don't understand. Like we both have to navigate a new normal.”

"That's exactly why I–" he cuts himself off, running both hands through his hair. "I can't risk hurting you. Not when you're already..."

"Already what?" You challenge, taking one final step. You're close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly. "Already broken?”

His face twists up like you've punched him in the stomach. “No! God, no. When you're already going through so much.”

“A lot of what I'm going through is a waiting game, Chan– waiting for test results, waiting for appointments at specialists. You don't have to keep things from me because of that.”

You poke him in his side, trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, this? Finding out you're a werewolf–”

“The correct term is Lycanthropy Syndrome–”

“-- This is the kind of stuff that keeps me grounded. Having other things to think about. Having you around.”

You watch the tension slowly bleed from his shoulders, almost as though he's deflating. There's obviously more he isn't telling you– you can see it in the way his eyes still can't seem to meet yours– but you don't push it. He's already said so much.

“So,” you start. You rock back and forth on your feet. “Can I make werewolf puns now?”

He rolls his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Are you pawsitive?”

He groans at that, a smile pulling at his lips despite himself. “You're the worst. I'm gonna leave you here and go home.”

But he's laughing anyway, his usual giggle that makes everything seem like it'll be alright. You beam at him. and your body lights aflame when he smiles back down at you softly. The two of you hold eye contact for a second, and you watch something untraceable flash in his eyes. Before you can even process it, he's looking away again and clearing his throat.

Another silence falls between you, but this one is different. Chan is fidgeting again, his fingers drumming against his thigh in that restless way you've noticed all evening. He's looking everywhere but at you, and you can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"What is it?" you ask softly.

He opens his mouth once. Twice. Three times– words seem to be failing him again. You raise an eyebrow and he sighs, a sheepish smile on his big stupidly handsome face.

"Can we..." he starts, then stops. Starts again. "Would it be okay if we... like we used to..."

You wait patiently as he struggles with the words. His ears are turning red again.

"Can we share my bed?" he finally gets out in a rush. "Like– like when we were kids? Just for tonight. I just... I haven't been sleeping well since everything started and I… um…”

Your brain short circuits as the request processes.

Share… a bed. With Chan. Taller, wider, more muscular Chan. Chan whose body heat seeps through every layer of clothing. Chan whose one hand can cover your knee easily.

From the way your body reacts, your knee jerk reaction is to say no. He's already going through enough, and Lord knows what types of degenerate scent you'd be giving off if you spent an entire night with him.

But when you open your mouth to decline, you notice how he's standing, with his shoulders curved inward, trying to make himself smaller. His big brown eyes are pleading, almost desperate, and you think about how scared he was earlier, how convinced he was that you'd reject him once you knew the truth.

Fuck it.

“Of course, Channie.”

The smile on his face is nervous, like he expects you to change your mind any second. “Yeah?”

You nod, ignoring the way your brain tries to supply you with images of everything you want to have happen. "Yeah. Just... let me get changed first?"

He nods quickly, that restless energy back but different now – excited rather than anxious. "Yeah! Yes. Your stuff is in your room, yeah? I'll be in mine when you're ready."

He's bounding up the stairs before you can say anything. You take the moment alone to take a deep breath. You can do this. It's just Chan. Just your best friend.

When you reach your room, you duck into the attached bathroom to change quickly, opting for the full top and bottom PJ set rather than the oversized hoodie you were originally going to wear. You stare at your reflection, willing yourself to calm down and look normal.

Sharing a bed with Chan is not a new concept. When you'd first gotten close in grade school, the two of you tended to hop from house to house, sleeping wherever without a care in the world. The habit continued as you grew up– in college during study sessions, during movie marathons on school breaks, that one time a few months ago when you'd gotten terribly drunk at your friend Jeongin's birthday party. It had never been anything more than two friends seeking each other's comfort.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror again, face flushed and breathing ragged. You force yourself to calm down– if Chan could smell when you were in pain, he could probably smell the indecency coming off of you in waves.

Everything is fine.

When you reach the doorway of the master bedroom, Chan is already in bed scrolling on his phone. You watch his nostrils flare for a second, eyes fluttering shut as he puts his phone on the night stand.

The king sized bed looks both too big and too small.

When he opens his eyes, he looks surprised to see you. and you watch red start to tint his neck. “Um. Hey,” he breathes.

You hover in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between you. "Hey."

Chan shifts, pulling back the covers on what has always been 'your' side of the bed “Um. Do you want... I mean, we usually..." He trails off, looking everywhere but directly at you.

You take the initiative and move towards the bed, sliding down under the covers until they reach just under your chin. Chan shuffles next to you, scooting this way and that, flipping like a hot dog on a stick. You both settle on your back eventually, staring up at the ceiling.

“This is weird,” he says after a few minutes of strained silence.

“Not weird,” you supply. “Just… different.”

“Different…,” he murmurs. “Different because I'm different?”

You almost laugh. “Chan, what? No–”

He's sliding out from under the covers before you can finish. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have– this was dumb to ask.” You ignore the way your heart drops. “I'll go sleep in the other room. Or on the couch. Or–”

You grab at his wrist before he can go anywhere. He doesn't jerk away this time, but his entire body goes rigid. You rub your thumb along the pulse point on his wrist.

“You don't have to leave,” you say slowly. “It’s not weird because you're different. It's weird because we're both over thinking it.”

He lets out a little breath. “We are, aren't we?”

"Yeah." You squeeze his wrist once before letting go. He settles back down into the bed, still looking a bit uncomfortable, but not ready to run anymore.

You smile at him before holding open the cocoon you made in the blanket. "Come here, you big baby."

"I resent that," he grumbles, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.

It takes some maneuvering to find a comfortable position. Chan is hesitant at first, careful not to crowd you, but eventually you manage to guide him until his head is tucked under your chin, his arm draped carefully over your middle. His body curls around yours despite the size difference, like he's trying to make himself smaller again. When he finally settles, it feels like every part of him is contoured to fit you perfectly.

You ignore the heat in your stomach.

The silence that settles around you is comfortable now, broken only by your breathing beginning to sync up. His body weight is grounding, and the heat he's radiating feels like the world's best heating pad.

You're just beginning to doze off when Chan makes a low, displeased grunt in the back of his throat. You can feel his eyebrows scrunch together where he's pressed against your collarbone.

“Your hip,” he murmurs.

“Hm?”

He shifts in your hold, maneuvering you until his other hand can slide under your body to wrap around you. “Your hip hurts. Or it's about to start.”

Sleepiness has made you a pliant, barely conscious little thing. You're about to ask how he can tell when his big, warm hand presses against your hip, heat radiating through the fabric until it settles deep into your bones. You can't help but let out a little whimper from the immediate relief it gives you.

Chan makes another sound in his throat, grip increasing on you almost infinitesimally.

“This good, babygirl?”

“Mmf.”

The warmth and relaxation is muddling your brain. “S'good, Channie.”

He makes a more pleased sound and nuzzles closer. Sleep takes you quickly after that, and all you can think about as you finally succumb is how lucky you are to have him here with you. You'd love to say as much, but you're too tired to open your mouth, so you give him the tiniest of squeezes, hoping he understands.

From the way his arm tightens around you, you think he does.

Things seem less charged in the morning.

You wake up to sunlight glittering through the curtains and the other side of the bed empty. The sheets are still warm, but given what you've come to learn about Chan and his temperature, he could've left the bed anywhere from three seconds to four hours ago.

You stretch a little bit as you try to wake up fully, heading to the other bedroom to freshen up for the day. It seems like an okay day pain-wise. You're at a steady three out of ten everywhere except your hands, but you brush it off. With the way you sleep, your hands take longer to catch up to the lower pain levels in the rest of your body. It's just a matter of time.

Still, you run them under warm water in the bathroom, hoping to loosen them up.

When you finally emerge, you follow the mouthwatering scent of cooking down the stairs and into the kitchen. After a nonexistent dinner, you're starved, and you could really go for some food right now.

You pause in the archway of the kitchen.

Food is… an understatement.

Chan stands at the stove, spatula in hand and preparing to flip what looks like an omelette. All around him on the counters are various other breakfast foods: scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, hashbrowns, fruit–

“When did you have time to make a sourdough starter?”

He startles slightly, turning to face you with a sheepish smile. “Ah… good morning, babygirl. I may have.. gone a bit overboard.”

“A bit?” You slide into a seat at the edge of the kitchen island in the one spot where there's no food. “If you were planning to invite the woodland creatures you could've given me a heads up, I'd be decent.”

The responding huff makes you smile. “I cannot communicate with animals. Weirdo.” Chan grins. He folds the omelette in half and flips it over. “I just… I got hungry.”

You sneak a piece of bacon off of a nearby plate and snort. “‘Hungry’ seems like a gross understatement. Is this a side effect?”

Chan's ears turn pink as he plates the omelette. "Yeah, actually. My metabolism is... different now. Food tastes different too– more intense." He starts moving dishes to the kitchen island, careful not to overcrowd your space. "Everything is more intense, really."

"Like what?"

He hums thoughtfully as he settles into the chair next to you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him. "Smells are the biggest thing. Like, I can smell everything. The coffee brewing, the bacon grease in the air, the rain that's coming later–"

"It's going to rain?"

"Yeah, probably this afternoon." He passes you a fork and a plate you never noticed him constructing. "I can smell it in the air. What’s the word? Petrichor, but... before the rain actually falls? If that makes sense.”

You hum around a fork full of eggs, cracking the fingers on your free hand. “That sounds like it can get miserable. Is everything just… enhanced all the time?”

He takes a bite out of a chunk of toast, making a so-so motion with his hand. “It's enhanced all the time, but the way it is right now, the intensity, that’s only sometimes. Only during–”

He cuts himself off, swallowing his bite of toast with more power than necessary.

“During the full moon?” You supply.

He nods quickly. “Yeah.”

There's a lull in the conversation that you try not to read into. It doesn't take much effort anyway, because you notice that eating is taking more effort than it was a few minutes ago. Your grip on the fork is weird, and you can't seem to close your fingers all the way around it.

That's fine, you think to yourself. You switch hands. Everything is fine.

You try not to let the revelation sour your mood. Chan mentioned it was going to rain, and while your doctors didn't know why you were in pain, they knew what kinds of things made it worse, and the air pressure changes from rain was one of them. This was just something you had to learn to deal with now.

Resentment for your condition rises in your chest with the little bit you've eaten, and you take a sip of apple juice to swallow it down. It's not fair. People your age were doing things like mountain climbing, running marathons, just living. And here you were, struggling to feed yourself and hold a fork.

It's fine.

A hand on your shoulder pierces through the dense clouds shrouding your mind, and you feel yourself startle a little. Chan is facing you, leaning his impossibly tall torso down to look you right in your eyes. His gaze is intense, gold flecks in his eyes swimming around as he stares.

“What hurts,” he breathes. The sound of his voice is light as a feather, floating through the air before coming to rest gently on your lips.

“My hands.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

You think about saying your number, but upon remembering how nice and easy conversation was this morning, you decide to lie. “Four.”

The look in Chan’s eyes grows more intense, and you swallow around nothing. He levels you with a very unimpressed look, eyebrows creasing and his plushy, pink lips frowning. He only says two words, but they send a ripple through your body anyway:

“Try again.”

Fuck. You're giving yourself whiplash. Jumping from frustration to stark arousal was an Olympics level move your brain wasn't prepared for. There's a different kind of haze clouding your mind now.

“It's a seven,” you breathe.

He's up on his feet before you can fully compose yourself, long legs taking him up the stairs and bringing him back down in a matter of seconds. When he sits down again, he's holding your decorative medication pouch and a mini water bottle from your backpack.

You gulp at the way the veins in his arm bulge.

“Which bottle is it?”

You come back to yourself, licking your incredibly dry lips before you respond. It takes a blink or two before you can orient yourself in the present. “Um, red bottle. The tall one.”

He places the bottle and water in front of you in a gentle way that contrasts the energy in the room. You fumble with the child proofing for a second before he plucks the bottle from you, undoing the lid with one hand.

Wow. Fuck.

"Thanks," you mumble, accepting the pills he tips into your palm. His hand moves from your shoulder to the back of your neck as you swallow them, and you try not to shiver at the contact.

“Do you need a nap while the pills work?”

You pout, finally coming back to your good senses. “We're supposed to have a movie marathon today.”

“I didn't realize the TV had a flight to catch?”

You glare at him, albeit thankful for the teasing sarcasm to loosen the tension. “You're not funny.”

Chan's lips pull into a smirk and he gives a little shrug. “I think I am.”

You roll your eyes at him as he stands, coming over to you and easing you out of your seat. He gives a little ‘tsk’ at your faux attitude, but his hands are back on your shoulders, guiding you towards the couch. When you finally do lay down, he's already throwing his signature couch blanket over you, tucking it around you securely.

“Comfy?”

You are, but you've also realized he's tricked you into a nap, so you do the adult thing and mock him before sticking your tongue out at him.

“Wow,” he murmurs. He slides down the couch and onto the floor. “I haven't seen that routine since 4th grade.”

You watch as he adjusts his legs a few times, his head resting against the armrest right by your fingers. It’s unspoken, but you know that he'll stay until he's sure you're asleep.

"You don't have to sit on the floor," you murmur. "There's plenty of room up here."

He shakes his head. "Nah. I'm good here.”

You watch his side profile for a minute, basking in all of his Chan-ness. He settles in a bit more and lets his eyes flutter closed. When he does, he leans his head back a little more, and you watch the delicate bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows.

“Chan?” Your mouth is moving before you know it.

“Hm?”

“Were you scared? When you… got the diagnosis?”

His eyes open at that, and he turns his head so he can look at you. The intensity from earlier is gone, replaced by that familiar warmth that only he has.

There's a beat of silence where all Chan does is stare, almost as if seeing you for the first time. It passes, though, and then he goes back to his previous position, eyes closed again as he speaks. “No,” he says finally. “I wasn't scared. The only thing I thought about was you.”

“Me?”

He nods against the couch. “They kept talking about what it meant and all of that, and all I could think about was how on earth I was going to tell you.”

You reach a hand over and start rubbing at his scalp in the familiar way you've always done. “And yet,” you tease gently. “I had to accidentally find the papers.”

He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, leaning into your hand. “That wasn't the plan,” he murmurs. “Was supposed to tell you properly.”

You stay quiet, continuing to play with his hair. The quiet domesticity is comforting, and you find your eyes fluttering closed too.

You move your fingers through his hair in nonsensical patterns and shapes, occasionally letting your nails graze his scalp. His breathing evens out eventually--he's not sleeping, no, just content and peaceful. You're a different story, though, and medication induced drowsiness starts flowing its way through your body.

Your movements grow slower and uncoordinated, hand drifting lower, and lower, until eventually your fingers trail to the nape of his neck. When you drag your nails across the sensitive skin there, Chan makes a sound that shoots straight through you and straight to your core– something between a pleased hum and a growl that vibrates through his entire body.

Both of you freeze. Your heart starts doing gymnastics in your chest while the sound echoes in your ears, making your body grow hot. Beneath you, Chan is rigid, like every muscle has been pulled taut.

The room is entirely still for a second. Then, he clears his throat a little, shifting himself so you have better access. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Keep going. Feels nice.”

You force your fingers to move again, continuing their exploration and tracing the curls on Chan's head.

You repeat your mantra in your mind:

Everything is fine.

The moment passes like a summer storm– intense and fleeting– and soon Chan is relaxed again, practically melting under your touch. You're actively fighting sleep now but you're realizing it's a losing battle. Your movements become slower, less deliberate, until your hand is simply resting in his hair.

"Sleep, babygirl," he murmurs, voice thick and honeyed. "I got you.”

So you do.

When you wake up a bit later, you find yourself, sadly, alone.

In place of Chan's thick curls is the cold rectangular slab that is your cell phone. You squint at it sleepily, not remembering bringing it down with you for breakfast or having it on the couch. You flick through the unlock process, and when your phone opens, it's on the notes app.

Hi babygirl. If you're reading this, I went to the store. We don't have any vegetables. I'll try to be quick. - Channie

You wipe sleep from your eyes as you sit up, trying to orient yourself in your surroundings. You hear the steady whooshing of the rain outside and carefully flex all of your joints. You're content to find that you're at a steady three out of ten everywhere.

You settle back into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket around you tighter. It's not scary to be by yourself, especially not in the cabin, but Chan's presence is definitely missed. You decide to fill the silence with television, something low stakes and stupid that you can listen to while you scroll on your phone.

However, the microscopic roku remote has decided to go missing, and after digging through the couch cushions twice, you sit back with a huff. You suppose your phone will do for now.

You open YouTube with the intent to watch one of your favorite Let's Play videos, but as you scroll through your homepage, something catches your eye. The title makes you pause:

Q&A: Genetic Lycanthropy Syndrome (aka The Werewolf Gene)

The algorithm strikes again, you suppose.

The video was posted a little over a month ago and has a substantial amount of views and comments. The creator themselves has well over 100k subscribers. It looks perfectly legit. Before you can overcomplicate it and talk yourself out of it, you press play.

“Hi everyone!” The guy on the video has a soft, smiling face, accented by round, thin-rimmed glasses. “Welcome or welcome back to my channel. If you're new here, I'm Seungmin, and I have GLS, which stands for Genetic Lycanthropy Syndrome. Or, to put it simply, I have the werewolf gene.”

You are immediately invested.

“I set up a question box on Instagram a couple days ago, and you guys really went to town.” Seungmin chuckles. “So I'll answer a few of those in this video.”

The first few questions are simple enough– what made him suspect he had it, the diagnostic process, how his family reacted. He answers every question thoughtfully and thoroughly in a way that makes you learn more than you thought you needed to.

You're writing down the fact that people with GLS tend to need more red meat than dark meat in their diet when he starts reading out the next question.

“@jutdae asks, ‘how does the enhanced sense thing not drive you crazy?’” Seungmin lets out a little laugh. “So, the sense thing is kind of tricky for non-GLS people to understand. On a regular day, it might be enhanced, but maybe only 50% better than most people. The real issue is when rut or heat cycles start.”

You drop your phone, cursing when it slips right into the couch cushions.

“During a rut–” Seungmin's muffled voice continues as you fish around for your phone. “-- it's probably around 150% better. And our body temperature will skyrocket, like a constant fever type. The extra sensory input can cause a lot of restless energy too, so we're always feeling like we want to crawl out of our skin. Thankfully ruts, or heats for AFAB people, only happen once every three months, for about a week.”

You finally find your phone, heart pounding as you fumble to hold it still. The boy on your screen adjusts his glasses before continuing, entirely unaware how he's just flipped your life on its head.

“Well, that's for people who've presented for a while. When you first present with symptoms, you can get your rut every month. And that's… an entirely different type of intense. I surely don't miss that.”

Your brain might be oozing out of your ears.

You don't need to Google what a rut cycle is. You already know. It's the one aspect of GLS everyone is familiar with.

You scan through the events of the last 36 hours with unfathomable speed. It's all there. Every single symptom mentioned in this video.

Extremely heightened senses. Restless energy. Fever-hot skin.

Chan.

Chan hasn't been able to sit still. Chan's skin is hot to the touch. Chan keeps telling you when your pain is about to start because he can smell it. Chan brought you to an isolated cabin in the mountains.

Chan is in rut. Chan's diagnosis was only finalized less than a week ago. Ergo, this is his first rut.

The sound of a car door slamming makes you jump so hard that your phone flies away from the couch and skitters onto the floor.

Shit.

You scramble to grab it, swiping out of the video before Seungmin finishes answering what you're certain are other life changing questions. You can't hear anything he's saying, laser focused on the sound of Chan's impending footsteps and the sound of rustling grocery bags.

“Babygirl,” Chan's voice vibrates from the entryway. “I'm back. You awake?”

“Yeah,” you call, forcing yourself to sound steady. You clear your throat. “Yes, I'm up.”

You hear him put the bags down and toe off his sneakers, socked feet padding into the room where you are, undoubtedly, staring like a ghost came through the door and robbed you of your possessions. You fight to fix your expression into something normal, but all of that goes out the window when he steps into the threshold.

He's soaked. The rain has soaked through his shirt, making it cling to his chest and highlight every cut of his muscle. His curls are wild, some of them plastered to his forehead while others seem to be competing for the best pose. There's water dripping down his neck an–

You find a spot on the wall to look at instead.

“Sorry I took so long.” He brushes his hair off of his face. “The store closest was closed, had to run way into town.”

“It's fine,” you squeak. He looks at you, eyebrows furred. “I was fine, just watched some YouTube. I wasn't up for long.”

He tilts his head, studying you with his nearly impossibly dark eyes. His lips push up, almost like he's pouting, but you watch as confusion takes over his gaze. He squints, and you burrow yourself further into the couch. If his smell is heightened, then he probably–

“You okay?”

You nod too enthusiastically. “Yes, of course. Why?”

He opens his mouth to say something, moves his body as though he'll take a step towards you, but he stops. You hold eye contact for a second, feeling small and exposed among his gaze. But then he nods almost imperceptibly, turning to grab his wet sweater from the entrance.

“I'm gonna get changed and make us some lunch. Sandwiches?”

You nod.

“Good. Find us something to watch, yeah?”

As soon as he's gone up the stairs, you collapse back onto the couch, pressing your hands against your burning cheeks.

Okay. Okay.

You're probably– definitely – making this weird. Maybe you've read too many werewolf romance novels. Chan is going through something a lot more tangible than turning into a wolf and scampering off into the moonlight, and here you are, being a degenerate as usual. He brought you here because you're his best friend. Because he needs support.

The rut thing… is just a coincidence. Or maybe not even a big deal, or something he wants you to worry about. Yes. That's it.

Distantly, you hear the shower turn on, and everything from your neck to the crown of your head lights aflame.

The remote chooses that moment to reappear, launching itself from the couch blanket and onto the floor. You snatch it up quickly, flicking on the TV and navigating to Netflix. You need something light. Something stupid. Something to fizzle out the charged energy in the atmosphere.

He'll handle himself… however that may be. You repeat this to yourself as you scroll through the comedy section, eyes blurring at the words in front of you. It's none of your business, anyway. You have one job right now, and that's finding something to watch.

You settle on a cooking show when you hear him coming down the stairs again. You focus on the TV, your mantra echoing around your skull as though you have no brain.

Everything is fine. You're fine. He's fine.

“Worst Cooks in America?”

You nearly jump out of your skin. He's standing behind the couch, now wearing dry clothes– a zip up sweatshirt and loose sweats. You notice, entirely by accident, that there's no shirt under the sweater. Just plain, exposed skin.

Great.

You hum out a noncommittal answer, just as he turns and heads to the kitchen, mentioning as he goes that he's using roast beef. You listen to the sound of the fridge opening and the hum of the toaster as he plugs it in, no doubt solely to put your bread to toast, the same way you've eaten a sandwich since you were eight years old.

You can do this. You can act normal. You're an adult, and you have been for a few years. Things don’t have to be weird just because you now know that your best friend is a delicate, walking bundle of hormones. Chan clearly trusts you enough to have you here, and you're not going to mess that up by being a disaster about it.

You hear him humming in the kitchen, puttering about through the cabinets, the clink of plates on the counter. It's so normal, so Chan, that it almost makes you forget about everything else.

You shake your head, hoping to physically dislodge the memories of the noise he made when you were scratching his neck– the deep, rumbling groan that ran through your sleep-riddled body until stopping to wake you up where you're most sensitive. It was just a noise, you make noises all the time.

When he appears in the doorway with the two plates, all smiles and soft around the edges, you take a deep breath before returning the smile.

You can do this. You can sit down next to Chan and watch the show and be normal. Everything is fine.

Probably.

… Maybe.

Everything is not fine.

The realization comes later in the night when the darkness from the storm bleeds into the darkness of late evening. It's nearing 10pm, and you and Chan are still seated on the couch together, now on opposing sides, still watching the same cooking show.

Or pretending to.

Chan seemed to be getting worse as the evening progressed. When he first came in from outside, he seemed calmer, less tense, but now he was sitting rigid, wound up like a toy no one would release. He was sweating an almost ridiculous amount, and the zip from his hoodie was pulled down to the middle of his stomach, exposing all the skin underneath.

His breaths were coming in short pants now. He had a steady grip on the fabric of his sweats, and you were almost certain that he'd tear a hole in them with the way he was grabbing them.

You weren't sure what to do.

You had tried nudging him with your foot gently a while ago, but when your skin made contact, he made another low sound in his throat that shot right up your leg and into your core. You pulled your foot away quickly, apologizing, making sure to press your knees together so the scent of arousal wouldn't reach him.

And that was before he had started panting like… well, a dog. Now you weren't sure you'd be able to reach him through the fog of his own mind even if you screamed right in his face.

You're about to try saying something, anything as the episode that was playing ends, but he shoots up off the couch before you can think of words to say. He's pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes, visibly shaking with the effort of breathing normally.

“Chan,” you start.

He holds up a hand. “I'm– I'm okay,” he breathes.

He's not.

“The rain, I think,” he grits out. “Too loud. Too much. You're okay, though?”

Of course Chan would find the time to check on you while going through his own crisis. You sit up a little on the couch, staring at him even though he has his eyes covered. The words are coming out of your mouth before you can even think about what you're saying: “Do I smell okay?”

He grunts. You suddenly understand why cavepeople had so many kids.

“Smell fine,” he breathes. He slides his hands down his face, fixing his gaze away from you. “You do, I mean. You smell good.”

It dawns on you then that maybe the newly awakened wolf-like part of his consciousness is reacting to your smell because you're a girl, and he's in a rut. Maybe you should leave the room, give him some space?

You're trying to find a way to ask if that's what he needs without giving away what you know, but he fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie again, wanting to tug it down some more. He stops, takes a deep breath, and then drops his hand.

“I think I need a second,” he says. His hands are twitching at his side. “Need my room. Need the quiet, yeah?”

You nod. That's fine. It's for the best anyway, right? “That's okay. You can come back when you're ready.”

He nods, still not looking at you. There's a moment where he seems to hesitate, but whatever internal war he's having ends quickly, and he basically runs up the stairs. Just before you hear his door close, you hear the sound of his hoodie zipping down all the way.

Heat floods your face as you turn back to the show.

After a while of still failing to really pay attention, you pull your phone out from under the blanket. Despite the pure, unfiltered desire thrumming through your veins, you still want to help Chan. It's bothering you how bothered he is, how helpless he seems. There has to be something you can do for him.

You type, How to help a werewolf in a rut into your search bar, and after realizing very quickly that that's actually the title of an erotica series, you change your search to something more medical sounding.

It takes trial and error, but GLS and Rut Cycles Help seems to give you the best results.

You find a forum on a website dedicated to rare genetic disorders. It’s the one link that seems to have real information, ironically nestled between a fanfiction website and Twitter.

You stop on a thread that catches your attention:

Non-GLS Roommate Here: Any way I can help with heats?

Not in that way, they write. But my roommate just presented with this disorder and she's absolutely miserable, and I feel so bad. I'm not trying to fuck her, but is there anything I can do to help?? Meds? Chocolate?? Leaving her alone??

There are only a handful of responses, mostly people lol-ing about how non-lycanthropes always think a heat cycle is like a period. One answer sticks out to you:

if it's her first heat, she's probably running a pretty high temp. make her some cold drinks to bring the temperature down and the hormones may follow. that used to work for me. ideally, try to convince her to take a cold shower, but her instincts might be telling her not to. it's a delicate game lol. don't press the shower thing if you don't want her to bite. like, literally. AFAB lycanthropes have a thing for biting idk

It makes sense now why Chan looked better when he came in from the rain. It was, essentially, the cold shower that he needed. You wonder briefly if you could convince him to go back out, but you decide against it. It's dark now, and you don't need him getting hurt.

So, instead, you peel yourself away from the couch and head into the kitchen. There's tons of juice cartons already in the fridge, but you bypass them, instead grabbing the bag of lemons and the carton of blueberries.

The first time you made lemonade for Chan, the two of you were in fifth grade. You wanted to save money for the new and extremely expensive ride-on jeep that you saw in the store, and the only thing you could think to do was sell lemonade. You forced Chan (who had no interest in the car but wanted to help anyway) to sit down and taste batch after batch of your lemonade.

After he threatened to tell your parents you were trying to poison him, you made one last batch of the lemonade, and on a whim, dumped some blueberry syrup into it. He grumbled as he took the cup, but he couldn't hide his satisfied smile.

“That's the one,” he grinned.

You never did save the money for the car, but you kept the lemonade recipe anyway. There was nothing your blueberry lemonade couldn't fix.

And you were prepared to add rut fevers to that list.

You dump a ton of ice in Chan's reusable water bottle before pouring the lemonade over it, putting the top on and swirling it around. You take a sip first, nodding in contentment when it nearly freezes the back of your throat.

With your phone in your back pocket and the lemonade in hand, you make your way up the stairs, pausing in front of Chan's bedroom door. A feeling of nervousness washes over you, but you beat it down with a stick. You're just delivering some lemonade. You'll be fine.

“Channie,” your voice is tentative as you knock. “You okay? I brought you a surprise.”

You listen carefully. You can't hear anything on the other side of the door. You don't wanna bang or yell, knowing his ears are probably sensitive already. You knock gently again, really straining your ears to hear.

He must be asleep, you think. You'll just leave the cup on the nightstand for him to find when he wakes up. You turn the doorknob and push open the door and–

Subsequently drop the cup on the floor.

Chan is not asleep.

Chan is very much awake.

He can't see you, no, because his eyes are closed and his head is tipped back against the headboard of his bed. His face and ears are red, and his lips are extra plump. You wonder why until he bites down on his bottom lip, hard.

You let your eyes trail down. He's touching himself.

Oh.

One of his hands is wrapped around his cock, pumping furiously like it's just not enough. The other hand is white knuckling the pillow you slept on last night, bringing it up to his face so he can no doubt inhale whatever leftover scent is on it.

He has no idea that you're in the room. The pillow is already carrying your scent, so there's no intrusion to his senses. You should look away. You should go, you should…

You can't look away.

His hips are thrusting upwards to meet his hand now, his entire body writhing on the bed like he's trying to find the perfect spot. With his sweater open, you can see the contraction of his ab muscles as he moves, all the hard contours of his body chasing his pleasure. You watch as he twists his wrist, thumb sliding across the slit of his cock and smearing precum down the shaft.

You hear him make a sound, almost like he's grunting, and then he's mumbling something under his breath. It's low, too low for you to really hear it, but when he speaks again, you definitely understand.

"Babygirl," he groans. He squeezes his cock at the base before stroking it again. "F-fuck, babygirl."

It's then that you squeak, slamming a hand over your mouth almost immediately. His eyes fly open and he shoots up, face panicked, but he doesn't stop moving his hand.

"I'm-- I'm sorry," you manage. "I came to-- I just-- Oh my God."

Chan's eyes are wild as he looks at you. His chest is heaving and his curls are sticking up all over the place. He looks pained and conflicted, likely warring within himself about whether he should stop or not. From the way his ears turn a deep shade of red, you can tell he thinks that he should.

He doesn't, though. He's still jacking himself off, faster and faster, even as he gives you a devastatingly desperate look.

"Fuck," he grunts. "I'm sorry. I can't-- you just smell so fucking good and I–” He pants, looking at you with eyes that can barely stay open. “I can't stop. Babygirl, make me stop."

Your brain is malfunctioning, but the part of it that can still process information has taken notice of what he's saying. You were right earlier. It's your smell. Your smell is driving him crazy because you're a fertile, childbearing aged female. It's not poorly contained last or a bad decision on his part.

It's biology. It's what that primal part of his brain needs.

Your body goes hot as you think of your next words.

"You..." you swallow around nothing. You're wearing socks, but the cold from the floor seems to seep into your feet. "You don't– um. Do you… need help?”

His pupils blow.

"I don't… I don't want to hurt you," he whines, chest heaving as his fist pumps faster. "You shouldn't."

"But I want to help," you breathe. You take a step closer to the bed, legs shaking from the sheer intensity of how fast your arousal hits. "What if I want to help?"

He stops then, staring at you with the same intensity he had last night. You feel stripped, exposed, but you don't feel unsafe.

You take another step closer.

"Chan," you whisper. You're at the foot of the bed now. "What if I want to?"

He makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat.

"I won't… touch you if you don't want me to." You take another step to the side of the bed, feeling somewhat bold under his gaze. "But I'll... I'll let you touch me, if you need. Whatever you want. Just... just tell me what to do."

You're only a couple steps away now. Chan is practically shaking with the effort it takes not to move, to wait for your permission. It's then that you realize he's waiting for you to make the first move, and all of the power shifts to you.

You're standing right next to him now, the two of you locked in an intensely heated gaze. He reaches for you silently with the hand not fisted around his cock, moving slowly like you'll dissolve if he's too eager. When you nod, his hand slides down the length of your arm, fingers interlacing.

Then–

"Please," he whispers. His voice cracks on the lone syllable. "Please, babygirl. I need you.”

He brings the hand he's holding over to his already throbbing cock, dragging your fingertips over the sensitive skin on his tip. His head rolls back again and his hips buck up. You try not to shiver.

"I just... I just need this," he breathes. "Please. I won't touch you, I'll be good."

Maybe it's the desperation in his voice. Maybe it's the way his eyes look so innocent, absolutely contrasting what he's begging you to do. Whatever it is, you let your tongue dart out to wet your lips, throat feeling incredibly dry as you stare down at him.

You wrap your fingers around his cock tentatively, not missing the way his body seems to come alive at your touch, and start moving up and down. He's already so hard, his entire shaft coated in his precum so you can slide up and down with ease. The sounds he's making are going straight to your core, and you can feel the way your underwear is sticking to you.

"Tight," he grunts. "Tighter, please."

You tighten your grip, speeding up a little bit. You feel him thrusting upwards to meet your hand, his hand squeezing yours like he needs the support to ground himself. You let your thumb brush over his tip, using his precum as lube to give him even more friction.

He cries out, back arching. "Yes," he chokes out. "Fuck, babygirl, do that again.”

You do, swiping your thumb across the slit and spreading more precum over him. It makes everything slicker and wetter, and the way you're able to move faster now has him moaning nonsensical little things.

His hips are bucking up harder now, and you watch as his abs tense and release, the hand not holding yours going up to tug on his hair. Your body feels like a loaded stick of dynamite, and you're so careful to keep your hips still, knowing how badly you want friction.

"M’close," he breathes. "Fuck, babygirl. You feel so good."

You pump faster, giving him the extra tightness and friction that he needs. You watch as the hand in his hair drops to his stomach, nails digging into his abs.

You wonder how long he was in here like this, pained and desperate. You try not to think about him moaning your name in the empty room, fucking up into his fist as he thinks about you, chasing your scent on his pillow.

Just because of the rut, your brain supplies. Because it would be absurd to think otherwise.

You glance up at his face. His eyes are screwed shut, lips parted as he pants and grunts and makes other sounds in the air. The look on his face is enough to make you clench around nothing. You've only been hot and bothered for the last 5 minutes and you already feel desperate to cum, so you can't imagine what he's going through.

You let your other hand reach up to cup his face.

"Chan," you murmur. "Look at me.”

He opens his eyes slowly, pupils completely blown as he meets your gaze. You see sweat sliding down the side of his face, and you wonder if it's from his fever or his pleasure.

"You're okay, babyboy," you whisper. His cock jumps in your hand at that. "You can cum, you know. You don't have to hold back."

"Wanna--wanna be good," he grunts. You feel him start to thrust faster. "Don't wanna hurt you."

"You're doing so good, Channie. You're not hurting me."

The two of you stare at each other for a moment before you drop your hand from his cheek and slide it down the column of his throat, letting your nails scratch across his skin. His reaction is immediate, body spasming as he groans.

"Shit," he cries. "Yes, right– right there, Oh my God."

"Yeah?" You scrape your nails across the base of his throat again, making sure to be a bit rougher this time.

He nods quickly, the grip on your hand tightening. You take your other hand off of him, drinking up the sound of his whine before you slide it underneath his hoodie, feeling his chest up. You scrape your nails over his pecs, making him jolt a little.

"C'mon, Channie," you coo. "You're okay. I want you to cum for me."

He lets out a strangled sound, hips bucking up into your fist even faster now. His head falls back again and you see the muscles in his neck strain.

"Please," he chokes out. "I need-- I need--"

You slide your hand from his chest back up to his neck, finding the spot from earlier that made him make that deliciously memorable noise. When you drag your nails across it, his hips stutter in their rhythm, and that's the only warning you have before his entire body is convulsing with pleasure.

"Oh, fuck," he grunts. "Babygirl, fuck–”

His cock pulses in your hand as he cums, releasing all over himself and your fingers. You stroke him through it, gently moving your hand up and down until he's spent.

Then, there's silence.

You're not sure what you expect. Maybe for him to turn over and go to sleep, or for him to act bashful and apologetic, letting you know it won't happen again.

You certainly aren't expecting for him to grip your hips and lift you up onto the bed. Or for him to gently push you down on your back. Or for the desperation in his face to be replaced with something harder, something more in control and dominating as he says, “Please let me eat your pussy, babygirl.”

You almost choke.

You feel like you should protest. Tell him he doesn't have to, that this is already more than you thought you would ever get. But then he's sliding his hands up under your shirt, and the only thing your mouth can form is a moan.

He's never seen you naked, always a respectable gentleman, but there's no hesitation or uncertainty in the way his hands move around your body. He's not tentative and gentle like you expected; he's touching and pinching and running his nails along your skin like he's done this before, like he knows all your spots. He reaches your chest, where you have no bra, and rubs his thumb across your already hardened nipple. Your back arches and your legs fall open for him with a groan, letting him slot himself in the now empty spot.

He pulls his hand away, moving up to your face and cupping your jaw so you can look at him. He's looking down at you with dark eyes.

"Please?”

He's asking, you know, but there's nothing gentle in the way he's looking at you. You nod as best as you can, and he brings his hand down from your jaw to your chin, fingers sliding over your lips. You feel him nudge his thumb against your bottom lip, and you take the hint.

You open your mouth for him, letting him slide his thumb inside and rub it across your tongue. He's looking down at you intensely as you swirl your tongue around his finger, and when you suck on it a little, he lets out a grunt.

"Fuck," he breathes. He pulls his thumb away, watching as a string of saliva connects it to your lips. "You're gonna let me make you feel good, yeah?”

You nod again, but he gives a little humorless chuckle, head tilting at you.

"Use your words babygirl."

"Yes." Your voice is quiet. "Yes, I want you to.”

He stares at you for another moment. You watch his eyes dart across your face, your body, before settling on your lips again. He leans down then, hovering just above you as he licks his own lips.

"Gonna kiss you now," he murmurs. "That okay?"

You fear you look stupid, the way you're just staring up at him, jaw slacked and eyes going in and out of focus. You nod anyway, trying to act normal.

Or as normal as you can, under the circumstances.

He doesn't waste any more time after that. He leans down the rest of the way, pressing his lips against yours. It's slow at first, a sweet little thing that makes you feel warm and safe. You sigh into it, eyes fluttering closed.

But then he licks a stripe across your bottom lip, and you let out a pathetic little whimper, lips falling open just enough for him to slot his tongue in your mouth. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. It's desperate, burning, hot and filthy. He's licking into your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lips. You try to press your thighs together again, but his strong, muscular slab of body is between them, forcing them open.

His hands slide down your sides and settle on your hips. Your shorts do nothing as a barrier, and you feel every modicum of heat in his hands. He slips those warm hands into the waistband of both your shorts and panties, sliding them down your body antagonizingly slowly.

He sits back on his knees then, pulling them both all the way off before tossing them to the side. Then he leans forward again, pressing wet kisses to the skin right below your belly button.

"Chan," you breathe.

"S'okay baby," he mumbles against your skin. You feel a new wave of wetness flow through you. How could your usual nickname be even hotter with half of it missing?

Then he's moving his mouth down, down, down, and you feel him pressing his nose to your slit.

"Oh god," you whine.

"I know," he murmurs. You feel his tongue press against your clit, and your entire body spasms. He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your legs and squeezing your thighs to hold them open. "I know babygirl.”

He licks you again, making you groan out loud. You can't help but bring one hand up to his curls, weaving your fingers through them and tugging on them like you've always wanted to. He responds by moaning, the vibrations shooting straight to your core.

You feel his tongue dip lower, spreading your wetness around. He dips it into your entrance, tongue fucking you at such a languid pace you feel like you'll fall apart. You hear him groan against your cunt again, and his hands tighten on your thighs.

"So wet, baby," he murmurs. "Taste so good.”

He presses his tongue to your clit again, and you pull on his hair harder. He grunts, and you feel him rutting up against the bed, his cock hard again, chasing some form of relief.

"Please baby," he mumbles against you. "Want you to cum for me. Please."

You know yourself, know what gets you going and what really makes you cum, so you want to tell him that it's going to take more than this, that you're not there yet, but you don't get a chance to before he's sliding a finger inside of you, curling it up and finding your spot with such accuracy your vision goes white.

You feel him suck on your clit then, swirling his tongue around it as he slides another finger inside of you. You tug on his hair again, not even realizing that you're grinding up against his face.

You feel yourself getting closer, chasing the release you've been desperate for since he pulled you onto the bed. His fingers curl inside of you again, pressing that spot and making you scream out his name.

"Yeah?" Chan groans against you, voice hoarse and desperate. "Like that? S'okay baby, let go."

"Chan," you choke. You're so, so close. "Chris. Chris.”

He moans at that, speeding up his fingers and moving his tongue even faster. He's rocking himself up against the mattress with more urgency now, panting and moaning with his mouth pressed to your cunt.

"C'mon babygirl," he mumbles. "Need you to cum. C'mon, please. Need it."

He presses his fingers into that spot again, and you're gone. You arch up off of the bed as you cum, his name ripping itself from your throat as he fucks you through it. You feel your cunt pulsing around his fingers as you ride out your orgasm. He keeps licking, his moans sending vibrations straight up your spine until you're over sensitive, tugging on his hair for him to back away. He does, but not before pressing wet kisses to the inside of your thigh.

He sits up then, his hair sticking up all over the place from where you've been pulling on it. He's sweaty and breathing hard, his lips swollen and red from where you were kissing him. You feel his eyes roam over your body, and you know that if you look down, you'll see how your skin is flushed from your ears down to your chest.

He's still sporting a semi, but his focus isn't on that anymore. He gathers you up in his hands, pulling you with him to the top of the bed and settling you with him on the pillows. He presses a kiss to your forehead, pulling you to rest your head on his chest.

"Sleep," he says into your hair. You notice how his body temperature has dropped-- he doesn't feel like an inferno anymore.

You're too tired to do anything but whine gently at the way he's holding you, too relaxed and spent to say anything. You feel sleep pulling at your eyes as he fixes your shirt over you carefully.

"Ah, shit," he murmurs. "Gotta clean you up. Then I'll come right back, yeah?”

You nod, trying to fight off sleep just a little longer. He presses a kiss to your hair before sliding out of the bed, going to the bathroom and coming back with a warm washcloth. You feel him wipe you down gently, and you mumble out something that might've been a thank you.

He takes the washcloth back to the bathroom, coming back to join you in bed. He pulls you back on top of him, settling the blankets over the two of you.

You're asleep before he can even kiss your forehead again.

When you wake up in the morning, you do your usual pause to see what does and doesn't hurt. You're mostly pain free, you realize sleepily, except for a dull ache in your hips and knees and a pleasant soreness in your–

Oh shit.

Everything slams back into you at once. The lemonade, Chan, him begging for you in more ways than one. It feels like you've been doused in cold water and tossed off of a bridge.

You go to sit up, but when you make an attempt to move, you feel an impossibly heavy weight around your midsection. Said weight snores a bit, and you realize that it's Chan's arm draped across you.

He's sleeping soundly next to you, hair still ruffled and unruly from where you were pulling it, lips still slightly swollen and red. The blankets are pulled up to his chin, hiding his body from view.

Your face burns as you try to really remember everything that happened last night, either to orient yourself through the brain fog or torture yourself. You're not entirely sure. Chan was... he was in rut, you knew that much. And you offered to help. Then he ate you out and gave you what was probably the most intense orgasm of your life, and then you fell asleep.

Typical stuff. Of course.

The memories are still there, but the reality of the situation has you panicking. His eyes are still closed, so you don't have to deal with the embarrassment of him catching you staring, but you're frozen anyway.

You're immediately hit with the overwhelming realization that you just made a mistake. There's no way you can possibly continue to keep your feelings for Chan a secret after this, no way that you can pretend you don't know what his amazingly deft fingers feel like inside of you. How would you ever be able to look him in the face again?

A vibrating sound pulls you from your spiral. For a second, you wonder if it's coming from Chan, but you recognize that, no matter what genetic issue he has, a person cannot vibrate.

The sound is actually coming from just off the side of the bed, where your shorts and panties lay discarded. You reach over and pluck your phone from the back pocket, turning it over to see an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.

You're about to send it to voicemail when your heart sinks like lead along with recognition in your chest. It's the genetic clinic.

You're untangling yourself from Chan's arms in record speed, shirking your shorts on and stepping into the hallway. He doesn't stir, thankfully, but you still close the door gently behind you anyway.

"Hello?" You breathe.

The nurse on the other side of the line greets you enthusiastically, and after confirming you are the intended recipient of the phone call, she asks you to hold while she transfers you to the doctor. You wait anxiously for a minute or two, pacing your way to the kitchen island and picking at the skin around your fingers while you listen to the generic hold music.

"Good morning," the doctor says as she comes on the line. She, too, sounds far too chipper. "I apologize for the wait, I was in the middle of rounds when your nurse flagged me down."

"That's okay," you say. Pleasantries feel superficial right now.

"Right, so. We did get some of your preliminary genetic results back," she says. You can hear pages being turned on the other side of the line. "I wanted to let you know that, unfortunately--"

The floor falls from under your feet.

"-- You did test positive for Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. Classical type."

You can't really hear anything else she's saying. Something about coming back in, maybe. About starting physical therapy. Taking care of yourself. You feel sick, like you might pass out. Or throw up.

You manage to push through the rest of the conversation, your voice sounding far away even to your own ears. She lets you know that she's sending follow-up information to your email, says that it's important to have support at such a time like this, and you make a very non committal grunt of acknowledgement before ending the phone call. Your phone chatters on the island, the sound echoing in the empty space.

You can't even form a concept of a thought before your chest feels tight, like there's a rubber band stretching across your ribs and pulling taut. You skin suddenly feels like there are a million and one tiny sets of feet thrumming underneath it. It's too hot. Your shirt is choking you. It's all suddenly too much at once: last night with Chan, the diagnosis, the way you're feeling an ache building in your back.

You need to move. You need to get out.

You're up the stairs before you can really process it, standing in front of your suitcase and rifling through it with speed. You find a pair of sweats and what you’re almost certain is Chan's old hoodie, but you toss them on quickly anyway.

The air is crisp when it hits your face a few moments later. It's exactly what you need. The path around the cabin is familiar– you've walked it countless times during family trips and weekend getaways. You know exactly where to step to avoid the mud, which trees mark the loop back to the house.

You walk until your legs burn, until the tears on your face dry in the cold air. Your mind races with everything and nothing at once.

Classical EDS. Your PCP was right about it being a connective tissue disorder. EDS explains the tummy aches, the racing heart, the migraines, and most obviously, the joint pain. There's no cure. Just management. Just a lifetime of being careful, of physical therapy, of putting in insane amounts of effort to make sure your joints don't fucking disintegrate.

You find this to be the most manageable of all the issues at the moment.

But Chan…

God, Chan. What were you thinking? He was in rut, vulnerable and needing comfort, and you just... what? Offered yourself up like some kind of heathen? Let him touch you in ways you've only dreamed about, knowing full well it would change everything?

This feels like the biggest issue to you, you realize when you pause on a tree stump. Because if you lose Chan, from something you initiated, you will lose everything else. He is the center of your universe, and everything revolves around him. You can't lose him, especially not over your own stupidity.

You think about going back. Talking to him. Maybe trying to convince him that you're fine, that he doesn't have to worry about you. That you don't like him like that, and you were just being a good friend and helping.

But then you remember his face when he came, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he moaned out your name. The way his fingers felt inside of you. How good he smelled.

You'll never be able to forget any of it now, you realize. And it will tear you apart if you lose him because of it.

You realize you've been walking much longer than intended when you catch a glimpse of the position of the sun. The morning chill has given way to a warmer temperature, though your face still feels numb from the wind. Your joints are definitely making themselves known now.

You suppose you may as well head back, even if you don't have any idea what you’re going to do when you have to face Chan. You can't stay out and freeze.

As you round the final bend that leads back to the cabin, you see him.

Chan is standing on the front porch, shirtless despite the cold, his hands visibly shaking at his sides. He's looking in the opposite direction, but you see when your scent hits him, because he whips around and his eyes lock onto you immediately. There's a look on his face that makes your chest ache– he looks terrified, like he's been coming apart at the seams.

You both freeze in your spots, an echo of that moment at the clinic. The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You notice then that his eyes are red, not the same red tint you now recognize from his rut, no. This is the red tint from that day he had to drive you to the hospital.

He's been crying.

“Where–” his voice is labored. “Babygirl. Where have you been?”

"I just..." you gesture vaguely at the path behind you. "I needed some air."

He takes a step forward, then seems to think better of it, stopping himself in his tracks. "You weren't... you were gone when I woke up. Your phone was on the counter, I couldn't... I didn't know where…”

He makes a pained noise in his chest, and then you see his entire face crumble. He pulls one of his arms up to his face, covering his eyes as you hear him start to cry.

Your heart breaks in two.

You rush to him as quickly as your protesting legs will allow, taking the stairs two at a time until you're in front of him. You reach up to gently pull his arm down, but he jerks away, a wounded noise escaping from his mouth.

"No," he cries. "You shouldn't– don't touch me. I'm sorry.”

“Chris,” you breathe, hoping to cut through his emotional fog. “Chris, please, look at me.”

“Tell me what I did.”

You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

“What did I do wrong?” His voice cracks around the words. “Last night, I couldn't… control myself. And you were so good to me and then– you were gone.”

"Chan, no." You reach for him again, and this time he lets you pull his arm down. His face is streaked with tears, those big brown eyes red and swollen. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He shakes his head violently, words tumbling out around hiccups. "Then why did you leave? Why didn't you wake me up? I woke up and you were gone and I couldn't– your scent was gone and I couldn't–"

A sob cuts him off. You grab his hand and tug him towards the door. "Let's go inside. Please? It's freezing out here.”

He lets you tug him inside, at least just until you can close the door. You try to bring him over to the couch, but he's stubborn, keeping his feet planted where they are. He won't look at you, keeping his gaze downcast no matter how much you tug on his arm. You let go after a tense moment, sighing and wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Chan. The clinic called,” you say softly. “Thats why I left. My results came back.”

His head snaps up at that, understanding settling over his face. “You… did you test positive for–”

“Classical Ehlers Danlos,” you supply.

He looks like he'll cry all over again, reaching his hand out to you before pulling it back to his side. He squeezes his hands in and out of fists a few times before he shakes his head, tilting his head back until he's staring up at the ceiling.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. “Last night… I shouldn't have–”

“Stop, please,” you cut him off, voice hoarse in the quiet. You've run out of energy. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“No, I did everything wrong. I thought I could handle it, thought it wouldn't be too much. Everyone told me it was a bad idea but I didn't want to listen, thought I could control myself.”

You feel bile rising in your throat. “What?”

He shakes his head again. “I shouldn't have said yes.”

He murmurs it, but the cabin is dead silent, so there's no way you don't hear it. There's no way you can misinterpret what he means either. Last night. He shouldn't have said yes when you asked if he needed help.

You take a step back, and you watch his face crumble a bit more. “Right.” Your voice sounds hollow. “It's fine. It was a mistake anyway."

"A mistake?" Now he looks confused through his tears. "No, that's not–"

"It's okay, Chan." You force a smile that feels like it might crack your face in half. You need to end this conversation now so you can go cry in your bed. "We can just forget it happened. You were in rut, I was... available. It's fine."

"Available." He deadpans. His gaze loses some of the previous softness. "Is that what you think? That I just... used you because you were there?”

You find yourself backing away towards the stairs, already mentally checked out. “Isn't it? You said it yourself last night, it was just my scent.”

His face flashes through so many emotions, you're not sure how you would begin parsing through them. He settles on something that looks like a mix of thinly veiled disgust and anger. He fixes his posture until he's back up to his full height now, brown eyes ablaze.

You decide to turn away from him fully at that moment. Whatever this is, this half argument you're having, it can wait until you've taken a good nap. You prepare to climb the stairs, keeping one hand on the railing and one foot on a stair.

That's about as far as you make it before you feel the unmistakable heat of Chan behind you. You stifle back the gasp that threatens to spill when he presses himself right up against your back, head dipped down so he's right by your ear.

“Ask me why,” he breathes.

You shiver at the feeling of his breath on your ear, and your entire body lights up in record time. You've forgotten how to speak, maybe.

So, you eloquently stutter out a simple, "What?"

He slides a hand around you, reaching from the base of your back all the way to your stomach, pulling you closer to him. “Babygirl. I said, ask me why.”

You swallow thickly. His voice is still hoarse and low from the crying, and it sends a shiver up your spine that rocks your body so hard, you think you would fall if not for the strong arm around you.

"Why," you breathe. The word has no conviction in it. You're getting dizzy.

He leans even closer to you, lips brushing the shell of your outer ear. "Because," he murmurs. "Yes, your scent smells so fucking good. So sweet and warm. But I don't want you because you smell good, baby. I want you because you smell like you're mine.”

You whimper involuntarily at that, and you feel him inhale sharply. His other hand reaches up to hold your chin, tilting your head up towards him. You're looking at each other now, his eyes blown wide and his pupils blown so black, there's barely any brown left.

"Do you understand me, babygirl?" He's breathing hard against you. "Even under the harsh scent of your pain, or the saccharine scent of when you're happy, something in you always smells like you belong to me. Do you know why?"

Your knees feel weak. Not from pain, but because of whatever is happening right now. You let out a pathetic mewl in Chan's hold and watch his nostrils flare.

"Because you are mine. My mate. You hear me, baby? Mine.”

Then he's tilting your head to the side and kissing down the column of your throat, nipping just hard enough to send electricity through your body. You whine, unable to stop the way your body arches into his touch.

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest, pulling away just long enough to look you in your eyes again. "Wasn't using you," he huffs, saying the word use like it leaves a nasty flavor in his mouth. "I needed you, needed your scent around me to make it better. I couldn't control myself, baby."

He spins you around so that you're facing him now, hands still wrapped around your waist. You think he's about to kiss you, but you see a wave of clarity and seriousness push everything else to the side.

“They asked me at the clinic,” he starts, shuffling with you in his arms until you're back in the living room with him. “If something happened to a family member, or if I had a girlfriend who was hurt.”

You're hanging on to every word, unable to look away from his eyes.

“I told them no to both, but I told them about the hospital, about how you called me crying cause you were in so much pain, and you just kept passing out on me. I told them about how scared I was that if I left the hospital, I would come back and you wouldn't be there. You'd be gone. It was ripping me apart.”

You reach up to touch his face without thinking, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He leans into the touch like he can't help himself.

“I presented because I wanted to protect you down to my very DNA. I was going so crazy about you that my body needed a way to protect me– protect you.”

“Chan,” you breathe.

“They said my inner wolf, that primal part of me, recognized it as my mate being in pain, and I was powerless to stop it. It's you, babygirl. It's always been you.”

The hopeless romantic in your heart is giddy.

You think about how you'd tried to touch him during the drive up, how he'd pulled his hands away like he was in pain. You supposed maybe he was. Going through his first rut, stuck in an enclosed space with his mate, unable to do anything about it.

You can't imagine the amount of restraint it probably took him to remain normal. The sheer thought of it alone has you blinking back up at him, looking right in his eyes.

With the eye contact, you feel his body swell microscopically, like he's flaxing every muscle so he can look bigger, more threatening, but he is neither of those things to you.

To you he is just Chan.

You're rising up on your toes before you even know what's happening, hand sliding up Chan's neck to pull him down towards you and catching his lips in a hot, burning kiss.

The hand around your waist tighten's its grip, slotting you even further against his body.

It feels like home. It feels like safety.

You feel his growing bulge press against you, and you hum into the kiss.

It feels like perfection.

"M'Sorry," he slurs against your mouth. He makes no effort to pull away. "Still in rut. Sensitive."

You say nothing, sliding your free hand down his chest, over his stomach until you reach what you're looking for. You rest your hand over it softly, not grabbing or pressing, but he responds like you do, grunting and rutting up against your hand as he starts panting.

"Babygirl," he groans. "Baby, please."

You start moving your hand in earnest now, cupping his bulge through his sweats as he grinds up against you. His eyes flutter closed and he pulls away from the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours.

"God, I wanna fuck you so bad," he grunts. "Wanna be inside. Wanna cum inside you so deep you'll never forget who you belong to. Make myself your alpha."

It's insane how your body reacts to that. You feel your clit jump in your underwear. The Alpha/Omega thing wasn't real-- or at least wasn't based on any science with the condition, but the way Chan speaks, the way his grunts sound so close to your ear, you believe it could be.

"You're gonna let me, right?" He whines. "Please? I'll make you feel so good. Been so good for me already baby. Just wanna make you cum on my cock."

Your moan gets caught in your throat when he slides a hand down your body to grip the swell of your ass. Between that and feeling him, rock solid against you, your entire body comes back to life with desperate, almost delirious need.

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, Channie, please. Want you. Please."

His chest vibrates with a growl and he wastes no time pushing you back until you're laying against the couch. He kneels over you, large hand reaching down and palming himself through his sweats.

He notices what you're wearing at that moment. He reaches his free hand down, gripping the material of your– his – hoodie. It's entirely too big for you, even when you're standing, but laying back like this, the material absolutely dwarfs you.

He must like the sight of it, because you watch him grip himself tight.

"Fuck, babygirl. You don't know what you do to me. Wearing my clothes? Are you even wearing anything under that?"

Feeling bold, you reach down and pull the hem of the sweater up, just enough so that he can see the expanse of skin right under it. When he looks back at your face, you give him an innocent expression, eyes wide and blinking.

He doesn't even bother taking anything off, just pulls his cock out of his sweats and starts stroking himself again. You feel your mouth go dry just from the sight of it– hard and flushed red, precum dripping from the tip. You grip the material of his sweater tighter.

“Gonna be good, baby?" he breathes. "Wanna get off like this."

You nod, unable to form a coherent sentence. He looks fucking delicious above you, cock in hand as he strokes himself faster now, moaning at the way you look underneath him.

"Gonna make myself cum on your stomach," he grunts. "Mark you. Then I'll fuck you until you're screaming, so everyone knows who you belong to.”

You feel your cunt throbbing in your underwear. You cant help the way you whine out his name, the way you squeeze your thighs together to try to get some relief. He looks like he's going to explode just from hearing you say his name like that.

He leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch by your head, effectively caging you in. You can feel how his muscles flex under your hands as you touch him, sliding your palms up and down his chest. You find your eyes locked onto his hand, watching the way he moves up and down.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he breathes. "Fucked my fist so many times wishing it was you.”

You wrap your arms around him, one hand going up to that special spot at the base of his neck. As you graze your nails against it, he turns his face, pressing his nose into the pulse point on your wrist, inhaling you and your smell.

He starts moaning louder, breath fanning across your arm as he gets closer and closer to the edge. You're so turned on from it, you feel like you might actually cum without a hand to your body.

"Babygirl," he grunts. "Baby, fuck. I'm close."

You pull him down to you, pressing his face right into your neck. You can feel how his eyelids flutter as his eyes roll back, the arm by your head straining with how tightly he's gripping the couch.

"Gonna let your alpha cum on your stomach, baby? Mark you?”

You nod quickly. You feel him lean in even more, brushing his lips against the soft part of your throat where he no doubt can feel your erratic pulse. You right into his ear, and then he's groaning out your name and nipping at your throat hard, all teeth and tongue and need as he spills all over you.

He makes sure to press his body flush against you while he rides out his orgasm, so that his cum splatters all over your stomach. He grinds up against you with his hips, making sure his cock slides along the fabric of his sweater. You watch him get lost in it, eyes screwed shut as he mouths at your throat, panting and moaning through his high.

Then he stills, just a bit. He pulls away from your neck, his pupils still completely blown as he looks down at you.

You're not sure what he sees when he does. You know sweat is starting to stick to your skin, plastering little bits of your hair to your face. Despite not being touched yet, you feel absolutely cock drunk if only on the sight of Chan alone.

You can't tell if that's what he sees, but whatever it is, it makes his still-hard cock jump against where it rests on your stomach. He's pushing himself up to sit on his knees before you even remember your own name.

He slides down the couch until his face is level with your hips. He pulls the waistband of your sweats down just enough for your cunt to be exposed, and then he's leaning forward, dragging his tongue along your slit.

"Fuck," you cry, body jolting. "Chan."

He doesn't respond verbally, just hums and pulls back enough to stare at your dripping cunt. You find your hips bucking up when he lets his mouth water just enough to drool right on you.

He dives back down to your cunt and pushes his tongue inside of you. You feel him moan against you as he licks you, slow and deliberate. You can hear how wet you are, and you feel yourself throb around his tongue when you hear it.

"I kept noticing your scent change," he says against your clit. He gives it a few kitten licks before diving down and flattening his tongue on you, licking and slurping you from end to end. "Sometimes, I would look at you, or touch you, and you smelled like citrus. Couldn't figure out why."

He takes those absurdly plump lips and suctions them around your clit, one strong arm coming to hold you down when you arch up off the bed. "Thats just your scent when you're aroused," he continues, nudging his nose against your clit. "Smells so fucking good."

You're certain you might be delirious at this point. The way Chan eats you out feels so much better than anything else you've ever felt, and his tongue has you hurdling to the crest of your orgasm faster than you can believe.

"Oh. Ohh," you whimper. "Channie, m'so close."

"That's my good girl," he murmurs. His lips are still right against your clit. "You're so perfect baby. Let me make you feel good. Want you to cum for me."

He slides his tongue back inside of you, and you feel a hand come up to play with your clit. You're so dangling off the edge, so ready to jump with the right push. You just need a little more, but then you feel a finger slide inside of you and crook up.

You're gone. You cum with a shout of Chan's name, arching up off of the couch as your body shakes from the intensity of it all. He licks you through it, pulling away only when you start to whine and wiggle around from the sensitivity.

He sits back on his knees again, watching you pant on the couch as you try to collect yourself. You look over at him when you catch your breath, and you see him licking his fingers clean.

He leans over you again, and you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down. You don't bother asking first, just slot his lips to yours in a desperate kiss. It's absolutely wet and filthy, the flavor of yourself bursting over your tongue when he swipes into your mouth. You suck on his tongue, hard, and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up under the sweater to touch your bare skin.

"Gonna fuck you good now," he grunts against your lips. You whine and press your body into his. "Okay, baby? Do you think you're ready for me?"

"Yes, Chris," you sigh. He pulls away from the kiss gently to stare at you. Despite the haze of his rut, you can see a hesitancy in his eyes, like there's something he wants but he's not saying. It takes all of two seconds for you to connect the dots.

"Please, Alpha?" you whine.

That seems to be the magic word, because he's lifting you up into his arms and standing up from the couch immediately. In a split second, you're pressed up against the wall next to the TV. You're very thankful for the layer between your bare skin and the freezing cold wall.

He wraps your legs around his waist, and suddenly you can feel the heat of his erection right on you. He presses his cock between your folds, holding you tight while he ruts up into you.

You're so wet that the head catches against your entrance every so often, making both of you moan into each others mouths.

"Thank you, baby," he murmurs, uncharacteristically soft at a moment like this. "'m so grateful. So--" He lets out a pant, eyes rolling back as he lets his head drop back too. "Fuck."

You know Chan well enough to know what he's trying to say. He's thanking you for accepting him, for coming back to him, for letting him be vulnerable.

How could you not? He was so distressed by your wellbeing that a distant part of his DNA woke up to protect you. He ignored his doctor's orders to take you on this trip because he knew you needed it. He was content to suffer through his first rut in silence if it meant just taking care of you.

How could you not love all that he is?

You learn forward and nip him right as his pulse point, and his whole body jerks. You know werewolf lore, know that a bite there means a forever. You don't have the same genetic syndrome, but God do you want to be in his arms forever. You don't even feel like you need to question it.

His eyes, heavily lidded, find their way to your face. "You know what that bite means, right baby?" His voice is hoarse, and even when he clears his throat at your responding nod, it doesn't get better. "You wanna mark me there, babygirl? Make me yours?”

You nod, sliding your mouth up his throat until your lips are pressed right against his ear. You slide your tongue over his lobe and tug on it. "Please alpha. Wanna show everyone who you belong to."

He snakes a hand up your back until he finds your hair, fingers tangling in the roots as he grips, pulling your head back. "I mark you first," he grits out. "Let alpha take care of you."

You can't help the way you go pliant, letting your head fall to one side just enough to expose your neck to him. You watch his eyes and make your expression as wanting as possible.

He groans at that, finally pulling you away from the wall just enough so that he can line himself up. He pushes his tip right into you, and you press your forehead against his, the mixed sounds of your breathing being the only thing filling the atmosphere.

"I love you," he sighs. Your heart squeezes in your chest. "Gonna take such good care of you always, yeah?"

"I love you more, Chan," is your breathy reply.

"I'll give you everything," he sighs. "Everything you want. I just need you to come on my cock first, yeah? The alpha's got you. I got you."

Then he's pushing in slowly, and you both sigh as he bottoms out. You cling to him, pressing your face into his neck as he fucks you slowly into the wall.

He keeps it slow, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your forehead and hair, telling you how good you feel, how perfect you are for him, how you were made just for him. You're already feeling the pressure building up in your stomach again, barely paying attention to what he's saying.

"Gonna breed this tight little pussy," he murmurs at some point. You do hear that, and you clench hard around him, making him groan.

"Oh fuck," he gasps. "You want my seed, huh? Want me to fuck my seed in you, angel?"

Your walls around him again, swallowing him up. You know you can't get pregnant-- birth control and all of that-- but the idea of him filling you up has your body begging for more. You dig your nails into the skin of his back and you feel him throb inside of you. He makes a sound between a grunt and a moan, slamming his hips into yours, cock sliding into you deeper than before.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, m'so close already. Think you can you cum with me angel? Hm?"

You nod, clinging to his shoulders as you bounce up and down on his cock. It feels so good, too good, and you're already so close yourself.

"Chris," you whine. "I'm– fuck, I'm close."

"I know, babygirl," He sounds so wrecked. "I'm right behind you. You can cum for me baby. Cum for your alpha. Want you to cum on me, please."

He presses a kiss to your neck, right over your pulse point, and that's all it takes to send you tumbling over the edge. You cry out his name, letting him fuck you through it while your cunt pulsates around him. You feel him twitch in you, a deep guttural moan leaving his lips as he slams into you one last time, spilling all his cum inside of you.

He bites you then.

Its not painful, not really, because he doesn't break skin. His teeth aren't sharp enough for that. The bite is more performative than anything, but it sends a shockwave through your body.

It's a strange feeling, almost like your blood is simmering under your skin, but you're so lost in the bliss of your orgasm that you don't even care. It feels right, anyhow. Like the final missing piece to a puzzle you've been spending a lifetime constructing.

He stays there for a second, sucking a bruise into your neck. His hands are shaking, but he's holding you tight enough that you don't even worry about falling.

Then, he licks the spot on your neck where he bit, soothing whatever pain he might've caused. He pulls away from you just enough to press a kiss to your lips, still holding you up with his cock in you.

"I love you," he whispers. "My mate. Mine."

You reach a hand up to touch his neck, and he tilts his head to the side, giving away to the instincts thrumming under his skin. You take your fingers and trace them along the column of his throat, stopping just under his Adam's apple.

You don't say anything at first, just lean forward and press your lips against the same spot. Your bite is more restrained, more gentle. He hisses out a strangled sound, and you would assume it was pain if you didn't feel his cock pulse in you.

When you pull away, you look at him, a small smile on both of your incredibly fucked out faces. You lean forward and press a little kiss to his lips.

"I love you too," is your quiet reply. "My mate."

As promised, he's so gentle with you afterwards, cleaning you up and giving you your medication when he scents your hips are about to ache. The entire ordeal is so familiar, so cozy, you wonder how you could've ever let yourself believe that Chan didn't love you too.

Hours later, when you're cuddled together on the couch, dozing off in his lap, you hear him whispering something against your hair. Your mind is so muddled with sleep you can barely make out the words he's saying.

You string together something about mates, something about how he'll protect you, how you're his everything, how he loves you so much.

It doesn't really matter though. You know already, because he's yours, and you're his.

His everything.

#skz chan #stray kids #hyprfics #skz chan x reader #skz fanfic #skz x reader #chan smut #skz chan smut #bang chan #bang chan x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fic

1K notes · View notes

loganlermanstanaccount · 2 years ago

Text

Show me where it hurts (part 1)

Miguel O'Hara x spiderwoman!reader

(AO3 Mirror), Part 2, Main Masterlist

summary: Miguel's acting weird, and you make it your mission to find out exactly what's going on.

warnings: no warnings for this chap, pg-13, swearing and canon level violence. smut next chapter xoxo

a/n: this is a combination of 2 asks and this post I saw on here a while ago: flirty/ snarky fem reader, Miguel during a ""rut"" (I don't know if it counts as a rut really, but its to do with his animal instincts/DNA) and Lyla playing matchmaker. I had so much fun writing this, enjoy :D

(i wrote this pre seeing spiderverse 2, so i think characterisation is a little off, esp for Lyla, apologies! I'll fix it in my upcoming fics)

edit: I use the term "bichita" which I have been informed can be read not as I intended in Spanish. I'm not a native speaker so I want to apologise in advance. I'm doing more research for my future fics and leaving this up as a testament to my stupidity. Spanish speakers, feel free to correct me / clown my ass in the comments. My bad guys :(

wc: 3.6k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You think Miguel is avoiding you.

One of your closest friends, giving you the runaround for months, it seems. Calling the two of you close friends is a little extreme, sure. You've only known O'Hara for two years, and been in love with him for slightly less than that, thank you very much. And yes, he refuses to call you by anything but your last name. And the last time you saw him he wouldn't so much as look at you, but that was besides the point.

"..the point," You tell Lyla, in between exasperated bites of cereal, "... is that aren't elite forces of spiderpeople supposed to, you know, have some spiderpeople kick ass once in a while? And where exactly is our fearless leader? I haven't seen O'Hara's scary ass in weeks, and I'm starting to miss it."

She gives you a look, one that says this isn't what I'm programmed for , but you pointedly ignore it.

"His ass, by the way." You clarify. "I very specifically miss his ass. Remind me to get his routine. I know girls that would kill for…"

"How the fuck did you get in here?" A voice croaks. You turn behind you and see Miguel, not in his suit, but wrapped up in a blanket like he's just woken up. And he looks rough, like a train ran him over on the way here: puffy eyes, splotchy skin, tension kneaded into his brow.

"Wow." Your spoon drops into the milk. "You look like shit.."

He furrows his brow even deeper, if that was possible. " Mierda. You shouldn't be here."

"This isn't quite the welcome party I was expecting, man. I'm the only one to actually turn up to one of your meetings, and this is what I get?"

"I thought I told Lyla to cancel," He mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Cancel? Since when do you miss a chance to talk about rules and protocol?"

"I don't have time for this-"

"-and I'm not leaving without a proper explanation. Is everything okay?"

"It's actually way worse now you're here." He deadpans.

"Haha ." You turn to Lyla. "You drop everything to travel halfway across the multiverse and this asshole won't even say thanks."

"Thanks, but this asshole needs you to leave. Now."

This is the most he's spoken to you in forever, and you hate that you like it. You just want his attention, however it comes. If that means dragging this out so maybe he acknowledges you, touches you, looks at you - then so be it. Squinting, you get closer to him. You scan his face for anything to latch onto. You put a hand on his shoulder, still searching.

"You sure you're alright? You know you can tell me if-"

"Si, si." He grits his teeth, looking away. "M'just fine. I'll explain…. later."

"...because I'm your right hand man?" You grin, poking at his brow. "Stop frowning so much Miguel, you're gonna ruin that pretty face of yours."

He flushes, nervous, and swats you away. "-what? N-No. You're not my right hand man and I like my face just the way it is. Now, leave. "

Making your way to the door, you tap your nose teasingly. "You know where to find me!"

When the door closes with a click, you make your way down the corridor, and stop in your tracks when you hear it. It's muffled, but with the strain of your supersenses you can make out Miguel's voice just beyond the wall.

"I just…. don't want her to see me like this… Lyla, it's not happening… I can't tell her…." Tell her what, exactly?

Resolutely, you make up your mind. Miguel O'Hara's got a secret. And before you leave for home, you're gonna do everything in your God given power to wear him down and find out.

~~~

Despite his insistence otherwise, you liked to think of yourself as O'Hara's right hand man - and most of the other spiderpeople thought so too. You were one of the very first he recruited, after crash landing onto your earth like a spiderman-shaped meteor; the two of you were inseparable. Miguel was stubborn and headstrong and thought he was right all the time. Infuriatingly, he was, but that didn't stop you from telling him to get his head out of his own ass when his ego grew too big.

He was different around you, you think. Softer, sometimes. Harsher, other times. He told you what you needed to hear whether you wanted to or not; the result of mutual respect and agonising persistence. Slowly, you had chipped away his hard exterior; the one he built because he thought he needed to push people away. In that regard, you were similar, but this need manifested in you like a weed - an awful, awful compulsion to joke and laugh at your own expense, to keep others at an arm's length. You had spent your whole life picking and pruning away at yourself, looking for perfection. Even after all this, multiverse-hopping and fighting alongside people who were the closest things you had to friends , it wasn't enough. There was still something missing.

Ironically, Miguel had told you something similar the one of the last times you had spoken. You had fucked up a mission, well and truly. In the aftermath, all you can remember is coming back to base, limping on Jessica's arm.

"She's hurt!" She cries out. Lyla materialises and leads you both to the med bay, inspecting any visible wounds. There's a deep laceration, sticky with blood, at the base of your stomach. You shift onto the bed and hiss with pain.

Miguel is quick to follow, face twisted with confusion, pain, sadness. Even in your haze, you feel the tension radiating off of him as he drags over a cart of supplies.

"What happened?" He strains.

"I don't even… it happened so fast. We got ambushed, and all of a sudden I'm on the ground. I wasn't thinking straight and… " She sobs. "...she jumped in front of me. God, she saved my life-"

"-wasn't your fault, Jess." You croak, trying to sit up. "And I'm fine. Just need to walk it off…"

"Sit, bichita," His nickname makes you frown, despite yourself, and you settle back down. "Lyla, what's the damage?"

Your vision goes spotty, and Lyla's voice barely registers. All you can feel is searing pain in your side, but Miguel is warm, oh so warm. You clutch his arms, and force him to look you in the eye.

"M'ready, Miguel." He nods weakly, but you don't think he understands. "I mean it . I can lead, j-just need another chance and I won't let you down… Jess, tell him that I can-"

"It's okay. I believe you. You just need to relax for me, hmm?" He clutches at your hand, tight, and it's like you're the only two people in the world. "You did good. I promise."

Faintly, you nod. You feel a pinch at your arm, and Jessica's there, with an empty vial of something in her hands. The pain washes over you, and you fight to keep your eyes open. In those last few moments of light, you swear you feel a shaky kiss pressed to your temple.

"Sleep, mi bichito amoroso. Sleep."

When you come to, you're still in the medbay, moonlight streaming through. Well, artificial moonlight. Time worked a little differently here, something Miguel explained to you a while ago - God knows what about dilation and quantum interference. It makes you smile now, remembering his frustration as he tried to explain to no avail. You were the only spiderman this side of the multiverse without a degree in quantum tech, you had said with a lopsided smile.

You move to sit, and pain shoots up your side. Groaning, you push through it, determined to get out of this bed and find the others. As if on cue, Miguel walks in, almost leaping towards you.

"You should… mierda ! You should be resting in bed."

You pout as you stumble into his chest. He hooks an arm around you and leads you back. You clamber in, sighing. "M'fine, O'Hara."

"Your guts were halfway out of your body less than 24 hours ago. So stay put, or you might give me another heart attack."

You scoff, incredulous. "You were worried?"

He shrugs. " 'Course I was."

"Why? You know I'm practically indestructible." You give him a shit eating grin, and poke the frown appearing at his brow. He doesn't bat you away like he usually does.

"Famous last words, bichita." He sighs. You can't speak a lick of Spanish, but you know he only calls you that word when you've frustrated him to his limit. So you take it as a win, for now.

He drops into the chair next to you. "How are you feeling?"

"Just peachy, dollface." You wink, and he doesn't so much as groan.

"I'm being serious. You went through something pretty traumatic…"

"You want me to tell you it hurts, so, so bad, daddy? " You pout and flutter your eyelashes mockingly. Miguel shifts in his seat, unable to make eye contact.

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, O'Hara? I feel fine. And in a couple of days, I'll feel even better, and I'll be up and about. I can finish what we started and-"

"-no, absolutely not." He frowns. "A couple of days? I'm sending you home-"

"You can't do that! On whose fucking authority?"

"On the authority of you almost fucking died ! Keeping you safe is our priority right now-"

"God, is this my punishment? This is a low blow, O'Hara. You know how hard I've worked for this: months of surveillance and intel a-and I did everything by the book, just like you told me to." You croak. "I fucked up . I know that, and I feel terrible. Give me a chance to make things right; that's all I'm asking. I can do it, I know it. "

He looks at you for a moment, something heavy in his expression. His face contorted, he strips you down to the bone with just his gaze. His voice is so quiet, you almost miss it.

"....you're still trying to prove yourself, aren't you?"

Honestly, it catches you off guard. You don't even know what the fuck that means, let alone why he said it.

"I don't… I d-don't…?"

"They all love you. Respect you. More than me I think, sometimes." He chuckles at that. "You're good at what you do. The best . What else are you trying to prove? What else do you need ?"

Your throat goes dry. You couldn't speak if you wanted to.

"I'm not punishing you. You made a mistake, but you don't need to be crucified for it. I just want to keep you safe. I can't… we can't lose you."

"Miguel-"

"-this isn't a discussion. And I'm not trying to argue, although I know how much you like to argue." He inches closer, cupping your face gently. You try to move away, blinking back tears. But his hands are steady and he strokes your jaw with so much tenderness you think you hear your heart break. He's pretty, so pretty. You don't deserve him, you think. "There'll be time to fight, bichita. Rest. That's your mission right now."

"C-can't sleep." You breathe. "It hurts."

Miguel pauses, head tilted like he's thinking. He taps your shoulder. "Scoot over."

You do as he says, and he slips into the bed with you. It's a tight fit, but he manages, placing you on his chest with an arm gently around your shoulders. You bury your face in his hoodie, sniffling and hoping he doesn't notice you choking back sobs. Absentmindedly, he settles into a rhythm, gentle breathing and playing with your hair, soothing you softly. He pretends he can't hear the tears.

"M'gonna stay here until you're asleep. For as long as you need."

You nod, unable to speak for fear of breaking down.

~~~

The days after felt like a blur. You woke up to Miguel gone, and an ache in your heart. Jess visits as much as she can, and Ben calls you a couple times, to see if you're okay. Peter B brings Mayday, and she clambers all over your bed, bringing some life into the room. Miguel doesn't visit per se - you hear whispers of him, Lyla visiting in his stead for comprehensive status updates. Once, you wake up in the night to see him on the adjacent chair, head lolling in deep sleep. He looks peaceful, calm - one of the first times you haven't seen his brow furrowed with worry. Of course, he's gone by the morning.

The very last time you saw him, he opened the portal home. It was weird, after everything, but if Miguel felt the same you wouldn't know. Talking at a thousand miles a minute, he alternates between assuring you they'll be fine without you and situation reports from spider people all across the multiverse. Things you'd missed whilst bedbound, asking for advice before you left. He trusted your judgement and the thought warmed your heart, almost making you forget that he completely brushed past the previous nights before.

You still remember the last thing he had said to you, which would've been weeks ago, now.

"...and if you need anything, and I mean anything, you call me directly. Not Jess, not Ben, and certainly not Peter B. Call me, and I'll answer, I promise. You need help, you need advice, you just need someone to talk to, then-"

"-I call you. I get it, O'Hara. Will do." He opens the portal, watching as you walk towards it. He can't take his eyes off of you, even though you can't see him. At the last moment you turn, and run towards him. You almost knock him over with a hug. Burying his head in the crook of your shoulder, he hugs you back, ever careful of your injury. Separating, your smile almost knocks him over again. Weakly, he smiles back as you head through the portal, back home.

You're left with that feeling, of his arms around your body - warm, so warm - as you putter about by the switchboard. After careful deliberation (you were really, really bored ) you'd taken to manage the Multi Modal Multiversal Switchboard - as aptly named by Miguel. Everyone else called it the Big Red Phone of course, but he had insisted on calling it by its proper name . Every. Time.

The thought makes you chuckle as you call up Peter B. His icon flashes on the screen in front of you. With a click, he picks up the call, his face materialising holographically in front you. A little hand reaches up and tugs at his ear.

"Ow… ouch … Dad's on the phone, honey."

"Aww! How's my favourite Parker doing?"

"Not bad, actually! MJ just made us probably the best burger this side of New York-"

"-sorry, Peter? Me and May are trying to have a conversation." You hear her giggle in the background. Her gap toothed grin pops into frame and she babbles excitedly. "...yeah, exactly May. That's literally what I said."

"Okay, okay, that's enough." He puts the toddler down and watches her scurry away. "You're feeling better, I see."

"Yeah, back in action. Thought I'd check in."

"All good here." He squints, trying to take in your surroundings. "You're at HQ?"

You hum.

"Could've sworn Lyla cancelled…"

"Yeah, didn't get the memo. But I think something's wrong with O'Hara."

He gives you a weird look. "Uhhh, what makes you think that?"

"He won't even look at me. Was it something I said? Something I did?" Your eyes narrow. "...what do you know, Peter?"

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He scoffs, a little too quickly, clutching his chest like you've offended him. He's stared down some of the scariest villains around, but the look you give him is truly chilling. "Just… uhhh. You didn't hear this from me."

"Naturally…"

"We tracked 'em down, the guys that ambushed you and Jessica."

"The Sinister Six? From Earth-215?"

"Yeah, but by the time we got there, it was just Kraven and some of his goons. Miguel got there first, and…." He gulps. "He was pissed. Trashed the whole place looking for the rest of 'em. Beat Kraven half to death and we had to pull him off."

"Shit."

"Yeah, it was pretty rough. Never seen him like that before. And just generally? He'd been weirdly quiet, a little grumpy, more aggressive on missions. I don't know what's gotten into him."

"Hmmm. Thanks, Pete."

"No problem, sweetheart. And if the big guy asks… "

"...this didn't come from you, I know." Weakly, you smile. "Say hi to my favourite Parkers, for me."

" 'Course I will. We should celebrate, if you're back officially. Mine and MJ's is always open."

"Good to know. I'll see you around."

He waves goodbye, and the hologram clicks off. Sighing, you try to piece together what you've just heard.

Miguel: acting weird. Well, you knew that already. Aggressive was new. And Lyla? She had canceled, but not for you, for some reason. An honest mistake, perhaps. But Lyla doesn't make mistakes…

You stew for a couple of hours, puttering about the switchboard, twiddling your thumbs. Something's wrong, and for some reason you're afraid to see him. To have him look straight through you, again, when you ask to do the same. Show me where it hurts. Tell me how to make it better.

On the way there, you chew your lip in anticipation. In the corridor, you're outside the door to his place, hand hovering above the door. To knock, to call. In the harsh fluorescent light, you hesitate.

"Lyla?" Nervously, you sink down onto the floor. It's hard to explain, but you don't expect her to actually come; to materialise in front of you.

"How can I assist you?" She says with a ding.

"Uhh… hi. Just wanted to talk." You pause, clicking your tongue. "Can you be honest with me?"

"I can only be honest with you. It is not in my programming to lie, unless specified by my owner."

"Sure. Cool. It's about him, actually. Is Miguel okay?"

She tilts her head, as if processing your request. "Okay is a subjective term. Is Mr O'Hara alive? Yes. Is Mr O'Hara physically well? Yes. By those terms, he is okay ."

Too vague for your own liking. "I guess I meant more… his emotional state. To the best of your knowledge… in your opinion , Lyla: is Miguel okay?"

"...I believe Mr O'Hara is experiencing some emotional turmoil."

You frown. "Oh. Do you know why?"

"Mr O'Hara has instructed me not to disclose that information with you."

"Fair enough. But you don't have to tell me… I could just ask questions?"

She nods. "There is nothing in my programming that prevents me from answering some questions within certain parameters."

"Did I do something? Not just today but… last time I was here. Did I say something to hurt or upset him? Is that why he's acting weird?"

"No." She says blankly. "And yes. I suppose it is… complicated." She gestures around that word.

"I'm a little confused, Lyla."

She sits next to you, on the cool tile. Not that she could feel it, but it feels more intimate - like two friends talking. The extent of Lyla's consciousness, you weren't sure of. Was she alive? To you, she might as well be. Could she think, feel, emote? Maybe, maybe not. You weren't smart enough to understand the nuances of her programming. But you were human enough to see it in her - something glittering beyond the surface.

It could be projection, but you swear her voice is softer. "He has a name for you. When he speaks about you, and to you. I have it logged in my memory database. Do you know what that is?" You shake your head.

Lyla opens up her palm and projects videos and images - little Miguel's popping up in her palm, tinny and gruff voices ringing through the hallway. They say your name, shout your name, whisper it. Some say other things in Spanish. Curse words had always been your assumption, and he had given you no reason to think otherwise. Now, having it played back to you, you hear a tenderness in his voice you would've missed. Words and phrases that come up again and again…

"Bichita." She repeats. "Bichito del amor. Mi bichito amoroso. "

You shake your head, still confounded. "...I don't speak Spanish, Lyla."

"Little bug. Sweetheart. Lovebug. My little lovebug." She clears her throat. "I believe they are terms of endearment."

Steadfast, she directs you towards her palm. Another small Miguel appears, and you think it's him from this morning.

"I thought I told you not to let anyone in, Lyla?"

"I did not let her in. She let herself in using the code you previously gave her, Mr O'Hara."

"Yeah, for emergencies. Fuck. Mi bichita, too smart for her own good."

"...If you are in distress, I believe she would understand, Mr O'Hara."

"I just think it's too much. I don't want her to see me like this."

"According to Alchemax files, previous subjects showing this kind of aggression benefitted from-"

"Lyla, it's not happening, no chance. I can't tell her."

The figure blinks out of her palm. "Mr O'Hara has forbid me from telling you about certain things."

"...but not from showing me." Your eyes meet hers. You give her a watery smile. "Thank you."

With a hint of a smile, she nods and is gone from the corridor. You are left alone, with nothing but your thoughts of little lovebugs rattling around in your brain.

#miguel o hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 x reader #across the spiderverse #kat_writes😼#this gif is fucking crazy btw

16K notes · View notes

nowoyas · 4 months ago

Text

Trying to make sense of the Nanowrimo statement to the best of my abilities and fuck, man. It's hard.

It's hard because it seems to me that, first and foremost, the organization itself has forgotten the fucking point.

Nanowrimo was never about the words themselves. It was never about having fifty thousand marketable words to sell to publishing companies and then to the masses. It was a challenge, and it was hard, and it is hard, and it's supposed to be. The point is that it's hard. It's hard to sit down and carve out time and create a world and create characters and turn these things into a coherent plot with themes and emotional impact and an ending that's satisfying. It's hard to go back and make changes and edit those into something likable, something that feels worth reading. It's hard to find a beautifully-written scene in your document and have to make the decision that it's beautiful but it doesn't work in the broader context. It's fucking hard.

Writing and editing are skills. You build them and you hone them. Writing the way the challenge initially encouraged--don't listen to that voice in your head that's nitpicking every word on the page, put off the criticism for a later date, for now just let go and get your thoughts out--is even a different skill from writing in general. Some people don't particularly care about refining that skill to some end goal or another, and simply want to play. Some people sit down and try to improve and improve and improve because that is meaningful to them. Some are in a weird in-between where they don't really know what they want, and some have always liked the idea of writing and wanted a place to start. The challenge was a good place for this--sit down, put your butt in a chair, open a blank document, and by the end of the month, try to put fifty thousand words in that document.

How does it make you feel to try? Your wrists ache and you don't feel like any of the words were any good, but didn't you learn something about the process? Re-reading it, don't you think it sounds better if you swap these two sentences, if you replace this word, if you take out this comma? Maybe you didn't hit 50k words. Maybe you only wrote 10k. But isn't it cool, that you wrote ten thousand words? Doesn't it feel nice that you did something? We can try again. We can keep getting better, or just throwing ourselves into it for fun or whatever, and we can do it again and again.

I guess I don't completely know where I'm going with this post. If you've followed me or many tumblr users for any amount of time, you've probably already heard a thousand times about how generative AI hurts the environment so many of us have been so desperately trying to save, about how generative AI is again and again used to exploit big authors, little authors, up-and-coming authors, first time authors, people posting on Ao3 as a hobby, people self-publishing e-books on Amazon, traditionally published authors, and everyone in between. You've probably seen the statements from developers of these "tools", things like how being required to obtain permission for everything in the database used to train the language model would destroy the tool entirely. You've seen posts about new AI tools scraping Ao3 so they can make money off someone else's hobby and putting the legality of the site itself at risk. For an organization that used to dedicate itself to making writing more accessible for people and for creating a community of writers, Nanowrimo has spent the past several years systematically cracking that community to bits, and now, it's made an official statement claiming that the exploitation of writers in its community is okay, because otherwise, someone might find it too hard to complete a challenge that's meant to be hard to begin with.

I couldn't thank Nanowrimo enough for what it did for me when I started out. I don't know how to find community in the same way. But you can bet that I've deleted my account, and I'll be finding my own path forward without it. Thanks for the fucking memories, I guess.

#distant citrus sounds #disk horse #nanowrimo #ai shit

440 notes · View notes

secrets-of-ty · 3 months ago

Text

Danny Phantom Fanfic Masterlist

I've been meaning to do this for a bit! Since I've been in the Phandom for 10+ years I've picked up a lot of good fanfics over the years and I think it'd be great to share them again in case people have forgotten/haven't encountered them!

I mostly used Fanfiction.net in my older days so a lot of them will be linked there. I'm also pretty picky when it comes to fics being completed, so expect the ones listed to be bingeable with an ending! And finally, I'm not huge on romance/smut so most of them probably won't involve those genres, I'll point out ones that do. (These are in no particular order).

👻 Happy Reading! 👻

👻 = Regular Fic

🟢 = Alternate Universe Fic

⚔️ = Crossover Fic

💙 = Would Recommend!

💙💙 = One of my Favorites!

💙⚔️💙 Mirrored by Lynse

"As a general rule, diving into unknown swirly vortexes in the Ghost Zone is a bad idea, but this was a time when Danny had no other real choice. Meanwhile, Jake thought he was through dealing with ghosts, but Rotwood, well, he's just getting started."

I posted about this one a few years ago and the author, @ladylynse , said it's also available on AO3. This is by far one of my f a v o r i t e fanfics that I read annually or so! If you're a sucker for American Dragon too, definitely check this one out <3 The characterization of both Jake and Danny, plus watching their friendship grow, always gets me in the feels.

💙👻 Phantom's Sketchbook by AkoyaMizuno

"Mr. Lancer finds himself in an unparalleled situation, he has access to something which can give him incredible insight into the personal workings of Amity Park's local ghost teen hero, Danny Phantom."

It's been a while since I've read this one, but I remember it having a lovely characterization of Lancer plus his mentor relationship with Danny. (I loved this one a great amount back in the day that I, uh, made fanart and turned it in for a school assignment. Which is lost to the ages now 😅)

👻 Darkness by Cordria

"Maddie and Phantom are trapped in the dark. Can they come to an agreement to work together before they both die at the full moon? Part 1 of Illuminations Saga."

I don't quite remember this one but I DO remember Cordria had some absolute bangers. You'll probably see their name a few more times on this list.

💙👻💙 Masks by Cordria

"Sometimes, people hide who they truly are behind masks. This is a short story about the day that Lancer decides enough is enough when it comes to Daniel Fenton. Sequel is 'Plunge'"

When I said Cordria had bangers, THIS is one of them! Another fic that I read annually, this one involves Lancer getting closer and closer to Danny's secret while he's stuck in detention for the weekend. I love love LOVE the characterization of Danny and Lancer in this, another at the top of the favorite list!

👻 Plunge by Cordria (sequel to Masks ^)

"Sequel to 'Masks'. Now that Lancer has learned the truth and has let Danny out of his office, Danny needs to face the next hurdle: his parents."

For some reason, I always forgot to put this on my favorite list so I often missed out on reading it with my annual read of Masks. I remember it being a decent sequel where the Fentons pick up the pieces of Danny's reveal.

👻 Pits by Cordria

"Danny has been captured and thrown into the Pits by Walker to fight for his life. Listen in as he tells his dark, twisted tale of surviving despite the odds. Warning: dark and depressing. Sequel is 'Final Exam'."

Another one I don't fully remember, but it had to be a solid read since it's on my favorites haha! I have a vague sense that it was a little angst/gore-y(?) as the description warns, so just heads up!

👻 Lab Rat by AnneriaWings

"The look on my parents' faces – eager, curious, somewhat hateful – wasn't exactly hard to give away their intentions. I knew what they were going to do to me even before Mom snapped on a pair of rubbery, white latex gloves."

*** This one is definitely a vivisection fanfic with graphic descriptions, so beware that content. Again, haven't read it in a long time but it had satisfied my angst itch back in the day.

👻 Wondering by Phantomrose96

"A continuation to Cordria's starshot #69 "Wondering". Danny's been captured and tortured by his parents, but he refuses to say a word until his psychiatrist starts connecting the dots. Can he risk keeping it a secret any longer?"

*** Another angst, lab experiment-esque fic. There are definite graphic scenes (as warned in the first chapter). I do remember this fic being huge in the 2010s (definitely a staple of the Phandom). The relationships and Danny recovering from his torture were great highlights.

👻 Connections by Lynse

"Maddie knows that the Booo-merang has keyed into Danny, for whatever reason, so what's she to think when she sees it collide with Phantom?"

Don't quite remember this one, but Lynse is amazing at writing, so it's bound to be a good read.

👻 Confessions by Lynse (Sequel to Connections ^)

"Follows Connections. Danny's secret's not as safe as he thinks, what with Maddie unable to ignore her wild suspicions any longer and piecing things together and Jack asking questions all on his own."

Same as above!

💙👻 Earthquake by Turkeyhead987

"Danny leaves with his bathroom excuse and leaves Dash curious. He follows Danny and ends up the the gym room with him. While they're in there, an earthquake occurs and leaves them trapped inside. Will any secrets be revealed? No DashxDanny! They're just the main characters!"

This one is another one that I've read multiple times over the years! From what I remember, it was a fun read involving Dash and Danny being trapped in the gym after an earthquake, and explores how Danny handles his secret around Dash while they wait for rescue.

💙👻 A Jock and a Hard Place by AnneriaWings

"Danny and Dash were silent, trying to wrap their mind around that stupid, simple fact – the door was locked. They were trapped. In a janitor's closet. Together. (Collab with Haiju)"

No romance in this one! Another story where Danny and Dash get trapped together. I've read this one several times, and remember enjoying the tension of Danny's secret being revealed. I also think they explored Danny and Dash's relationship in a fun way!

👻 An Unlikely Alliance by Represent

"Maddie wants her family back. In an attempt to understand her Danny's change in behavior, she unwittingly enlists the GIW to exorcize Phantom from her son."

Gonna be real with ya'll, I don't remember this one at all. But uhhh I'm gonna throw it on here just because I can. :)

👻 Flip Turn by dreamsweetmydear

"Danny's life the last couple of years has been chaotic and pretty scary, to say the least. However, one detention with Mr. Lancer opens a window of opportunity that promises to turn his life around in more ways than one. Revelation fic. Post-"Kindred Spirits.""

Yet again, I don't remember this fic. Sorry! But it's under 8000 words, so it's a little bit of a shorter read than some of the ones on this list!

👻 Journey of Secrets by WolfKael

"First Danny Phantom fic! DXS, TXV, but not super-heavy. Lancer's class is on a trip to the Ghost Zone, courtesy of the Fentons! (Takes a couple chapters to gain momentum, and I promise it isn't your average 'field trip' fic!) T because I'm paranoid, but it could probably be K ."

Also not a fic I remember. It's got about 50,000 words so thought I'd throw it in for anyone that likes a longer fic!

👻 Vulnerable by HaiJu

"A desperate moment leads to a difficult choice, and Danny must deal with the consequences. A collaboration between Anneriawings and Haiju."

Don't remember it, but HaiJu had/has some great fics! Seems to involve Danny and Maddie after skimming the first chapter.

👻 Little Fires by Represent

"My family's supposed to be geniuses, yet they've never figured it out. Now I know why. Because they already know I'm Phantom. They must know. The better questions are: Have they known this whole time? What's in that vial? What happened to Skulker? And what's in the locked drawer?"

You know what, if I remember it, I'll say something 😂

👻 Judge, Jury, Executioner by Cordria

"The Observants and the Ghost Council are sick of the Fentons creating half-ghost creatures that disobey the rules of the universe. It's time for them to step in before more are made. Can Danny save his parents and keep his secret intact? A three-part fic."

💙👻 A Phantom Marooned by LordPugsy

"No one but Danny was suspicious when his English class was awarded an all-expenses paid cruise trip by an anonymous benefactor. Everyone but Danny thought it was bad luck when they became ship-wrecked on an island in the middle of nowhere. No one but Danny fully understood the dangers lurking in the trees. No one but Danny knew how much danger they were all in so far from home."

This one involves Danny and his class getting out of Amity Park, so it's a little more oc-filled and explores a nontraditional setting for the trio. There might be a little SamxDanny in this one if I remember correctly, but overall I do remember having fun reading through this!

🟢 Candlelight by HappyLeif

"Sam's only friend is the ever-loyal Tucker, ever since Danny began slowly distancing himself from them after some accident freshman year. She wanted a friend, but she never thought she'd find the one she was looking for in the highly debated ghostly hero of Amity Park.

AU = Danny alone during the portal accident. Looks like there's some SamxDanny in this one! Don't remember it but heck I might have to reread it since the synopsis has me interested.

👻 Crashing and Burning by GriffinRose

"For two years, Maddie has put up with Danny's ridiculous lies and excuses. She's tried everything to get through to him, but the pattern just goes on. She's so tired of fighting him on this all the time. And so, after two years, she's done. She doesn't care what her son does anymore, because Danny doesn't seem to care that he's her son."

👻 I'll Be Here by HaiJu

"Some days you can't pick yourself up. Having family means you don't have to. Danny-centric, three oneshots. Completely shameless hurt/comfort. Bring tissues… and antiseptic."

👻 What Little Girls Are Made Of by HaiJu

"Phantom and his younger double save Amity Park from a monstrous ghost, nearly destroying themselves in the process. The Fentons have always hunted ghosts; now it's time to save one."

💙👻💙 You Should Be Dead by SaphireDragon11

"Dash and Kwan are horrified to discover they've accidentally killed their classmate, but perhaps even more so when he shows up at school the next day. With his secret on the line, Danny soon discovers Dash and Kwan are the least of his worries."

THIS story is definitely a favorite and fun read! The ending battle chapters always gets me excited to reread! ***Danny does get straight up shot by Dash at the beginning so be warned for that content. But I remember a post going around a year or so ago where someone had drabbled about Danny getting up after being shot by Dash. This story explores that concept with a longer plot!

💙👻💙 Roughing It by HaiJu

"Lost deep in the woods with an undead pack on their heels, Maddie and Phantom find themselves entangled in an awkward alliance. Can they cooperate long enough to get out of this mess?"

Another favorite! This one explores Maddie and Danny's relationship, kind of similar to how the show did in the Maternal Instincts episode. I adore how HaiJu explores Maddie's thought-process with dealing with Phantom in a situation where she kind of needs him and he won't leave her alone. Great mother-son fic!

👻 Phantom of Truth by Haiju

"Locked away in a secret government lab with Phantom as her subject, nothing stands between Maddie and the truth... except, perhaps, herself."

Haven't read this one in a loooooong time, but I remember being around for HaiJu updating this fic, posting about it on Tumblr, and the Phandom being generally hyped for it. Another staple for the Phandom! It's another torture fic, so heads up regarding that content!

💙👻 Shadow of a Doubt by Haiju (Sequel to Phantom of Truth ^)

"The truth was supposed to save Danny. Fix things. The lab, the experiments, the lies, those were all in the past. Weren't they? Sequel to Phantom of Truth."

And then BAM on top of finishing Phantom of Truth, HaiJu hit us all with a completed sequel! I was super excited whenever this fic got updated, felt like I was waiting for a new episode to air on TV every time! There's some OCs in this since it explores Danny running away from Amity, but I remember genuinely loving the OCs and loved reading about Danny mentally recovering from being experiment on.

👻 Just a Boy by Tay1019411

"Maddie and Jack finally have Phantom right where they always wanted him: in there lab, helpless, but everything is different now. Now, Maddie faces the truth about what Phantom really is."

🟢 Make It Go Away by DarkNymfa

"Not for the first time, Danny cursed himself for never telling anyone about his extra-curricular activities. And now, far more injured than he could fix himself, Danny desperately wished that he had told just one person."

No one knows AU

👻 Flicker by DarkNymfa

"It had taken just one moment, one split-second in which she had seen Phantom instead of Danny. Now she found herself on a path she didn't want to be on. One she couldn't leave, not anymore."

👻 The Scientific Method by ReconstructWriter

""After two years of failures you'd have better luck asking Phantom to be your lab-rat," Jazz said. The Fentons decide to try just that."

👻 Phantom Hitchhiker by ghostanimal

"Phic Phight Oneshot: While students get to leave early after a ghost attack, teachers have to stick around for boring meetings to discuss the attack. The ghost attack was now over, but it didn't mean all the ghosts were gone. Lancer finds himself driving a certain Phantom home while reflecting on how young the poor kid is."

👻 Returning After the Reveal by Illusn

"Phic Phight attack, using a prompt by Love-ly-ish. Danny returns to school after his secret was revealed in a ghost attack, having to deal with people suddenly treating him differently."

👻 Vantage Point by Lynse

"Phantom was young. Painfully young. Somehow, Lancer had never really noticed that before. One-shot, written for the 2019 Phic Phight."

👻 Oddities by Lynse

"Jack can't deny that their ghost hunting equipment malfunctions around Danny-consistently and exclusively around Danny-and decides to get to the bottom of it, once and for all. One-shot, written for the 2019 Phic Phight."

👻 To Be a Hero by cosette141

"Danny has always known the consequences should he be captured by the Guys In White, but now Tucker is going to learn firsthand just what the stakes are for his superhero friend and what it really means to be a hero. (not slash) hurt/comfort"

👻 Family Reunion by Dp-Marvel94

"For Phango. Prompts used- Setting: Family Reunion, Wes Weston, Aunt Alicia, Stuck in the thermos. And Identity Reveal…kinda (does it count if Wes had already worked out that Fenton was Phantom but hadn't seen him actually transform so wasn't completely sure?)"

Wes Fic!

👻 Stuck by SummersSixEcho

"[OneShot] After a prank from two of his ghostly acquaintances, Danny is stuck in ghost mode during one of the most important events of his young half-life. If only he didn't have to give a speech on top of it... [Phic Phight 2020 entry; prompt by Ghostanimal]"

👻 One-Eighty by SummersSixEcho

"[One Shot] After a grueling battle, two teenagers at a diner try to sort out a night of revelations. [DannyMay 2020, Day 28: Diner]"

👻 Threads of Time by ZombieRed

""I just want to know what's going on with you, Danny! I wish I could just, I don't know, spend the day figuring out what you've been hiding from me. Then maybe I could help you. But you being closed off from everyone is only hurting you. Can't you see that?" Or Maddie keeps on waking up to Thursday morning [No PP, pretty much ignores season 3 as a whole]"

👻 Invisible Stitches by Lynse

"Family bonding time might be less dangerous now that his parents know his secret, but that doesn't mean Danny is wild about being kept in the dark when it comes to his dad's plans for the weekend. One-shot."

Loved the concept of Danny having trouble being away from Amity Park!

👻 Whenever You're Ready by SummersSixEcho

"[OneShot] Jack and Maddie try to show their son they are very supportive of Phantom once they find out his secret. They want him to tell them on his terms, but everything ends up in bigger misunderstandings and more revelations they weren't prepared for. [Belated Phic Phight entry for Star G, Arioz, Bird, Dekalkomania, and Wife]"

Written in a Journal-Entry style! Interesting format if I remember correctly.

👻 An Attempt at Camping by Seasilver17

"They should have known that even when they were in the middle of nowhere camping. Something would have to go wrong. Curse his Fenton luck"

👻 Secrets Secrets and Advice (This Teacher's Vice) by AppleScentedLazers

"After a particularly grueling day Mr. Lancer just wants to go home, kick up his feet, and read some Shakespeare. But, when he runs into two of his students looking for their missing best friend, Lancer ends up with more questions than he has answers for. Such as, who is Phantom? And just what is Daniel Fenton hiding?"

👻🟢 Going Ghost by cosette141

"My take on the moment Danny turns on the ghost portal and becomes half-ghost… as well as an alternate way for Sam and Tucker to find out. Friendship Oneshot"

👻 Lair by Lexosaurus

"When something goes wrong with a piece of Vladco tech, Valerie ends up stuck in the Ghost Zone. With Phantom."

💙👻 In Case of Emergency by Unlucky Alis

"Lancer is grading papers when he gets the call. "I'm calling from Amity West. I have an underage patient here who has named you as their emergency contact." Lancer rushes over, of course, fretting all the while about what accident Danny Fenton has gotten himself into now, because it could only be him. Except, when he arrives, it's not the Danny he expected to find."

I remember enjoying the little twist on Lancer being the emergency contact for Phantom yet having no idea. Lancer handles it pretty well all things considered. (I think you guys can tell I just like Lancer fics at this point HA)

👻 Furthest from Myself by WastefulReverie

"An accident during a ghost invasion leaves nearly a hundred citizens with inexplicable ghost powers. Little did they know, this was only the catalyst for a series of revelations."

👻 Ghost Smarts! by Dekalkomania

"When it becomes clear the ghosts are here to stay, the Amity Park school district decides they need to teach proper safety precautions. In dire need of extra credit, Danny takes Mr. Lancer's offer to be the assistant in an assembly titled, "Ghost Smarts!"

Very unprepared for what he signed up for, Danny must deal with the eccentric detective J.J. Bittenbinder, all while not blowing his cover."

265 notes · View notes

bg-brainrot · 10 months ago

Text

The Thousandth Time (Astarion x GN!Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Summary: Astarion and Rogue!Tav make love for the thousandth time. In a bathtub.

Tags: Smut, Slice of life, POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Spawn Astarion, Post-Canon, bathtub sex, sloppy sex, seriously just sickeningly sweet smut, Spawn Astarion, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Domesticity is romantic, Hand Jobs, Blood Drinking

A/N: Some context-- I wanted to write soft, gender neutral smut. And by the gods is this soft. I tried to look at what it's like to love someone for so long. In my experience, when you've been with someone for so many years, you still find a lot of love in the little things. which I hope I hit? Anyway, enjoy!!

Word count: ~5.3k

The thousandth time you make love to Astarion, you don't know it's the thousandth time.

It's a day like any other, really.

After a long day at the guild, you've arrived home, a sigh on your lips, a furrow to your brow.

"Whatever is the matter, my dear?"

You compose your expression and turn toward your lover. "Astarion," you start, a reflexive wistfulness to your tone. Gods are you glad to see him after a day like today. "Nothing is the matter. Nothing important anyway. Simply glad to be home."

Astarion gives you a look that says he doesn't quite believe you, but knows better than to pry too deeply into issues you'd rather not bring home. "Very well, darling. But you know I'm all pointy ears. Especially if Nine-Fingers has been difficult again."

"Ugh," you say, wincing in annoyance. "Do not say her name right now."

The vampire gives you a bright, toothy laugh. "That bad, eh?" You nod. He walks toward you, arms outstretched. "Mmm in that case, shall we call it an early night tonight?"

You dive into the comfort of his arms, holding him to you, inhaling his fresh, familiar scent. It feels like the day's troubles melt in his cold embrace, and the tension in your body finally relaxes. "That might be nice."

"Dinner first?" he asks, pulling away from you slightly.

You look into his warm crimson eyes, feel that same warmth reflected in your face. Of course, he’d check to see if your mortal needs have been met. "No need, I've eaten. How about you?"

Astarion brings a hand up to inspect your face, this way, then that. It’s as if he’s examining you for injury, not assessing if he can partake in a bit of your blood. "Mmm, you seem a tad tired, love."

"You know I'll manage. Besides, get my blood while it's still boiling with rage," you say, craning your neck for him in response.

"As delectable as that sounds,” he begins, letting go of your face, tracing his fingers along your neck. “I think a bath and bed ought to come first."

You want to argue the point, make sure he's fed to the best of your ability, but the yawn that escapes you is irrefutable. With nary another word, his hand is on the small of your back, guiding you toward the bath.

"Would you like to join me?" you ask him as you open the door. Your expression is calm, the question harboring no hidden intentions. Any other day, you may have raised an eyebrow at him suggestively, begun taking off your armor in a tease– but you're tired, simply not wanting to relinquish the feel of his arms around you.

"Certainly, if it keeps you from falling asleep in the tub…" he trails off, looking at you warily. He appears torn, somewhere between keeping you from drowning and keeping you from resting.

You give him a wry smile. “Imagine that. After felling all manner of beasts and men, finally succumbing to the tub.”

Astarion offers you a reluctant smile in return. “My love, I swear to every god above and below, if you die in any manner even remotely that ludicrous, I shall have to pretend not to know you at your funeral.”

“That’s fair,” you say, holding a hand out to him. “Best to make sure that doesn’t happen then, don’t you think?”

The man can’t argue with that, nor does he seem to want to. After an entire day away from each other, this closeness is exactly what the two of you crave. So he takes your offered hand, and follows you into the bathroom.

It has been years since you had added a tub big enough for the two of you in your house. While the two of you had accrued wealth enough for an entire bathhouse, you’d settled for a more modest setup. At least, modest in Astarion’s eyes.

The floor is made of the finest marble tiles, the walls of intricately laid and patterned brick. And in the center of the room, is the room’s main attraction: the enormous, magical tub. It’s long enough that you could comfortably lay down across the entire bottom, wide enough that you have to extend your arms to reach both sides. The outer edges are infused with enchantments to improve your bathing experience, and the tub itself is made of the highest quality crystal that gold can buy.

Once you enter the room, you activate the heat and water sigils along the basin’s edges and turn back to Astarion. “Would you mind grabbing some soaps from the shelf?”

He gives you a lopsided grin, eyes crinkling with amusement, but still moves to do as you ask. “Would you also like me to bathe you while I’m at it?”

“Oh, would you?” you ask half-joking. You begin to strip your armor off, piece by piece.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, picking out a few of his preferred scents from a shelf on the wall. He’s accumulated quite the collection now, enjoying mixing and matching as his nose guides him. “That could be arranged.”

You’re almost halfway through your armor when he returns, bottles of lemon, bergamot, and sage soaps in hand. “Ah, you know how much I love bergamot,” you say, smiling at it fondly, pausing halfway through undoing your leather straps.

“I know,” he says, placing them next to the tub before turning his attention fully to you. “I also know that you need help with that armor or we may be here all night.”

Holding your arms out wordlessly, Astarion starts to unbuckle each and every strap from the front of your padded armor. As he releases you from its confines, you take a deep, relieved breath and say, “Thank you, love.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he murmurs, leaving a long lingering touch along your now exposed collarbone. “While you strike quite the image in your armor, I think I much prefer you without.”

You laugh, feeling quite light in the now steaming room. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say your mind is straying quite far from rest, Astarion.”

The vampire shrugs, beginning to tug at your undershirt and small clothes with each of his hands. “Merely stating fact, my darling.”

With a few smooth movements, he’s taken off the last of your clothing, exposing every inch of you to the warmth of the room and the heat of his gaze. He seems just about ready to bury his head in your neck, begin covering every piece of you in kisses, when you speak, “Excuse me, are you planning to enter the bath in your house clothes?”

Astarion looks down at his own garb, the comfortable satins and silks of a man who spent the day lounging at home. When faced with your words and, ugh, logic, he says with a sigh, “Would you do the honors?”

You need no more invitation before your hands are on his soft, flowing shirt, running along it appreciatively. “Is this new?”

“It is,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice. “Do you like it?”

“It feels magnificent,” you respond, beginning to undo its buttons. “I may just have to steal it for myself one of these days.”

His lips purse at you. “You know, you could simply ask, darling.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you taunt, pulling up on the shirt's edges, tugging it up and off of him. Now, faced with the plane of his ivory chest, your fingers act on instinct. They trail down his shoulders, trace the line of his pectorals, drop down the center of his stomach to the waist of his pants.

Astarion gives you a low, approving noise before asking you wryly, “Now whose mind is straying?”

“Not mine,” you respond, pulling his pants and underwear down in one smooth motion. “My hands are just so tired, I’m sure you understand.”

“Surely,” he responds, as he pulls each foot out of his pant legs. “How is the water?”

The bath is steaming by now, visibly fogging up the room, but still, you bend down to skim your hands along its surface. “Ah, it’s warm,” you say, gripping the edge with one hand. “Maybe too warm?”

“No such thing,” he responds, and one of his hands lands next to yours as he bends down to feel the water for himself. The man gives a happy hum before asking, “Shall we then?” Then his now-wet hand is smacking your butt, his head gesturing toward the waiting water.

“Excuse you,” you say, indignantly, as you turn toward him. “I'm tired.” But you don't feel tired. Not after running your hands over his cold skin. Not after feeling the quick contact of his hand on your backside.

“Not to worry, darling. I’ll take care of you.”

As in, bathing or–? Luckily you don't have much more time to think about it before he’s lowering himself into the tub. Even with his quick movement, even with the water’s slight obscurity, you easily note that Astarion’s cock has stirred in interest.

Ah. While you hadn’t meant to illicit anything by inviting him… it’s certainly not unwelcome. It’s a good thing that your exhaustion is all but melting away under his loving touches.

Acutely aware of his sharp gaze on the length of your back, you turn to face away from him, grab the edge of the tub, and slowly enter its warmth. As was customary in your baths, he would start with your back, so you take a spot in front of him, leaving just enough room for him to settle behind you as he pleases.

Too much room clearly, as Astarion immediately scoots forward, extending his legs to each side of you. You feel his hardening length graze your backside as he does so and can’t help the smile that curves your lips.

"Astarion, dear,” you start, placing your hands on each of his knees under the water. “Are you certain you want to bathe me?"

“And why wouldn't I be?” He leans closer, planting a soft kiss along your spine.

You debate backing up into his groin to prove a point but instead shake your head. "No reason, I suppose."

He begins by lathering his hands in a mixture of soaps, carefully measured out by eye and feel. All the while, you sit before him, hands on each of his calves, thumbs repeatedly rubbing the ridge of his muscles. While he’d had a nice, calm day today, his calves are always so tight from sneaking about– and it’s the least you can do for the man that’s bathing you.

Then his hands get to work.

At first he drags both hands along your back, once, twice. Once he’s made sure that soap covers every inch of you, he starts massaging you, working the soap into your skin, kneading into your sore muscles.

Astarion knows your body so intimately and, after so many years of tending to each other, he rubs all of your tightest spots. His knuckles press deep into your neck. His fingers work around your upper back. His thumbs dig underneath the edges of your shoulder blades, working out the knots he knows lay beneath. And, by the gods, if you thought you’d been melting under his caresses before, now you’re practically a puddle.

You can’t help the noises that come out at the sensation of his nimble fingers at work. Your shoulders ache from a long day of sneaking, stabbing, and general tension of dealing with people– the relief is palpable in the way you relax into his touch, grip his legs, and release several breathy moans.

And with each moan, you can feel his cock growing firmer against you. After the first few, you can feel him shift closer with every noise he draws from you. Knowing your affect on him has always done something to stir the fire in you, and this time it has you shifting uncomfortably as heat blooms between your legs. The both of you spur the other’s building lust, all the while the fresh scent that Astarion’s concocted permeates the air.

Then, when it’s clear he’s done with your back, thoroughly satisfied with each gasping breath of pleasure, his hands drop from your shoulders. They tail down your back, playing along your spine. And, in an almost leisurely motion, they wrap around your torso, where they finally settle on your chest.

I don’t think this is a relaxing bath anymore, you think distantly. Yet you’re unable to resist leaning into his palms, arching into his touch.

Sensing your shuffles, Astarion curls further into your back, almost entirely flush to you now. His fingers feel their way to each of your nipples, first gently brushing against them, then thumbing over them each in turn. They respond eagerly, perking up under his delicate sweep.

“Astarion,” you begin, turning your head back to him slightly and raising an eyebrow. “What are you doing?” Your tone isn’t exactly admonishing– your voice comes out too quiet, desire muffling all other emotions.

His hands trail down your chest, past the surface of the bath water, settling on each of your thighs before he responds, voice low, lips inches away from your ear. “Making sure that every single centimeter of my beautiful darling is clean, of course.”

“Astarion, I thought you would be, ahh… taking care of me," you say, barely holding on to your trail of thought as his hands dip between your legs, brushing your sensitive core.

“I am taking care of you,” he whispers, finally closing the remaining distance between your back, his front. At the feel of his stiff cock pressing against your back, you give an involuntary gasp. He seems to enjoy your reaction, taking a moment to slowly grind the entire length of his hardened arousal along your backside once, before he settles between your cheeks. “Unless you’d rather leave all of this stress pent up, my dear?”

You’d been tired– been ready to bathe and head off to bed. But something about this man never fails to ignite the fire in your heart– or your loins. “I suppose not,” you murmur, releasing Astarion’s calf, running up his leg with your fingers, landing on his arm, gripping it closer to you.

“I knew you would see reason,” he says, taking your grip as guidance. His hand moves down to begin stroking your heat, building up steadily to the fast-paced rhythm he knows you like. In the water’s buoyant embrace, his actions feel a touch more fluid, his fingers more silken.

It has taken time experimenting together to reach this place– one of utmost security and intimate knowledge of each others’ bodies. But now that you’re here, you’ve found that Astarion’s agile fingers are obscenely precise in their movements. Like he knows exactly which pins to tumble to unlock your utmost excitement.

So you can't help the way you buck into his touch, nor the way the water sloshes around you both in response.

"Careful, love," he says, hand stilling. "We don't want to make a mess this time, do we?"

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you remember the last time this had happened, how the floor had been practically flooded. You should agree with him, make sure that such an incident doesn't occur again. But the front of your mind is wholly occupied, thinking only of how he's stopped moving his hand, how being careful may mean that he takes it too gently. "Mmm, we managed to clean it up well enough," you respond, jerking your hips back, pressing against him with need.

Astarion's laughter rings upon the bathroom's stone walls, before it turns into a groan as you roll your hips once more. His voice is a bit huskier when he responds, "You know we’re going to regret it later.”

You smile back at him, satisfied with the noise you’ve elicited. “Sounds like a problem for later, doesn’t it?” Then your hand squeezes his arm, motioning it back down to your now throbbing arousal. “For now, what was that about releasing my stress?”

“Oh very well… in that case, let’s find where you ache most, shall we?” Astarion murmurs, dipping his head, placing a kiss on the base of your neck. “Here?” Your shoulder. “Or perhaps here?” Then his hand settles back between your legs, fingers touching you in a rather delicate caress. “Or maybe here?”

You hum a noise of approval as his . “Oh, there.”

His fingers close on your swollen sex, rubbing languidly as he whispers in your ear, “Mmm, darling. So much tension…” A bit more pressure. “I must simply…” A bit faster pace. “Massage it all away…”

If anything, his touches cause you to grasp at his legs harder, all of the muscles in your body responding in kind to his ministrations. Your back arches instinctively, earning an exquisite groan from Astarion. So when his next stroke causes you to clench, you lean into it, grinding your ass back into the full length of his erection, sliding easily in the water’s low friction.

His other hand finds its way to your hip, helping you match his pace as you continue to rock into him.

The two of you fall into a beautiful, raucous rhythm, each open and generous with your vocal pleasure, the water’s regular splashes punctuating each movement.

“Yes, yes, gods, Astarion.”

“My sweet, you’re the only divine thing here.”

Then your words begin to lose sense, your rhythm begins to falter, and it’s clear that you won’t last much longer under his caring fingers.

You also know that Astarion hasn’t been tended to nearly as well as you have.

So you move to turn toward him. With how his full length twitches against you in urgency, your own nimble fingers ought to return the favor.

Astarion stops you, placing his unoccupied hand back on your chest to hold you in place. "Ah ah ah. Love, I'm here to help you."

"You are helping,” you start, pushing back against his hand. “But I don’t want to leave you like this.” ‘This’ is obvious as the man clearly exercises every ounce of self control he has judging from the visible veins on his arm, the way his legs squeeze reflexively around you each time he strokes you.

He gives you a reluctant groan, one that does nothing to hide his desire. “Must you always be so selfless?” His hand doesn’t release your chest though, and he begins tracing delicate, wet circles around one of your nipples, as he murmurs, “Fine, just let me continue.”

Staying in place for him, you reach back with one hand to feel for his cock. It’s almost unreal how naturally you slot around him, the way your fingers circle around its girth. The entire length, inch-by-inch, the pattern of his veins, the sensitive lip of his head– they’re all intimately familiar to you now. As is finding just the right grip, the right pace.

When you start to pump him in earnest, Astarion can't help but shudder, his movements losing their steady, pulsing beat. In losing his pace, he takes on a new one– erratic, a bit fumbling, but utterly intoxicating.

You're both stoking each other’s fires in tandem, wildly offset in your desperation to touch each other more and more and more.

The water feels almost cool compared to your heated core, to the sweet friction you're building together.

Astarion's face tilts into your back, grunting as he strains to right his tempo– his forehead presses against you, his cool exhale grazes your searing skin. His chilled touch is a reprieve in the sweltering fog of steam and heady lust. Hearing your sigh of relief, he seems all too willing to make more contact.

His lips crash onto your back roughly, and his fangs nick your skin. An involuntary shiver runs through your body as you imagine the pleasure his drinking evokes from you. As you imagine the man behind you lapping at your neck, moaning in satisfaction, flushed pink with your very blood–

"Take some blood,” you offer, breathless. Imagining would never be enough, you find yourself craving the real deal. So when you say your next word, it comes out more pleading than you intend, “Please."

“Whatever my dearest desires,” Astarion replies, voice low and rumbling. He removes the hand from your chest and places it on your shoulder, holding you in place as he places his lips at the crook of your neck. His nose rubs gently against your fleshly washed skin. “Mmm, you smell so good.”

Then his fangs pierce you.

When you first began your relationship, you hadn’t intended to enjoy his bites as much as you do, but after years and years of them, the pain hardly registers now. All you feel is close– So very close to the man you would gladly give your lifeblood to.

He draws a gulp, and you feel the blood course through you, into him.

Another drink, and heat builds in you as you feel his cock grow harder in your hand, his veins more prominent.

A third long pull of your blood, and you feel his fingers quicken at your aching arousal.

You jerk into his hand in reaction, trying to seek an outlet for your pleasure. Your mouth emits a whimper– you hadn’t been comfortable whimpering with Astarion at first, but after he drew one out of you, he couldn’t get enough.

He still can’t, and you feel his lips curl into a smile at your neck, his fingers move with more urgency.

All the while you continue stroking his length, fingers sloppy in your own hazy state. It doesn’t seem like you need your usual dexterity though, because Astarion is practically writhing with newfound reactivity. Drinking blood always leaves him especially sensitive.

One last shaky swallow and he removes his fangs from your neck. But not his mouth. His tongue begins lavishing your puncture wound furiously as he struggles to hold back his approaching peak.

With the way he haphazardly tilts his hips into you, it’s all too evident to you that he’s reaching his limit. He’s not afraid to tell you so either.

"My sweet," he all but moans into your ear. "I–I can't last much longer. May I?"

You know what he means, and you honestly can’t last much longer either– you’re positively light-headed from a mixture of bliss and blood loss. So you stop your movements, nod your addled head at him.

He removes his hands from your core and neck, reaching out to your legs. Pulling them out and apart, he shuffles behind you, moving impatiently.

Realizing he can’t do this alone, he gestures, motioning for you to put your legs up.

Still a bit dizzy, you carefully place each leg on either side of the tub’s edges, hooking yourself in place by the ankles. It feels a precarious balance, but you can hardly care when you’re this eager to have Astarion inside you.

Astarion seems just as eager, rubbing his length against your ass hungrily as you get into position.

Perched and ready for him, the man is quick to help once more– his hands grip your asscheeks and lift in a swift movement. You’re particularly buoyant in the water, and you rise higher than either of you had expected. Your hand instinctively reaches out, gripping the edge of the tub to brace yourself, and you hear Astarion give a deep chuckle from behind you.

Holding back your own almost giddy excitement, you try to compose yourself for him. Angling your hips up, you’re almost floating on the water for a moment as Astarion lines the tip of his cock with your entrance.

However, you’re instinctively clenching a second later when a pair of your lover’s fingers tease at your opening. You barely avoid clamping your legs back together at the sensation.

Recovering from the tickling probe, you look back to see a lust-drunk fanged smile, lips smeared with red. "Astarion, please,” you mutter. “I can't balance like this all day."

"Come darling, I know you’re quite talented," he taunts, easily gliding his fingers back in, curling until you truly do begin to lose balance.

"Astarion," you breathe out, clutching the side of the tub even harder to stay afloat.

Then his fingers slip back out, replaced a moment later by the head of his cock. “No need to worry, I have a seat for you right here.”

His palms cup your backside, his fingers squeeze, as you lower your hips back down, taking in his entire, slick length effortlessly in the water.

“Now isn’t that better?” he asks, grabbing your hips with one hand, the other finding yours on the side of the tub for support.

“Mmm,” is all that you manage, as you adjust to the sudden fullness. You haven’t lain with anyone else in so long, it’s hard to remember a cock other than his. Still, you can’t help but feel like he settles in you just right. Especially when you both slot together neatly, you taking him to the hilt.

Astarion drops another kiss on your back. “Comfortable?”

“Mhm,” you mumble. Now that you’re securely held in place by Astarion’s hips flush to yours, your legs hanging off the tub’s edges, you place your second hand back at your aching arousal. You begin to stroke yourself back into the same fervor Astarion had you in moments ago.

After a small, deliberate thrust of his hips, testing how you rise and fall in the water, Astarion starts moving against you. It’s slow at first, the water rippling out from you both in small waves. Then his hips rock back, only to drive back into you with sloshing force.

“A–ahh!” Sweet hells, he knows exactly how to hit your most sensitive spot. You had already been so heated, but now, with your lover’s full, hardened length pressing into you? You feel dizzy with pleasure.

Years of lovemaking, and you’re still in awe of how well he knows your body. It’s more than his previous experiences culminating in some kind of skillful paramour. No, this was built through time, trial, error, effort.

So as this gorgeous man you call love bounces you up and down in his lap, you feel yourself coming undone. Your breaths come ragged as you ride his cock, water spilling out of the tub with each and every buck. Your fingers clench the tub, barely holding on as you feel your pleasure coil tighter and tighter.

Astarion places kiss after kiss down your back, and you hear him murmuring, "Gods you're perfect." A harder kiss. "You feel so good." Another thrust. "Each." A nip at your skin. "And every." A thrust. "Time." Another kiss. "I–I love you."

For your part, you’re finding entire sentences difficult. With the feel of him throbbing inside you, the way his lips feel along your back, each roll of his hips, you're truly only capable of a few phrases. "Astarion." A splashing bounce. "I love you–" A loll back of your head. "Oh hells–" A dip of your hips. "I love you too."

When your peak finally runs through you like a shockwave, when you clench around him in ecstasy, those very same words are still on your lips. "I l–love you."

He moans at the sudden tightness, the muscles that now hold him deep within you. "Darling," he breathes. "Oh love. I can't–"

Astarion means to say that he can't hold on much longer. He'd already been so close, holding back only to keep your pleasure going. So you reach down to his fingers on your hip, as best as you can while still hanging on for dear life, and squeeze his hand. A wordless affirmation, a plea to join you, as he always has.

And it’s that silent communication that has his fingers lacing through yours, his neck craning back, his hips stuttering.

When he comes, there's no pretense or performance. There hasn't been for many years. So when you look back at his face in a hazy fuzz of emotion, the expression you see is utterly unbridled.

It's a look of sheer pleasure– his perfectly pale skin flushed a light rosy color, his usually impeccable hair stuck to his face in a mixture of sweat and water. His eyes are shut, his mouth agape as he spills into you.

So enraptured are you by the mundane beauty of his climax, that you’ve strained too far from your precariously balanced position. Your foot unhooks from the tub’s slippery edge and you fall onto Astarion’s lap with a large splash as he finishes. You’re both left panting and wet in the wake of both your and the tub’s peaks.

Water drips down your face, all of the soap bottles have been knocked from the edge of the tub. The high you’d felt just moments ago feels doused in the stark reality of making love in a bathtub.

However, when you feel Astarion’s breathy laughter on your back, feel his softening cock twitch with his last few thrusts, you know he’s still in fine spirits.

You stay together for a few moments as you both collect yourselves. Water is wiped from eyes, your second leg comes back into the tub, and several deep breaths are had. Once you’re relatively sorted, Astarion pulls himself out of you with a long, happy sigh.

The man falls back from you, sitting against the end of the tub in a tired flop. Then he’s patting the water in front of him, motioning you to join him in some post-coital cuddles.

You don’t need much more of an invitation.

Floating through the now much lower water, you stop just in front of him. Movements relaxed, you wrap your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and scoot into his waiting embrace.

"So," you start, looking at the wasteland of water and strewn soap bottles around the tub. "Looks like we made a mess."

"I told you we would," he says, closing his arms around you, pulling you against his chest.

"I know," you say, leaning into him comfortably. Your body is truly exhausted now, but your mind is a buzz of joy. "It was worth it though."

He laughs into your shoulder, squeezes you tighter. "Feeling better, I take it?"

"Gods yes," you say, tilting your head into his silver hair. "Thank you."

"Oh my sweet, it was my utmost pleasure," he replies, and you can feel his smile on your skin.

You both lean back, grinning at each other like fools. The smiles stay, even when your lips meet in a soft, wet kiss.

You will need to clean the room, the tub, likely your bodies once again– but all you can truly feel right now is content. Enjoying Astarion’s gentle fingers as they trace a pattern onto your skin, the warm water all around you, you very nearly forget that today was merely a day like any other.

The thousandth time you made love to Astarion, it was messy and wet and silly– somehow, it was sweet, caring, and loving all the same.

The thousandth time you made love to Astarion, you didn't know it was the thousandth time.

Just as you hadn't known your tenth thousand kiss, nor your hundred thousandth 'I love you.' Were anyone to ask you about them, you might not even remember the days or events surrounding any of them.

What you do know is that each individual moment holds no less importance, that the affection shared between you doesn’t diminish with each recurrence.

You’re unable to quantify your love, nor would you want to. All you really want is Astarion– his soft lips, tender hands, and whispered words of love– until your dying breath.

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #rogue + rogue #astarion x reader #astarion fluff #astarion fic #love at first knife #astarion fanfic #astarion x gn reader #astarion x gn!tav #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion smut #soft smut #soft astarion #gn smut

579 notes · View notes

tossyouforedinburgh · 5 months ago

Text

I wrote something and it didn't really seem long enough to post on ao3 but like... vaguely adult content I guess? I've still not figured how that works (or doesn't) on Tumblr. so have it under the cut. short ineffable phonecall about wall slams

"are you on your way?" Aziraphale asked cheerfully down the phone by way of hello.

"oh. er. Angel, look, I've had a really shitty day, I think I'm going to stay in my flat and watch shitty TV until I fall into a shitty sleep. I think there's a new series of Love Island on."

Aziraphale had no idea what that was but he didn't think it sounded like particularly good viewing. "if you're going to wallow and sulk, you can do it at mine. I've got wine, and you can tell me about your awful day and I can make very sympathetic noises."

"no. I would be extremely poor company." Crowley made a point of switching on the TV and turning it up loud enough it could be heard through the phone.

"oh I've been tolerating your moods for thousands of years," Aziraphale replied airily.

"Angel." Crowley gritted his teeth. "I am trying. to tell you. that I don't WANT. to take my bad mood out. on you."

the pause that followed was unreasonably long. Crowley felt his layers of irritation grow; he was trying to do a considerate thing, trying to grow as a person. if Aziraphale didn't appreciate his efforts he could go stick it. and if he didn't stop being so difficult he was going to find out exactly where in some graphic detail.

"but..." Aziraphale began awkwardly. "I rather think the angelic thing to do would be to absorb your bad mood for you. if you let it fester out into the world, that would be terrible, wouldn't it? but I, well I am a creature of, of love and such like, you couldn't harm me by being grumpy."

this was utter bullshit and it made Crowley's teeth itch. what the fuck was he doing now? was he actually angling for Crowley to snap at him?

"I don't mind. I could leave all the doors ajar so you could slam them. I... I'll stand near the wall so you can pin me up against it."

there was another intense silence, but this time it was Crowley's doing. oh, he was. he was deliberately goading him into this. why would the angel want to be roughed up? completely unwanted, a voice whispered into Crowley's brain: maybe he's into that. angels aren't into that sort of thing, Crowley hissed back in his thoughts. and definitely, absolutely, neither am I.

"I think it would make you feel better," Aziraphale added very quietly.

Crowley remembered the last time he had done that very thing; in Tadfield, in an ex Satanic nunnery. he'd pressed his hips up against Aziraphale, just to hold him in place of course, and he'd briefly thought, and then thought it was ridiculous, that the angel might just have had an erection at the time. angels definitely don't get erections from being roughed up in Satanic nunneries.

"just to be clear," Crowley said, and he'd already switched off the TV and picked up his car keys, "are you doing this to be self sacrificing or because you're... you're..." oh Jesus Christ, Mary, Joseph and a stable full of donkeys, he was actually going to say this out loud because if he didn't say it out loud he was going to spontaneously discorporate. "because you're... getting off on it?"

there was a very guilty silence. eventually, Aziraphale replied, "are you judging me?"

"yes. massively. hugely."

"only I did rather think that time in Tadfield that you definitely got hard holding me against that wall."

the sound of the Bentley roaring to life rattled out of Aziraphale's old rotary telephone. Freddie Mercury launched into Tie Your Mother Down. "Angel, I'll see you in five minutes. think of something incredibly irritating to say to me as a greeting." and with that Crowley hung up the phone and put his foot down.

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #ineffable idiots #ineffable spouses #this is very poorly negotiated obvs irl do not do this #but fiction is fiction and that's okay

150 notes · View notes

candlewaxandp0lar0ids · 1 year ago

Text

How to Leave Comments on Fanfiction

So, I recently made a poll to know if people might find it helpful to have a list of things they could talk about when leaving comments on fanfictions, be it on Ao3 or on here. A majority of people were interested in seeing the post so, well, I'm making it. I started writing and posting stuff online when I was a teenager, on a website where leaving constructive criticism was the norm. It's by far the place where I've gotten the most feedback and it was an incredibly formative experience for me as a young writer — and it taught me how to leave detailed comments.

Writing comments doesn't necessarily come easy. It's something that you may need to learn how to do, but the good news is that you can learn how to do it, so don't worry if you don't know what to say at first. Hopefully this list will give you some pointers on how to do that.

This is more or less the list I go through when I want to leave a detailed comment. Even if I don't have a specific idea at first, I'll go through the steps and I never come out empty-handed.

Comment etiquette:

What became apparent with the poll I made was that a lot of people worry about how they'll be perceived by the writers if they leave a comment. Now, obviously, writers aren't a monolith, but 99% of the time writers will be thrilled that you took the time to leave a comment to let them know what you enjoyed in their fic. I cannot stress this enough. We're not going to judge someone based on a positive comment they leave.

As it stands, on Tumblr and Ao3, it's seen as rude to leave negative feedback, unless the author has explicitly asked for it/agreed to it, so that's what I'll be going over here. Since quite a few writers did say on that post that they would like to get constructive comments as well, stay tuned, I'm trying to get something together to do that for authors. Other than that, you're good to go.

The main ways to let an author know your thoughts on a fic on Tumblr are:

reblogging a fic with your thoughts underneath it

reblogging with your thoughts in the tags, which is often less formal

leaving a comment as a 'reaction'

sending in an ask if they're activated on the blog (which means you can stay anonymous, if anon asks are allowed)

Reblogging means that your followers will see the post as well, and is therefore really appreciated on Tumblr.

As a note, you may find different systems work for different fics! Maybe leaving tag rambles works for you when commenting on drabbles, for example for me it's the system I use to leave comments on smut.

General advice:

Everything I'm saying in here is for people who want to be able to leave longer/more detailed comments and don't always know where to start. If, for whatever reason, you're not comfortable or you don't have time to do it at the moment, a simple "I love the fic, thank you for writing it" always goes a long way for an author.

The key thing to keep in mind if you're trying to find something else to say, I think, is to try making the comment specific to the fic you're leaving it on. It shows the writer what you took away from the fic and the fic's strong points, which is both meaningful and helpful to an author.

Comments don't have to be long to be meaningful. Don't stress about writing a ton; a one-sentence comment highlighting the fic's humor or how emotional it made you can be incredibly impactful.

With this out of the way, I'll go through things you can talk about in a comment, starting with what I think is the easiest and moving on to things that could require more thought. You don't have to do all of that. You may never use some of the things on that list. Leaving comments should not be a source of anxiety. So take what you want from the list, maybe come back to it if you need more inspiration, and don't worry too much about it :)

Favorite line(s) : pull from the fic to let the author know what your favorite line was. If you wish, you can expand on that by saying why it was your favorite: did it make you laugh? Did it make you feel something specific? Did the author nail the characterization with it? Was there some incredible metaphor? Did you find it beautiful or poetic even if you can't go into detail? Is there one line in particular at the beginning of the fic that hooked you in and made you want to keep reading?

All of that is very valuable for a writer to know. Some of my favorite comments I've gotten were a list of a reader's favorite lines from a fic with one or two sentences to explain why they liked them, so don't hesitate to do that more than once if you can!

Emotions: if there’s one thing I know about writers, it’s that we’re thrilled when we’ve made you cry. So tell us: how did the writing make you feel? Did you laugh out loud? If you did, was it the dialogue, or the narrator? Did it make you cry? Which part? Could you relate to one of the characters? Did it make you feel seen? Did the fluff make you feel all fuzzy inside or did the angst twist knots in your stomach? This isn't an exhaustive list, and emotions are great to draw from when you're leaving a comment!

Favorite element of the writing: Is there one thing in the writing that struck you as being particularly good, or what was your favorite thing to read? Is the author a master at writing dialogue? Are their descriptions so good you could see the whole scene? Are they really good at getting in a character's head and describing their emotions? Were you hooked from the start and couldn't stop until you reached the end?

Characterization: Now, this might be less instinctive, but if you've been in a fandom for a while, you'll probably be able to identify these things fairly easily. You can tell the author if you think they've nailed one aspect of a character. Did you have a favorite character in the fic? What did you think of them? Did the author manage to capture their voice? Was the attitude spot-on? Which parts of the character, if you can name them? Were there aspects of the character you particularly enjoyed? Did the author shine a light on something you hadn't considered or on something you don't think is highlighted often enough? Is there one thing from the fic you can actually picture/hear a character doing/saying in your head?

Style: I'd argue this is the hardest part, and you shouldn't feel bad if it's not something you can really comment on. As someone whose first language isn't English, I know I struggle with it. Style can be perceived as the way the author's voice comes through in the text. It can come through in punctuation, in the way sentences are formed, in the choice of the words themselves. If, when you read, you feel something intangible that doesn't fit well in the other categories, it just might be the author's style.

Here are some things (non-exhaustive list, of course) you could say about an author's style: it can be direct, straight to the point. The author doesn't bother with ornaments. Every sentence feels impactful. Maybe the writing feels intense. You're overwhelmed by the characters and their feelings and you feel truly engulfed in the story. Maybe the style is light and airy. It's so easy to read you don't even notice you are reading. Maybe the writing is intricate. Going through it is like piecing a puzzle together, sentences are foreshadowing and metaphors reveal deep truths about the characters. Maybe the style is rich. While not always the easiest, it's a pleasure to read through it, the author has a wide vocabulary, and you might want to compare it to a well-written novel.

If you identify specific elements of that style (metaphors, interesting use of punctuation, etc.), don't hesitate to point them out and let the author know you enjoy them!

That is it for this post, hopefully it doesn't look too daunting — again, you absolutely do not need to do all that in any comment, but maybe going through this list can help you leave comments for authors you enjoy.

I like to end my comments with 'Thank you for writing and sharing this with us', so I'll tell you thank you for reading, I hope this was helpful, and please consider reblogging if you'd like to save this or if you think it could help someone else!

As a bonus, my friend @elidebrey and I (but mostly her) made a 'checklist' for commenting, to help remember all this if that's something you'd like, so use at will!

A big thank you to @elidebrey, @yoongihan and @antoniorhinothethird for their precious opinions on this ♥

#fanfiction #ao3 #fic #fic things #fanfic #archive of our own #author things #fanfic comments #ao3 comments #writing #long post #very long post #fandom

524 notes · View notes

reidingandwriting · 6 months ago

Text

darlin’ i’d wait for you > p.p.

Word Count: ~5,000

Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Warnings: The author entirely makes up how the memory erasing spell would work, mild language throughout, mentions of an attempted mugging

Author’s Note: What watching NWH for the first time in two years does to a mf! Cross posted on my ao3 account. Peter deserves a happy ending and by god I’m giving him one!!

It was a cold night that night. Peter swung through the city, happy things were relatively calm tonight. though he wouldn’t mind a little more action so he could fight and warm up a little. He was about to turn in for the night, anyway, so Peter could cope.

It was on his swing back home that he saw it. Three bulking men cornering one person in an alley. Peter perched on the rooftop, assessing the scene before he jumped in. Two appeared to be unarmed, but Peter froze when he saw the gun the third pulled out. Peter quickly shot a web at the gun, yanking it out of his hands and up towards the roof before he dove in. One direct kick to the face had the first guy out cold.

Peter dodged the punch from one of the others and he narrowly missed another punch from the other. Peter landed a punch of his own to one of the men and webbed him to the wall before doing the same to the remaining guy. Peter webbed the guy who had the gun against the side of the dumpster in case he woke up, and then he turned to face you.

“Holy shit. Thank you so much, Spider-Man.” Peter froze when he heard your voice and he was grateful to the mask for hiding his expression. You. Tony's child, his former partner… all before Doctor Strange’s spell erased all memories of peter parker from the world. Realization flashed in your eyes and Peter felt his heart skip a beat from your smile. Did you remember? “Spidey! I haven't seen you in forever it feels like. It’s been ages, hasn’t it?”

Of course you didn’t remember him. You knew Spider-Man from him working with the Avengers, but you didn’t know him. Most of the time he spent with your family was as Peter. Spider-Man had been a rare visitor to the Stark family; what was the point of hiding behind the Spider-Man persona when you all knew him? Why hide from someone who had been to his and May’s home countless times? From the same someone who had spent hours in the lab with him making improvements to the spider suit.

“Yeah. Yeah, it has been, hasn’t it?” Peter rubbed the back of his neck and you still smiled that bright, warm smile. Peter's eyes began to burn with the feeling of unshed tears; god he had missed you so much. “I'm, uh, surprised you’re out here this late.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be. Happy was running a little late picking me up, and I thought it would be quicker for me to just walk over to his, but then that happened,” you laughed and Peter couldn’t help but smile as well.

“Do- do you want an escort? Or I could wait with you until you’re picked up. My patrol is over anyways, and I don’t. I don't have anywhere else to be.” Peter offered and you nodded.

“Let me just,” your phone ringing cut you off and you smiled apologetically at him. “One second, sorry.” You dug your phone out of your pocket and answered it, holding it to your ear. “Hey, Hap!” Peter could faintly make out happy on the other line and his heart ached. Happy… Peter tuned out the majority of your conversation, not wanting to eavesdrop and violate your privacy, even if he kind of wanted to just to hear Happy’s voice some more. You hung up the phone a moment later and Peter turned to look at you.

“What's the plan?”

“Since I'm not too far from Happy, I think I'll walk over to where he’s waiting. Are you sure you don’t mind walking with me? I'm sure you’re ready to get home by now.” Home. Peter wanted to laugh- home didn’t exist to him anymore. Not one he could have, anyways.

“Wouldn’t be very friendly neighborhood Spider-Man of me to let you walk by yourself, especially after you’ve already been cornered once. At gunpoint,” Peter emphasized and you merely shrugged.

“Unfortunately something I've gotten somewhat immune to. The panic will hit later,” Your tone was joking but Peter knew the weight behind your words. You were like your dad. So good at bottling up emotions and being able to put them to good use. Until the bottle eventually filled and you cracked. You had gotten better about bottling up and your emotions hit faster now- even if you did have delayed reactions to trauma at this point. “I guess we should start walking then, huh?”

Peter followed just a step behind you as you walked to Happy’s. You made small talk with Peter, asking him how patrols were going and how he had been lately. Peter brushed over that question and turned it back on you, and you happily obliged. You had just left your friend Betty’s since it was her birthday, and you were about to go back home to celebrate the holidays with Happy, your mom, and sister. Pepper and Morgan…

It had taken a few visits for Morgan to warm up to Peter, but she had quickly worked her way into his heart and she rather quickly learned that she had Peter (and most everyone who knew her) wrapped around her finger. He had countless movie nights with you and the younger Stark and Peter remembered the first time Morgan chose to cuddle into his side during the movie like it was yesterday.

“What about you, Spidey? Any plans for the holidays?” Your question startled Peter and he shook his head. “Nothing?”

“I.. I don't really have anyone to celebrate with. Will probably just stay in, watch some movies. Maybe do an extra long patrol, gotta make sure everyone else gets to be safe during the holidays.” There goes that look Peter missed- you were thinking about something; your brows furrowed just slightly and your nose scrunched in contemplation.

“Well, if you get lonely. You should reach out to me.” You dug in your bag for a moment before you pulled out a sticky note and pen. You wrote quickly before you handed the note to him- your number. Of course he had it already, had long since memorized it, but you didn’t know that. “No pressure or anything at all but. It can get lonely this time of year, and my dad always spoke highly of you. So if you ever just need someone to talk to or anything,” you sounded a little uncertain. Anxious, even. “I unfortunately adopted my dad’s horrible sleeping patterns so I should just be a text away.”

“Thank you. So much,” When Peter said your name, you blinked in surprise that quickly smoothed out. Right, Spider-Man knew your name, why wouldn’t he? A familiar voice snapped you and Peter back to reality and you waved excitedly.

“Did something happen? Why is Spider-Man walking with you?” You hesitated briefly and Peter stepped in.

“We ran into each other while I was swinging around. My patrol was ending anyways, and it wasn’t out of my way to walk with them.” Peter lied smoothly. It was completely out of his way and he didn’t want to mention the fact that you had almost been mugged, potentially worse. Selfishly, he wanted another chance to see you and he knew he wouldn’t get that opportunity if Happy knew what happened.

“He was great company,” you flashed Peter a grateful smile before you turned back to Happy.

“Thanks, Spider-Man. I've got it from here.” Happy looked at him and Peter nodded.

“I hope I'll hear from you, Spidey.” You said and Peter smiled. Peter said his goodbyes before he swung away, leaving you and Happy outside his apartment complex.

Peter barely locked his door and tore off his mask before tears filled his eyes. God he missed you. Missed Happy, Pepper, Morgan, all his friends. You may not remember him, but he hoped this could be the start of starting over with you. He had to have you in his life again, even if he was just a stranger to you right now.

Two weeks had passed since you had run into Spider-Man and you were feeling odd. You had trouble sleeping the night you got home and you assumed it was the stress from having the gun pulled out on you. Every night since then, you’ve had dreams that felt strangely like memories? A few of them included your friends MJ and Ned, but they all had some guy with a blurry face in them. His voice in the memories was a little distorted, but vaguely familiar at the same time.

You were doing some cleaning when you found an old sketchbook and you took a moment to go through a few of the pages, and you tilted your head when again, you saw the faceless guy from your dreams. How could you not remember him? You stopped when you saw a polaroid in the middle of your sketchbook, a picture of you and your father with the faceless guy in the middle. You slammed the book shut and tried to focus on controlling your breathing. You slid down against the wall, hands trembling.

Who was this person? How was he such a prominent part of your life but you couldn’t remember him? You buried your face in your hands and you barely processed the click of your door opening.

“Since MJ is coming over, what do you think about- kid?” Pepper's voice sounded through the room and you looked up. “Hey, what happened?” Pepper rushed over and took a seat beside you. Her hands cupped your face as her thumbs wiped away the tears you hadn’t even noticed beginning to fall.

“Do you ever feel like there’s something you’re just missing?” You nodded towards the sketchbook and Pepper cautiously grabbed it, and she flipped through the pages. She stopped when she saw the polaroid and looked at you. “I feel like I'm going crazy, Mom. I know who this is, I have to know. But I can't remember him. Ever since I ran into Spider-Man, I've been having these dreams. I think they’re memories and they all have him in them. I thought I was just making him up and then I saw this. I don't know what’s wrong with me, why can’t I remember him?”

“I don’t remember this either.” Pepper said and you looked at her, confused. “I remember taking this picture but him?” Pepper tapped the person in the middle. “Not a clue who he is. I can ask Happy if you want? Maybe he remembers?” You nodded before you curled into Pepper’s side. Your mom’s arms wrapped around you, and she leaned her head against yours. “We'll figure it out, somehow.”

You tried to have a normal rest of your night. You helped your mom cook dinner for everyone, you all played a game with Morgan before tucking her into bed with a bedtime story, and you, MJ, and your mom watched some mindless reality show before she went to bed. The night ended the same way, with her kissing your head and telling you not to stay up too late, and you stayed on the couch for a while longer before returning to your room. You and MJ laid on your bed and MJ let out a loud sigh.

“Okay, what’s up?” MJ asked and you turned towards her. “You’ve been acting off all night and you’re guarding your phone. I’m all for some quiet body doubling time, but you seem a little checked out.”

“It’s gonna sound crazy,” you said and MJ shrugged.

“I’m no stranger to crazy.” And so you told her. You told her how you ran into Spider-Man and how you have felt odd ever since. You told her about the weird dreams and how you feel like your memories are incomplete and you’re missing something. You showed her the sketchbook, the photo, and you took a deep breath.

“I reached out to Happy and he doesn’t remember him either, but he says he’ll try to look into things. I, uh, have my own plan if he’ll ever answer me.”

“Who?” MJ asked.

“Have you ever seen that… really strange building in the city?”

“Thanks for letting me in,” You said to Doctor Strange, Stephen he insisted, as you took a seat in his… was lair the right term? Office felt too informal but lair felt too menacing. Whatever.

“I must admit I was curious as to why you wanted to see me. I don’t think we’ve spoken since the funeral.” Stephen said and you nodded.

“Never had much of a reason to. We didn’t know each other before, and I was,” you trailed off, “occupied after. Between my sister and helping my mom with the company, and this new thing that’s occurred.” Stephen hummed in response and made a gesture for you to continue speaking. “I think some kind of magic has interfered with my life and altered my memories.” Stephen paused, genuinely looking like he was blue screening, and you began to speak again when he raised his hand.

“What exactly do you think has been altered?” Stephen asked, words coming out slowly, like he was still processing what he had heard.

“I think a person has been removed from my memories. Not just mine. Mine, my family’s, my friends. I have a feeling it’s bigger than that, and.” You trailed off.

“I would be the only one- well, not the only one capable- but I would be the only one to risk a spell of that caliber.” Your lips twitched upwards into a smirk and Stephen rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of amusement on his face as well. “Is it just your memories that have changed?” You shook your head and pulled the photo from your bag and you held it out to him. Stephen took it carefully, studying it.

“I have drawings of him, but the faces are all blank. I can see him in my dreams, I can hear his voice.” Your voice cracked. “I don’t even know who this is, but with each day that passes, the pain of losing whoever he is gets worse.” Stephen’s eyes met yours and you continued. “I can’t sleep without him being involved. I keep getting these deja vu moments but they’re incomplete. Hell, even my camera roll on my phone is messed up. Every picture or video he’s in? His face is blurry and his voice is distorted. Every night it gets worse. Like my brain wants me to remember, but I can’t.” You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. You can’t cry in front of the wizard, that would be so embarrassing.

“Did something specific trigger this? When did you notice your memories had been affected?” Stephen asked and you sighed.

“After I ran into Spider-Man two weeks ago. I was walking to meet Happy, and some guys had cornered me. Spider-Man saved me and from that night on, I feel like my brain has been scrambled.” Stephen’s eyes widened a fraction. “You’re missing something too, aren’t you?” Your question came out more as a statement and Stephen stood. You quickly stood and when Stephen saw you stand, he walked out of the room and down the hall to another room. This room was darker, much more lair-ish, filled with books and other mystical looking items. Stephen’s strangely sentient cape fluttered over, whipping around you in some oddly cute form of greeting? before it flew over to Stephen and settled on his shoulders.

“I’m fuzzy on the details, but I remember seeing Spider-Man recently. We were fighting over some containment box that had a powerful spell in it. Then suddenly I was in the city, near the Statue of Liberty. Something big was happening and I performed some spell to help Spider-Man and I don’t remember anything after. Suddenly I was home and I guess I never looked further into it.” Stephen pulled a book from a shelf and flipped it open, rapidly scanning the pages until he landed on it. “This was the spell I had to contain.” As Stephen told you about the basics of the spell, your heart ached. What could have happened to Spider-Man that made him need a memory erasing spell?

“Then Spider-Man must have asked you to do another memory erasing spell. Hiding his identity?”

“More like erasing it. The universe as we knew it was breaking, the multiverse is real. And it almost became a real threat to our universe. Whatever I did fixed it. The multiverse is safe, but-”

“Now no one remembers who our hero really is,” you said. “I’m guessing there’s no way to counteract the spell.”

“No safe way to do it, even if we discovered who Spider-Man is. If it even could be reversed, the threat would return. These people were after Spider-Man, whoever he is. If the spell was reversed, those same people could very well slip through and become a problem all over again. Likely worse than before.”

“Shit. There’s no winning, is there? He just has to exist for the rest of his life, alone.”

“He may be alone, but it is odd that your memories are seemingly trying to come back. Has anyone else you’ve told experienced anything similar?” You shook your head. “He has you, then.” Stephen made eye contact with you. “Memory altering spells like this are unpredictable at best. For whatever reason, your brain is trying to make the connections. And from what I know about your family, if you are anything like your father, you are the best person to figure this out. I’m happy to assist however I can, but you, kid? You’re Spider-Man’s best chance at having anyone remember him again.”

It had been a few days since Peter had last contacted you. He didn’t text you often, scared to bother you. You always responded whenever he did reach out, but Peter hesitated when it came to you. Selfishly, he wanted to be in your life again. But he was terrified he would only hurt you again. That’s what he seemed best at and he couldn’t put you through that pain again. It’s been about three weeks since your first run-in and Peter hadn’t seen you in person again. He was starting to think it was a sign that he didn’t deserve to be in your life anymore.

It was raining as he came home from patrol that night. His apartment complex was in sight and he fumbled when he saw you outside of his building. Peter perched on a lamp post near you and called your name, and you jumped when you heard him.

“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me!” You held a hand to your chest when you saw him, and Peter winced.

“Sorry, sorry! What are you doing out here?” Peter hopped down to stand in front of you. God, you were drenched. Your hair laid flat, soaked from the storm and Peter looked around. “Actually, let’s not have this conversation outside. You’re gonna get sick and your mom would kill me.” Peter opened an arm for you. “I need you to hold onto me.”

“Hold onto you?”

“I can’t exactly walk through the front door,” Peter gestured to himself.

“Right. Sorry.” You walked over to him and Peter wrapped an arm around you, lifting you just enough to support you before he shot a web towards his fire escape. You yelped as you clung to him and Peter carefully set you down once he was steady on the fire escape. Peter slid his window open and carefully helped you in before he climbed through, shutting the window behind him. Peter felt self conscious as you looked around the minimally decorated apartment. Peter didn’t have the money for anything beyond the essentials, and he knew his apartment looked more like a crash pad than a home.

“Do you have, like, towels or anything? I don’t want to,” you trailed off, and Peter sprung into action.

“Right! Sorry. Towels are in the bathroom. I’ll grab you one real quick.” Peter rushed to the bathroom and grabbed a towel. “Here, let me grab you something dry to change into.” Peter left the bathroom and walked towards his closet in the hall. He grabbed a sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants and handed them to you. You thanked Peter before you disappeared into the bathroom and Peter looked around. He could, shit. He could at least get you a glass of water, right? Peter walked to the kitchen and grabbed two cups, filling them both with ice and water. God, why did he feel so sick? It was you. He knows you, he loves you. You had never judged him before, why would you now?

Peter had just set up the glasses when you came out of the bathroom. He swore his heart skipped a few beats when he saw you in his sweatshirt, and you played with the end of the sleeve.

“I, uh, left my clothes in your shower. Thanks for these,” you said and Peter nodded. God Peter was so glad he had tidied up this morning.

“No problem. It’s not much but make yourself at home. Should’ve dropped by tomorrow, tomorrow is grocery day and I could’ve had more for you,” Peter said and you shook your head as you sat on the edge of his bed. Peter stood by the other edge of the bed and you tilted your head.

“Keeping the suit on? Isn’t it a little wet?” Peter’s eyes widened and he rushed to his closet to change, and he barely heard your faint huff of laughter. Peter stared at himself in the mirror, mask still on his face after he had changed. He didn’t know what to do. Not like revealing his identity would change anything, but he felt safer behind the mask. With a sigh, he left the bathroom and your smile fell to a frown when you saw the mask. “Can we talk, Spidey?” Peter took a seat beside you and you both turned to face each other. Your gaze was determined, hopeful, and anxious all at the same time and Peter couldn’t tell if he wanted to look into your eyes forever or look away from the emotion in them.

“The floor is yours,” Peter said and you let out a breath.

“I may sound batshit insane, so please. Just listen to me until I’m done.” You said and Peter nodded. After a moment, you began to speak. “I know who you are.” Peter swore his heart stopped for a beat or two. “Or I did at least. You knew me, my family, my friends. Our friends, I guess I should say. But something happened and now no one knows you. Doctor Strange did some kind of spell for whatever saving the multiverse reason, and everyone forgot about you. The man behind Spider-Man.” Your eyes began to water and Peter wanted to reach out, to hold you close. But he was frozen.

“Ever since we ran into each other those weeks ago, I’ve been having these dreams. Memories, more like, but there was something missing in them. You. I could see the memories, I could hear your voice and see you. But I couldn’t remember who the voice belonged to. I couldn’t see the face, it was all blurry and distorted. I have a picture of us with my dad, I have countless videos and pictures in my camera roll; all of them having a person with a blurry face and distorted voice. For three weeks, you’ve been on my mind, awake or not. I’ve spent the last five days trying to find you, trying to figure out anything about you. Every file I found, redacted. Eventually, I just tracked your usual patrol route and your response time to local crimes and hoped I would stumble across you. I’d been walking around for at least two hours to find you, because somehow. I just know you’re the person I’m missing.” Your hands reached out and settled on Peter’s shoulders, and it took all of Peter’s restraint not to melt into your touch as he whispered your name. “Can I…?” You tapped the side of Peter’s neck and he nodded.

You moved slowly, as if you’d hurt him, as your hands traveled. You stuck your thumbs under the mask and you looked at Peter. Only when he nodded did you start to pull the mask off. The seconds it took you to pull the mask off felt like hours to Peter, and you let the mask fall beside you as you studied Peter. You reached out towards him, motions careful as you moved, and you rested one of your hands on his cheek. Peter felt the first tear slip and then you blinked.

It was like Peter was seeing an entirely new person again. Your eyes flashed with a million different emotions until they settled on recognition. Your eyes were wide and your own eyes began to fill up with tears.

“Peter?” You whispered and the dam broke. Peter let out a choked sob as he nodded and you threw yourself into his arms, clinging to him just as quickly as he clung to you. “Oh my god, Peter.” One of your hands tangled in his hair, the other hand gripped the material of his shirt like a vice. You moved back just enough to look at him, and Peter let out a teary laugh as his forehead rested against your own.

“I missed you so much.” Tears were falling from Peter’s cheeks and you somehow did the impossible by pulling Peter even closer to you. “How, how do you?”

“I don’t know,” You laughed in between your cries. “I don’t know how but oh my god, Peter.” You pulled back, his brown eyes meeting your own, and you smiled at him. So happy, so familiar, so full of love. Peter cupped your cheeks and pressed a kiss to your lips, which you happily returned.

You remembered him. Peter wasn’t entirely alone anymore. He had you. The love of his life, one of his best friends. When you broke apart, you cupped Peter’s face in your hands and wiped his tears away with your thumbs. “I thought I’d be alone forever. That no one would ever remember me. And I couldn’t, I couldn’t make myself talk to anyone new because all I do is get people hurt and-”

“Shhh, that’s not true. Not true at all.” You raked your fingers through his hair and Peter slumped into you. “I told you, you’d have me forever. Just took a little while for me to find you again.” You kissed Peter’s head and ran one hand up and down his back, the other gently working out the tangles in his hair. Peter’s breathing began to steady and he closed his eyes. For the first time in what felt like ages, he was content.

“What’s gonna happen now?” Peter asked and you hummed.

“First, you’re gonna rest. Your dark circles could rival my own,” you teased and Peter huffed in response, but a smile still lit up his face. “I told my mom I would be out tonight, so tomorrow morning, we’ll decide what our next steps are. I know there’s a few people who would like to meet you again, but if you’re not ready, we’ll wait.”

“I want to see them again. I’ve missed everyone so much, but I don’t know if I’m ready.” Peter trailed off. “I’m really scared.” Peter admitted. “I’m scared when I see them again, they won’t want to get to know me again. I’m scared I’ll wake up and this will all be a fluke; you’ll have forgotten me and I’ll be alone all over again.” Peter’s grip on you tightened and you continued to comb through his hair, hoping to soothe him.

“They’re your best friends, Peter. They’ll love you.” Peter was fully laying against you at this point, and you shifted so you could lean back as well. “I know my mom will too, and Morgan will be so happy to have a big brother again. But you’re in control, okay? You get to choose when we meet, who we meet.” Peter let out a shaky breath as he buried his face in your neck, and you closed your eyes. “Just say the word and I’ll make it happen.”

“I love you.” Peter pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. “So much.”

“I love you even more.” And for the first time in weeks, you both fell into a dreamless sleep. The next afternoon, you and Peter stood outside your family's cabin. Your hand held Peter's and he squeezed your hand.

You had told your mom you were bringing company over, but you had been vague about the details. Kind of hard to explain everything over a phone call, you rationalized to Peter. You had Peter's bag on your back, with enough clothes to last him a few days, and his suit just in case. Neither of you seemed fond of the idea of separating now that you finally had each other again and if your mom didn't understand, you were willing to stay with Peter at a hotel because 'I love you, Peter, but this apartment is not it. Maybe I can buy you out of your lease,' you had said with a laugh but you were half joking. Whatever your next move ended up being, you'd do it together.

With one final nod, you walked inside with Peter, ready to re-introduce him to your family; ready for him to be a part of your family again.

197 notes · View notes

27spoons · 8 days ago

Text

Wintering | Yellowjackets

summary: Late S2, you decide that the team could use some Christmas spirit. So, you do what you can to bring them some.

pairing: just general platonic yj/reader

warnings: n/a

wc: 1560

ao3

Snow falls delicately around the cabin as the fire crackles before you. Van adds another log as she takes a seat beside you, the orange glow flickering across her face.

"We'll need more wood soon." As the flames consume the log, she asks, "Didn't you draw the card?"

"Yeah," You nod, taking a quick glance outside. "Guess I just hoped it would stop snowing before I went out." The snow isn't falling harshly, just large snowflakes slowly descending to the ground. "Looks like I might have been hoping for too much." You sigh as you look back to the fire.

"Yeah, well, everyone has to play their roles." Van remarks flatly, "Everyone draws cards for chores. Yours just happens to be gathering wood today. Don't see Nat and Travis complaining about hunts."

You have to fight the urge to roll your eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I get it." You push yourself to a standing position, "I'll go get started before it gets dark out." In response, Van makes some sarcastic half-comment, but you choose to ignore it.

Tensions have been high since Javi. Everyone copes differently, you suppose. And she does have a point. You guys do need firewood, and everyone does have a role to play.

You throw on another hoodie, and if you had known you'd end up stuck out in the middle of fucking nowhere, Canada, you would have packed gloves. You miss having warm fingers sometimes. You miss a lot of things, actually. But warm fingers are the most significant thing you miss right now.

Grabbing the axe from the wall, you pause before you leave, overhearing a conversation between Mari and Gen. Christmas. They're talking about when Christmas could be. Has to be soon, right? Or maybe it already passed?

Now, that's an idea.

You grab the rope as well and make a mental plan. Will you chop down some trees for wood? Yes. But you're also surrounded by pine trees. There has to be one out here that would fit inside the cabin.

It's not the first tree you cut. Or the second. Or even the third. Those are for firewood. God knows if you showed up with a pine tree, talking about Christmas, with nothing to keep the fire fed, none of the girls would be all that eager.

Well, maybe Misty. But Misty is… Misty.

It's nearing sunset by the time you find the perfect tree. Well, perfect is an overstatement, considering it's bald in a few spots, and you accidentally slipped while cutting it, so now there's a giant gash in the trunk, but whatever.

A tree, anyway.

When you drag it back to the cabin, it takes a little more effort than usual. Typically, you'd debranch it before moving it, but that's hard to do when you plan on using this tree as a Christmas tree. Doesn't help that by the time you get the tree down, it's almost pitch dark out.

Damn Canadians and their winters with their lack of sunlight.

"Need a hand?" Nat leans against a post outside the cabin with her arms crossed as you approach, dragging the tree behind you with exertion. "Surprised you brought another tree back. Seemed like the ones you got were enough for now."

You shake your head as you drop the rope onto the snow out front, "Not for firewood." You stretch your back, groaning as you feel something pop into, or out of, place. "Thought we could, uh, maybe… Christmas." You gesture to the pine.

"Seriously? Christmas?" The hunter scoffs, "Yeah, nothing like thanking Santa Claus for our dead friends." She then sighs and shakes her head, "Sorry. Just… yeah. You want a hand?" She takes a step off the porch and into the snow, joining you at your side. "I can help you bring it in."

"God, please." You murmur as you unwrap the rope from the trunk, "If I try to move it again, I'll probably throw my back out or something." A tense laugh follows the statement as you rub the back of your neck. "C'mon, let's, uh…" You move to one end of the tree as Nat takes the other, and you two hoist it off the ground with simultaneous grunts.

"Is that a Christmas tree?!" Misty is the first to speak up, because of course she is, when Nat kicks the door open as you two move the tree inside.

You find yourself smiling all the same. "Yep." You and Nat move the tree to the corner of the main area, setting it down with a thud. "Dunno when Christmas actually is, but… we had a prom, had a baby shower. Why can't we… do something else, y'know? Make things slightly more tolerable for a little while." You walk over to the fire and warm your hands in front of it as the others glance over at the tree with mixed expressions.

"This is stupid." A voice cuts through, "Hardly anything, or any reason, to get into the… "holiday spirit."" Shauna scowls as she appraises the tree.

"Could be fun." Van shrugs with a grin, "Sing Christmas carols." She laughs at that as if finding the idea itself funny.

"Oh, that's a good idea!" Misty chimes in, "I could-"

"No." Mari cuts her off with a scoff, "We’d be better off listening to wolves howl."

"But it isn't the worst idea." Taissa nods, "The tree. Not the… carols." She adds for clarification, waving a hand dismissively in Misty's direction.

"We need something to distract us right now." Lottie offers quietly, "Something more than this. We could… use it as a way to honour the ones we've lost. It doesn't have to be for no reason."

"We could carve some ornaments! Or use some paper to make some paper snowflakes! Decorate the tree properly!" Misty is practically bouncing on her heels at this point. And… yeah, you saw that coming. Hardly surprising she's the most excited about the idea. "We don't need presents for it to be Christmas!" She adds, "Just each other!"

The last statement earns a collective groan from the group and a scowl from Shauna.

"Could use some paper from my SAT book." Akaliah says as she rummages through her bag, "More useful as snowflakes than study material at this point…"

"And someone," Van shoots you a grin, "Just chopped down a few trees, so we've got the wood to make some shitty ornaments. We could do this."

"This is stupid," Shauna repeats louder this time.

"Yeah," Nat snorts, "But… Lottie is right. We could use a distraction. What's the harm?" She shrugs and leans back against a wall. "Not like we really have much to lose by spending half a day doing… this." She gestures to the tree with one of her hands before crossing them again.

Silence falls over the groups as everyone considers this. No one seems to have any strong complaints or actual reasons not to do it.

"Great!" Misty says finally, cutting through the silence and clapping her hands. "It's settled! We'll have Christmas in a few days!" And, since no one is arguing with her, it gets added to everyone's mental calendar.

The next few days are spent mostly the same, except for the people carving ornaments and cutting snowflakes to decorate the tree. Not everyone partakes, but those that do have a noticeable morale boost.

By the time "Christmas" comes around, the tree is looking… more like a Christmas tree and less like a regular pine tree.

"Someone call Charlie Brown and tell him we stole his tree." Van snorts as the group takes in sight of the tree.

"Hey, at least we have more than one ornament." Tai chimes in with a grin from Van's side. "And it's got…" She gestures to the tree, "Less bald spots. And it's taller."

"Gee," Van replies, "Talk about the bare minimum."

"Well, I think that it's great." Misty says with a little too much cheer in her voice, "Now all we need is hot chocolate." She practically skips over to the base of the tree and takes a seat, very obviously expecting everyone to follow suit. When no one does, she pouts.

Then, an idea comes to her mind. "Van!" Misty says, turning to face the redhead. "Would you be able to tell us a Christmas story?"

Van perks up slightly, "That I can do." She grins lazily and takes a seat on a chair, and eventually, you and the others find their seats around Van. Like kids listening to their grandpa spin a tale.

"Alright." Van grins, slapping her thighs as she glances around, "Alright. Let's set the scene. Suburbs of Chicago, right around Christmas time. We're following the McCallister family, specifically, Kevin McCallister…"

As Van starts retelling Home Alone to the best of her abilities, the fire crackles in the background, the tree stands (mostly) proud in the corner of the cabin, and things are okay for the first time in a while. You can pretend to be teenagers listening to a Christmas tale and not worry about what tomorrow brings. That's a tomorrow you problem.

"I still think it's stupid that they forgot a whole child," Shauna grumbles at some point during the story, earning a laugh from some of the girls.

"Five kids?" Tai rolls her eyes, "I'd probably forget one, too."

a/n: i have yellowjackets brainrot and i love christmas so much its not even funny bro

i also havent written fanfics since i was 16 but yk theres always time to start again

57 notes · View notes

cjlouwho · 2 months ago

Note

I 100% agree with you that that was lazy writing. What was the point of deliberately picking someone the audience (and the 118) were familiar with to be Buck's LI when they could have picked some random. What was the point in delving into Tommy's history and his feelings, what was the point of showing him head over heels for Buck in the last ep, of getting a gift for their 6 month anniversary only to say "oh well, I figured we wouldn't last, so I'm gonna get out now before you break my heart". Why let him get that involved if Tommy's ideology was to never allow himself to move forward in the relationship because ultimately he thought it wouldn't last? It's whiplash for the audience after you saw how INVESTED Tommy was in the last ep! And how exactly is this Buck getting off the hamster wheel? This relationship has ended pretty much exactly like all his others - he gets invested, they leave! They had so much potential as a couple - seeing what it's like for two fire-fighters to date knowing they're both in risky jobs, maybe Buck having to meet/deal with Tommy's homophobic father, getting to explore a "new" character's back story instead of rehashing the same story lines from the mains as well as seeing more of how Buck deals with being in a same sex relationship. All wasted.

And since they referenced Glee, if the plan is for it to echo the Kurt/Blaine relationship in that show where they broke up so they could "explore" before getting back together, by doing so they ruined that relationship so much that by the end it wasn't satisfying that they WERE endgame - they weren't the couple we fell in love with. (And also, way to reinforce the negative stereotype of "you can't ever be long term with your first". I should let my sister, my cousin and my aunt know even though they've all been married for years to their husbands - all their first.) Even if they do decide to bring Tommy back down the line, would it even be the same relationship we fell in love with? Would we even trust the writers to stick with it and treat it well? Or if they did a final episode reunion so Buck doesn't end the series alone, how is that satisfying for the audience?

I have been watching 911 since it started, and I have always been part of the general audience up until S7 where I joined the fandom because I thought Buck/Tommy were adorable. It's the first time in years I've become invested in a couple on a show. It's the first time in years that I've dipped my toes back into a fandom. Like you, this ship inspired me to write fic again. I have a bunch of wip's waiting to be posted on ao3 and I honestly don't know if I'll finish them now. And if they have broken them up for Buddie to get together I think I'll stop watching. And not just because I never saw them as a romantic couple (I only ever saw a deep friendship) but because logistically I don't see it working. Besides the fact that I think that while they work as friends, they probably wouldn't gel as a couple, two people on the same team in a relationship? That will screw up the 118 dynamic, especially as this show looooves relationship drama. If they get in a fight, or worse, break up, then what? How would that work within the 118, unless someone transfers out, but then it's bye bye the 118 we love. And not to mention, in the only 4 months I have been in this fandom I have seen some VILE crap from the buddies, and from what I understand it they've been like that for years. And the show runners know about it, so if they go with Buddie, congratulations, you've rewarded toxic behaviour and given them a license to be worse (look at them already, going in the bucktommy tags and gloating).

I told myself after Glee ended and they royally screwed everything up that I wouldn't watch another Ryan Murphy show because he has a history of doing that sort of thing. When 911 came along I was cautious, but it looked like it would be different - more grown up if you will, especially since Ryan Murphy hasn't really been involved since season 1. I should have just gone with my gut. I just hope that, knowing these last two eps were filmed weeks before they aired, the showrunners see how popular they were and realise crap, we've made a BIG mistake. (Everyone should flood instagram and especially Facebook, whoch is more GA than most social media platforms, with RESPECTFUL comments about how devastated they are, and who knows, it might make them consider bringing Tommy back sometime in 8b - I believe they're still writing the back half of the season.)

Side note, I feel really sorry for Lou. Yeah he's going back to SWAT, and I love him in that (even though his character can be a dick sometimes) but he's said in interviews how he's tired of always being cast as "the muscle" due to his size and he seemed genuinely happy to get this role, which was exactly what he was looking for - the sweet, caring, romantic love interest role where he could show some depth, and they screwed him over (sounds like he even thought Buck and Tommy were doing well and wasn't expecting the break up until the end).

(Apologies for the long rant. But what you've been saying really resonated with me and I needed to share your sentiments.)

#I have nothing to add #this could have been written by me it’s literally my thoughts #bucktommy #911 #tommy kinard

115 notes · View notes

veltana · 1 year ago

Text

Highest bidder - Steve Rogers x virgin!reader

✦ Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader ✦ Word count: ~5k ✦ Raiting: Explicit ✦ Warnings: AU, kind of soft!dark Steve, reader is in her mid-twenties, one shot, pwp, insecurity, loss of virginity, piv sex, condoms, cunnilingus, smallest hint of a daddy kink, fluff and smut, dirty talk, friends to lovers, small hint of possessive/protective!Steve. Let me know if I missed anything! ✦ Summary: Tired of being a virgin and out of money you travel to Las Vegas to auction it off. Little do you know your friend Steve Rogers won't let anyone else have you. ✦ Note: I think this is among the first times that I cross-post a whole fic to tumblr. This fic is also on AO3. I'll see what the response is like here and maybe I'll continue to do it in the future.

Masterlist | AO3

"So what are you up to this weekend?" Steve asks as you take the first sip of your beer. For a second you debate not telling him and Bucky, sitting across from you in the booth. "Me and Wanda are going to Vegas." "What? Without me?" Bucky’s scandalized voice makes you laugh. "You don't like traveling, or Vegas for that matter," Steve points out. And that is true, you much prefer to stay in your apartment, reading your books and drinking tea. "Also, didn't you say you could hardly afford to go out with us tonight?" Bucky questions. "Well," you begin, scratching at the beer label, not wanting to look at them. "The trip is paid for." The stunned silence from across the table doesn't bode well, you know you're in for an interrogation now. "Do you need help? Are you in trouble?" Steve's concerned voice makes you look up. He's always so sweet and caring to you, looking out for you all the time.

"No, I'm fine. I'm doing it willingly," you answer. "What are you doing willingly?" There is no hiding the curiosity in Bucky’s voice. Once again you're not sure you're going to tell them, but it also doesn't make sense to keep it a secret. It's not a big deal, that's the whole point. "I'm auctioning off my virginity," you confess and are rewarded with both of them looking at you like you've grown a second head. Before they can say anything you continue. "I'm tired of it hanging over me, I just want it gone. And I'm also tired of scraping by. What you two make in an hour, I make in a month and I just want to be a step ahead instead of a step behind for once."

Bucky's smirk is the last thing you expect. "How much are you starting at, I'll double it." "Jerk." You throw some of your nuts his way. He laughs in response. "Honestly, tell me. What does a virginity go for these days?" "I'm starting out at three thousand. It would be more if I didn’t put in a clause about condoms and I’m a little bit older than most others.” “Well, my offer still stands,” Bucky concludes. “I bet it does, perv.” “And you don’t think the people buying you are pervs?” Steve’s been quiet up until now and his accusatory tone makes you defensive. “I’m not fucking stupid Steve, of course I know they are. They are also filthy rich. If I get bought by some disgusting old man I’ll smile and think about how fucking good it will feel not being stressed about money.” He still doesn’t look pleased and you didn’t come here to get judged. Finishing your beer you get up and grab your jacket. “I’ll see you around,” you say. Before walking out.

Vegas is overwhelming and loud. Instantly you shrink down, pulling your shoulders up. You would be lost if it wasn’t for Wanda. She’s in her element, flagging down cabs and weaving through the streets while you do your best to keep up. Finally, you arrive at your room. It’s small but not cramped and the two beds are clean. “First, shower, and then we’ll get started on your hair and makeup,” Wanda instructs. “You’re the best, you know that Wanda?” you smile at her. “What are best friends for if not fixing you up for some old guy to buy your V-card,” she winks.

Maybe Wanda is a witch, you think as you look at yourself in the tall mirror backstage. Somehow she took your average look and styled it into something you would never in a hundred years be able to recreate. Instead of the innocent style many seem to prefer, she made sure you looked sexy. If this had been a regular night of going out, you’d feel uncomfortable that someone you knew would see you, but the two glasses of champagne and the knowledge that no one except you and Wanda would ever see this made your confidence high. The night moves quickly, both women and men going up on the well-lit stage to present themselves and then watching as the bids start coming in. The people bidding are not in the room, but in different hotels scattered across the city, typing in numbers. Some people do elaborate shows when they step up in front of the cameras. One guy deep-throats a large banana and at first, you giggle but then you see the digits on the screen. His bids are the highest all evening so far. You decide quickly that you will just go up, smile, and wave and wait. You aren’t expecting much, but your pride hopes at least one or two people will find you attractive enough to at least pay the starting bid.

Soon it’s your turn. With a pounding heart, you step up on the stage, your body warms not only from the light but from the nervousness coursing through your body. You concentrate on your breathing so you won’t pass out and when you smile you hope it looks genuine. At first, the monitors are quiet and your heart drops. Are you not good enough for even some old lonely pervert? Then it dings with an incoming bid. It’s just above the starting sum, but you’re instantly relieved and can’t help the actually genuine smile that cracks your face. A second later another bid comes in. You don’t know how many people are placing the bids, you just see the number rise on the monitor, to your utter delight. Quickly it’s up to four thousand and the tempo slows, so maybe some people dropped out. But a few steady bids keep coming in, until it’s starting to near five thousand and it stops long enough for an automated voice ring out through the room. “Going once. Going twice.” Before it can finish the monitor chimes again, your mouth dropping open when you see the sum. Ten thousand dollars. It must be a mistake. The counting starts again, but you hardly hear it over the pure shock you’re experiencing.

Then you’re shooed away, given a room number and a key, before being put into a waiting car to take you to the hotel. When it stops outside of the Palms Casino you think you must be dreaming. It gets even worse when you realize you’re heading to the top floor. Whoever is waiting behind the door won’t matter, because you’ll gladly do anything they ask you.

The penthouse is stunning and it’s hard to take everything in. At the floor-to-ceiling windows, a figure is outlined. They’re backlit against the neon lights of Vegas and it’s hard to make out any details except the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and long legs. That feels promising. They don’t turn around as you close the door but you don’t hesitate to step into the room and begin to walk up to them. Stopping a a few steps behind you say “Hi. I am flattered by your very generous-” But you don’t get further because the person turns around and your words get stuck in your throat. “Steve?!” You quickly step back to get away. This must be some cruel joke he and Bucky have come up with. Before you can run out of the room he grabs your wrist. The usually soft eyes are hard and his smiling mouth is a line of displeasure. “Let go of me,” you demand. “No can do, I paid for you,” his hard voice makes you still. “This isn’t funny, Steve.” “No, it’s not. Now you’re going to go into the bedroom and take off those heels, then kneel on the bed and wait for me,” his instructions make it very clear that if you argue, you won’t like what comes next, so instead you bow your head and say “Yes, Steve.”

You’ve never seen a king-size bed before and it’s much larger than you could’ve imagined. The sheets are soft against your knees as you sit on your feet, waiting. There are too many emotions and questions running wild in your body, but the most prominent one is Why had he bid on you? There is no denying Steve is good looking and when Wanda had first introduced you, sure you’d had a crush on him. But you never thought about pursuing it. His life was far from yours, with luxury cars and expensive dinners, while you went out to eat once a year on your birthday. Both he and Bucky had offered you money on several occasions but you’d never taken it, because you’d never be able to pay it back and money being owed between friends always caused trouble.

You hear the steps nearing the room and you meet his eyes as he steps through the open door. He has left his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves on his shirt, making him more desirable and more dangerous at the same time. Taking a stand a the foot of the bed he stares you down but you don’t cower. Even though you want to ask what the fuck this is, the tension in the air tells you not to talk back right now, just show him that you’re not afraid. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise that Steve is here because he is someone you trust would never hurt you, or do anything against your will.

“Here is how this is going to go, sweetheart. I’ll do right by you and take this nice and slow like you deserve. Then when it’s over we’re sitting down to a nice dinner, and afterward I’m bending you over the dining room table and taking out all my fucking frustration on that cunt of yours until you can’t walk straight.” His words send lightning bolts of desire through you and you nod in understanding. “Use your words,” he demands. “Yes, Steve,” you agree. Then he crooks his fingers, indicating he wants you to come to him. You crawl the short way to the edge and sit back again. His fingers grip your chin carefully. “I’m going to kiss you.” “Okay.”

The second he presses his lips to yours it's like being on cloud nine. It's soft but not hesitant and you instinctively grab a hold of his shirt. Steve begins slowly, as if not to scare you but the more you meet his advances the more he takes. Then he coaxes your lips to part, slipping in his tongue and finding yours to play with. Kissing other people has been nice before, but kissing Steve is exceptional. When his hands land at your waist and pull you into him, you can't keep the moan in. His touch hardens and it makes you throb to be this close to him.

You’re a little out of it when he pulls away and you must look it too because he chuckles. "You like that?" A dopey smile splits your lips and you nod. But then his hands travel to the front of your dress, hooking his fingertips into the fabric and you can’t help stiffen. "Have you ever had your tits played with?" he asks. With a groan, you shake your head. "If you think kissing was great just wait until I get my mouth on the rest of you." He sounds so confident, but you’re not and either it’s blatantly obvious that you’re insecure or he knows you too well.

"How are you feeling?" You think about lying for a second but then decide against it. "I don’t understand why.” "Why what?" "I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but, why me Steve?" You find the courage to look up at him. Now he has that soft smile that you absolutely adore on his stupidly handsome face. His voice is just as soft when he speaks.

"Not only are you absolutely stunning, and I’m not talking about the way you’re dolled up right now. I love seeing you in your big sweaters while you go around the bookstore and help people with recommendations. I also admire you, because you follow your heart. Doing what makes you happy is important to you and I wish I were more like that. Even if you look out for yourself, that never stops you from caring about others. You cry when you see clips of rescue animals. And you're so so obvious that I've been in love with you since Wanda introduced you." "What?" you choke, your whole reality shifting. "Sweet, dumb little pet.” Steve’s hands cup your face and light squeezes your cheeks together for a second. “I've wanted you since you stammered out your name. Something so pure and precious deserves the world." "I didn’t know,” you whisper. "Of course you didn’t. When I got home that night, I jerked myself off to the thought of you and I swear I never come so hard in my life."

"Steve!" Heat rushes into your cheeks at his words. "I’ve had time to think about this a lot. I'm going to get you so wet and needy you will beg for my cock. I'm gonna make sure you're at the brink of insanity, deliriously begging for me to fuck you, even though you don't know what it feels like." "Oh god!" you moan, desire moving through your body. "Let me taste you, kitten. Let me make you scream,” his seductive voice rumbles.

Nodding you watch as his fingers pull the dress down, baring your breasts to his eyes. Instantly he cups them, thumbs brushing your nipples, making you keen. "Prettiest fucking tits I've ever seen," he whispers before leaning down and licking a nipple. The sensation makes you grab hold of his head to steady yourself. His tongue flicks it several times before sucking it into his mouth and you arch into him, clutching him, moaning out his name. Sure, you've been aroused in your life before, but the ache Steve creates is starting to feel painful. "Steve!" you plead when he switches to the other side, giving your other nipple the same treatment. He hums against your skin before pulling off you with a plop and immediately kisses you again. Nothing is really different from before but just knowing that Steve's tongue was just somewhere else on your body and now it's in your mouth makes you heat up even more.

It feels good when he takes charge, it keeps your thoughts from running in all the wrong directions. He gets you to lie down, crawling onto the bed after you, kissing every inch of exposed skin he can get to while you shudder under him. "How are you feeling?" he asks with a shit-eating grin, clearly knowing he's responsible for your state. "Goodgoodgood!" Is all you can get out while pawing at his clothed chest. "Want me to take it off?" Nodding vigorously you try to undo the buttons, but fail. He laughs and sits back between your spread legs, untucking the shirt and pulling it over his head. The bulge in his pants is very visible and you swallow hard at the sight of it, both scared and excited. He notices you looking. "We'll get to that later," he promises with another kiss. "First I'm going to get you wet and ready for me."

A hand hikes up your skirt and a finger follow the edge of your panties, down toward the juncture of your leg. It's like hot coal against your skin, burning you most sweetly. Even if you’re already soaked, his touch is sending pulse after pulse into your cunt and you're scared you're about to stain the sheets if he continues. A fingertip caresses over your core, touch so light it's almost not there but your sensitive skin feels it. Trembling you arch up, gripping the sheets. "Is that good?" Not knowing if you can speak you just nod and he continues. Down your thighs and back up, over and over again against your covered cunt, fingers getting firmer and firmer the more sounds you make.

A thrill you've never felt before has taken up place in your body, threatening to send your mind spiraling. To distract yourself you explore the plains of Steve's body that you can reach, stroking his arms and shoulders, but to feel him makes it even worse. You can’t wait to have him pressed against you.

Sitting back again he says, "I'm going to take these off now." He hooks his fingers at the top of your panties and starts to pull. "Lift your ass up." He instructs. Now your tits and your cunt are exposed for him. Steve is staring, but when you try to close your legs from embarrassment he quickly puts his hands on your thighs to spread them apart even more. "Don't you dare take that pretty pussy away from me," he all but growls and it sends another wave of pleasure into you. The air feels cold against your wet, warm skin. Then his gaze flicks up to you and with another smile, he leans down bending you almost in half, placing a kiss on your lips. "Last kiss before I devore you," he whispers and slides down your body. When his words sink in, you go rigid.

"No, you don't have to, we can just‐" you begin but the look he gives silences you. "Do you know how long I have waited for this?" He nips the inside of your thigh. "No," you whimper. "Been dreaming about how you would feel, and taste." He mouths at your skin. "The nights I can’t sleep I lie there and think of you soaking my beard when you come for me," he groans and moves down a little more until his face is right in front of your pussy. "Now I'm having my fill and when I'm done you'll be primed for my cock, I promise."

Not giving you any time to answer he dives in. His tongue feels nothing like your own fingers, or the vibrator you have in your drawer. It's sending you to heaven with every stroke. Steve takes notes of what makes you moan the loudest and in no time the unmistakable warmth of an orgasm begins to build. You do your best to keep still, but it's hard when it feels so good and Steve follows your every movement until your thighs are trembling heavily, breath coming out in irregular gasps, your fingers threatening to tear the sheets apart.

It climbs quicker than you expect and when the orgasm rips through you it’s with a cry, that leaves you almost boneless afterward. Looking down, panting, you notice you've basically crushed Steve's head between your thighs. With a "Sorry!" You spread them apart and he comes up for air, his beard glistening with you. "How was that?" "Incredible," you sigh. The ache that threatened to consume you has died down to a more manageable throb. "Great." He positions himself again and you stare with wide eyes. An amused smirk plays on his lips. "Did you think that was it?" You try to stutter out a response but he raises his hand and wiggles his fingers playfully. "Now you get these too."

After a second you relax into the pillows, trusting Steve with your body. He's gentle when he begins, now that your cunt is a million times more sensitive, but soon you're trembling again, and then the tip of his finger is at your opening. It slides in without resistance and the feeling changes. More nerves send sparks through you from new places. It's too much for your poor brain to decipher and you don’t fight it, just let it take you, like you’re floating down a stream. "Good girl, relaxing for me so well." Through bleary eyes you see him looking up at you. "Ready for another one?" You're not sure what that means but you nod anyway and are rewarded with a smile. He never looks away from you as you feel another finger press in together with the first. A high-pitched sound leaves you as your chest heaves. It's too much but not enough. You’re so full but in the best way possible. Then he moves them and you can hear just how wet he's made you.

His tongue comes back to play with your clit and soon you're at the edge of another orgasm. "Yes yes yes!" You chant over and over again. Everything he does feels so good. The sensation of clamping down on his fingers as you come is new and makes the orgasm much stronger this time, leaving you mildly disoriented for a second. "God, you look so beautiful when you come." Steve lays his head against your leg, still moving his hand and sending small aftershocks into your body. "You know what?" "What Stevie?" you ask, your voice a little hoarse as you reach down and place your hand in his soft hair, carding your fingers through it, just to feel him. "I don't think you noticed, but there are three fingers inside you now." You make a questioning sound. "Added another right after you came. No problem at all. Just need you to come one more time, then I'll know you're ready." He does something with his fingers inside you, making you whimper from the pleasure it sends through you. "Found your G-spot too," he looks smug as he says it. "Let's see what happens when I play with just that."

It’s another new experience that puts your body on edge in the best way. The pleasure never dissipates but it never builds either and finally you can't stand it anymore, deciding to beg for the relief he can give you. "Stevie, please! Use your mouth again!" "Of course, when you ask so nicely." When he sucks your clit into his mouth, it makes you see stars, and seconds later the built-up ecstasy reaches its peak. Gripping his head you grind against his tongue with a cry of his name because it’s so fucking good.

Afterward, you sink down with a relieved sigh and you're pretty sure your muscles have never been this relaxed in your life. "Such a good girl for me." Steve praises before pulling out his fingers, licking them clean, and moving off the bed. You instantly feel achingly empty. Not taking his eyes from you he undo his pants and slide them and his underwear off.

The sight of his hard, leaking cock standing out from his body is kind of mesmerizing. You've seen dicks in pictures, sent unsolicited to you on a few occasions, and a couple of times when you've tried to watch porn. Never before have you thought a dick could look pretty. As if something possesses your body you crawl over to the edge of the bed, settling on your legs and reaching out towards it. Steve watches, chest heaving slightly as you trace his cock with a fingertip, all the way from root to tip, dipping it into the leaking mess. Looking up at him you bring it to your mouth and lick it. The groan he lets out in response is delicious.

It doesn't taste bad, just different and you're about to ask if you can try to take him in your mouth but as if sensing your thoughts he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss. At first, you try to move away, knowing where he has just been, but he keeps a steady hand at the back of your neck, forcing you to taste yourself on his tongue, and just like him, it’s not bad, just different. "If I let you touch me more than that, I'll burst,” he explains before he grabs your dress and pulls it off you in one go. “Now be good and lay down again." "Yes, Stevie," you answer and fall onto the bed, spreading your legs. Instead of joining you right away, he walks up to the bedside table and opens a drawer, pulling out a square package.

Embarrassment fills you. In your post-orgasmic state, you forgot about your own rule. If he hadn’t gotten a condom you would gladly have let him take you raw. Lucky for you, Steve is not the type of person to take advantage of you like that. He rolls it on and you swallow hard. Just the look of it is big, you’re not sure how it will fit. "Don't be scared. With how wet you are, it’ll glide right in," he says with a smile, kneeling between your spread legs.

This is the moment, you think. After this, you won't be a virgin anymore. Even if it is just a social construct, you've never actually had a dick inside of you and that will be a new experience. Steve kisses you, helping the doubts slip away. The rubber feels weird against your lower lips, and then it's at your opening. The tip presses inside and Steve watches your face. "Does it hurt?" he asks. "No,” you assure him. “It's just different." "Tell me if you want to stop." "Just keep going."

Slowly he eases his way inside and once he bottoms out both of you are breathing heavily. With a groan, Steve's head lands on your shoulder. "Fuck you're like a vice around my dick. I'm going to try to move." You wrap your arms around his shoulders, caressing his back and he starts moving. You feel like you're filled to the brim and it's pressing against your G-spot, making you warm and high again. Experimentally you lift your hips, meeting his, eliciting a moan from him. "I'm sorry," Steve mumbles. "I won't last long." Before you can respond he continues. "You feel too good. So tight and warm. Fuck!" Then he lifts himself on one of his strong arms before grabbing the back of your neck and bending it until you're looking down toward where your bodies are connected. Steve slams his hips into you and you answer with a cry of pleasure. "Look at that unused cunt taking my big cock so well." "Steve!" you whine. His thrusts are too good, the pressure too much, and looking at it only makes you hotter. "It was made for me, right?" "Yes! Ah! Steve!" The throb in your clit is driving you insane and you reach down to relieve it. "Oh fuck. Are you gonna come on my dick your first time? That's dirty." You never expected words to be such a big part of sex, but the way Steve is talking is heightening your sensation.

"That's right. Rub your clit for me. Fuck you're clenching around me so hard. Tell me if you're gonna come." Nodding frantically you feel the climax building. Your whole body is a coil wind up tight and you're not sure what will happen when it snaps.

"I'm - I'm… I think I'm going to come, Steve," you moan. The pressure in your lower stomach is excruciating and delirious. You just need a little more. Letting go of your head he meets your eyes. "Good girl, I'm right behind you. Squeeze me dry. Come for Daddy." The last words enter your brain and sweep you off. The orgasm takes over your whole body and drowns you in pleasure. The edge of your vision blurs, your body shuddering violently. You hear the blood pumping in your veins. Feel your heart drumming in your ribcage. On some level you're aware of Steve above you, chanting your name as his hips pump into you and he fills the condom.

The weight of him is nearly crushing but also makes you feel safe. For the first time, you have the presence of mind to take in his body as you caress down his sides and his back, down over his ass as far as you can reach. It makes him sigh happily and you feel so content. After a while, he raises himself on his elbows and pecks your lips, nose, and cheeks until you giggle, before getting off completely and disposing of the condom. As soon as the warmth of him leaves, small, cruel thoughts about this once again being some kind of joke start forming in your head. Despite what he’s said, you find it hard to believe that it would be true.

Before you have time to think more about it he is beside you in the bed again, leaning on his arm and looking down at you. "So, how was that?" He’s curious, there’s no hiding it. "Better than I could ever dream of," you answer honestly. "Well, that's an ego boost," Steve laughs. "How… How was I?" He kisses you before he whispers, "Best I ever had." You can't help but snort at that. "Don't fucking lie to me."

With a growl Steve rolls onto his back, taking you with him and making you lay on his chest. "It's the fucking truth, and unless you want a spanking to go with the next round, you're going to believe me." That tone of voice. The threat of pain and pleasure combined sparks something inside you, and Steve notices. "Oh, does that make you horny?" Hiding your face in the crook of his neck you say "Yes, Daddy." Steve groans and crushes you into his chest. "If I could fuck you again right now, believe me, I would."

Several hours later you're in bed again, pressed against Steve’s warm chest. He did what he promised and you’re sure you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. But something is weighing on your mind. “I’ll pay you back,” you say. “If you do, you’ll wish I spanked you.” “But-,” “No. I told you that you deserve the world, that money is a drop in the ocean to me.” “I can’t believe you bought me.” “I can’t believe you sold your body.” Even if you can’t see him, his voice makes it clear he’s not happy. “The thought of someone else touching you, fucking you. I’m not a violent man, but that makes me want to kill.” “I’m glad it was you,” you confess with a smile and kiss his skin. A moment later he’s on top of you, kissing you sweetly and you feel him stirring against you, growing hard. An answering wetness pool at your core. “I need you again,” he murmurs against your mouth. With a nod, you reach between your bodies to guide him inside. Pulling back, he says “Condom.” When he reaches over to the bedside table, you shake your head and lift your hips. “Oh fuck, are you sure?” “I want to feel you,” you reassure him. It’s a bit sore when he presses inside but the movements are slow, and the kisses quickly take your mind off it. Afterward, he doesn’t pull out, and you fall asleep with his cum and cock between your legs, happy he was your highest bidder.

#steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x virgin!reader #virgin!reader #rich!steve rogers #protective!steve rogers #possessive!steve rogers #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #veltana writes

498 notes · View notes