#if you think he’ll abandon what he thought was your dying wish

[probablygayattorneys]

Not to speak ill of the dead

But “I did not tell my son the truth when I was on my deathbed so that the idea of revenge would give him a reason to live and then as he got older he would find other things that were more important and would let go of the revenge” is a fucking risky game to play, especially you won’t even be able to course correct it if it backfires

[miller-lookforthe-lite]

steps: part two

joel miller x f!reader

rating: M

words: 7k

tags/warnings: unplanned/(unwanted?) pregnancy, thoughts and discussion of abortion, UNSOUND MEDICAL PRACTICE/ADVICE, description of injury, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, not proofread i'm literally so sorry - please heed the warnings, as these may be triggering to some! MDNI

part one | read on ao3

There are no doctors in Kansas City. There’s nothing left of the QZ, in fact, besides a group of raging militants who have taken over and are hunting for the very two boys you happen upon. Henry and Sam don’t have much, but they have a relentless ambition, and Joel must see that as reason enough to go with them.

As you journey through the tunnels underneath the city, you get sicker. It’s clear to you now that this is not some nightmare you can wish away, not like one of your silent demons. This is real, and here, and now, and if you’re not pregnant, you’re dying. You’re not sure which would be worse.

Ellie finds out while she’s kicking a soccer ball with Sam, because Joel lowers his head to inquire to Henry about a pregnancy test and is a lot less fucking quiet than he ought to be.

Her head snaps towards them and you scowl at Joel, burning his entrails with your eyes, picturing his slow demise, then feeling even more sick at the prospect, taking it back, praying the Deity didn’t hear you think it so it won’t come true.

“What the fuck?” Ellie exclaims, her head whipping to you. “You —” Her head swings back to Joel almost cartoonishly. “And you? I thought — ew, gross, but holy shit — I thought Tess —”

“Ellie,” you warn quickly, trying to jump ahead of Joel’s ire, because that definitely also happened and you know he’ll never tell you why or why you happened after.

“Enough,” Joel snaps, and the room hangs still. Even Sam, though no one has bothered to bring him up to speed, can tell that the tension simmers low, and he abandons the soccer ball in favor of curling up by the far wall.

Joel turns back to Henry. “You know where I could find one or not?”

Henry shrugs. “All kinds of shit stashed in here, man. Take a look.”

Ellie’s gaze is burning into your skin, but when you turn to look at her, you only see a quiet understanding in her eyes, a Knowing too old to live in a body so young. She plops down in the seat next to you while Joel and Henry are off rummaging through the bins on the far side of the bunker, and her huff troubles a strand of her hair. You reach forward to tuck it out of her face. Her mouth is set into a grim line.

“Is that why you’ve been sick?” She murmurs, her voice betraying her fear.

Your heart clenches. You didn’t want her to have to feel the way that you were feeling. She shouldn’t have to shoulder it, shoulder you, but you don’t know how else to be with her but truthful. Her face so open, so honest, begs nothing less in return.

“Yeah,” you say, and she reaches out to grab your hand. You blink back sudden tears that choke your throat and crowd your lashes.

“It’ll get better then,” Ellie says, knee bouncing. “The sickness. I heard that it gets better after a while. And you won’t have to yack every time we think about cooking beans. So that’s a plus.”

You can’t help but smile, still feeling hot and slippery with shame, but hope shines through, minuscule and persistent. “I hope so,” you whisper.

—

When you leave the motel, Ellie’s the one to lead the charge. You follow her, leaving Joel gazing down at the graves he just dug. Henry and Sam are under those piles of dirt, and you can’t help but think that it’s some kind of curse that surrounds you, the same deadly spirit that befell Tess.

Ellie thinks it’s her fault, a strangled confession pulled out of her that she knew Sam had been bitten but tried to save him. You know that feeling, know the despair it leaves behind, but you’re not quite sure how to reach the place she’s gone to.

A plastic-wrapped stick sits in your pocket, has for days, but you’re too scared to do more than make sure it’s there, palming reassurance. Henry had slipped it to you before he died, not saying a word, but there was kindness in his gaze. There was a care you didn’t know people still had for other strangers. Your heart aches.

Along the road, it’s been hard to find food. Joel had shoved what he could from the bunker into his bag, but there wasn’t much in the way of nonperishables - the Kansas City militants had already taken care of that. He let you have the last of the crackers, but you can’t help the pangs of hunger that wrack through you late at night, curled up in a ball on the ground, your back to some tree or to him or to Ellie, one of them always wrapped around you, always watching. You can’t help the dread that follows either, that you swallow like the air that feeds you these days.

Joel feels it too. You know he does, but he’s better at hiding it. He’s acting strange lately — delicate — not something you’ve ever known him to be. He guards you when you’re sleeping, but can hardly look at you in the daylight. Where he’s started to let his eyes wrinkle at Ellie’s teasing jibes or stupid puns, he slams his lid shut when you deign to speak your piece. He offers you a hand to help you over a ridge, and always, always throws an arm in front of you when he thinks something sinister lies ahead, but then swiftly pulls away like the boil of your blood burns him too.

After six days have passed, you go behind a tree and pee on the stick. It’s not hard. All you fucking do is piss these days. What is hard is remembering the hands that touched the test before you - a dead man’s fingers before they pulled a trigger twice, him and another child. Is that the price you pay? One child’s life for another? What kind of sign is that — what kind of life is this? What kind of world to bring a baby into?

Two lines glare back at you. You muffle your sob into the heel of your hand.

—

Your teeth are clattering against each other, your violent shivering overtaking any autonomy you once had over your limbs.

You’ve set up camp underneath a rock overhang, and your breath comes out in puffs. Ellie’s pressed as close to you as she can get between the layers of your coats, the extra flannel that Joel had wrapped around her hanging loosely off her puffy-coated shoulders.

You’re in Nebraska, as far as you can tell, wide open plains stretching as far as you can see, the foothills offering little respite from the biting prairie wind, but you take what you can get under the boulder’s meager shelter.

Joel hasn’t stopped moving since you decided to set up here; he’s tearing up jerky pieces, distributing them to you and Ellie and only pushing one between his lips when you glare, he’s coiling some rope, he’s pushing a tarp under some stones to provide some cover from the ceaseless wind. You wish you could bring yourself to get up and help, but you don’t know how much help you’d be, not with the illness still permeating your veins, your trembling uncontrollable.

When Ellie figures out that she can’t fix it no matter how she lends her heat to you, she speaks up where you couldn’t.

“We need a fire,” she wheezes to Joel, eyes flicking to you even though she tries to hide it.

He sniffs, doesn’t look up from his tarp-maneuvering. “It’d blow out,” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

Your desperation pushes you to chime in. “We could at least try. Under the tarp, or maybe the rock would shield it enough —”

“It won’t,” Joel snaps, and he still won’t look at you. He clearly intended to stymie your words, but now that you’ve started, you can’t stop.

You get up from your spot next to Ellie and wrap her firmly in the blanket from your pack. You stumble on shaky legs over to where Joel continues to fiddle, continues to fuss. “Let me just fucking try, Joel, we’re freezing, we can’t—”

You reach for the flint that you know is in the bag he holds. Your gloved hand brushes his, layers of cloth and unspoken and Too Spoken between you, and still he pulls away like he’s been burned. You freeze, watching him quickly shift to a different task, turning his collar further up against the wind.

“Fine,” he mutters.

You don’t know why it hurts so much to curl up next to the fire that night.

—

When you stop to make camp a few nights later, you decide you’ve had enough of this, this awkwardness and separation that your revelation had caused you. After Ellie’s been asleep for an hour, her soft breaths quiet in the dark, you push Joel behind a tree before he can protest, grab his face with your hands and pull his mouth to yours before he can remember that you haven’t spoken, haven’t talked about it, have only worried in silence. He grunts, the sound vibrating pleasantly against you, before pulling back, only a little, the slightest breath of distance. His eyes are locked on yours, so close that you can’t see straight, can only see brown brown brown, can only drown in it.

“I don’t…” he says softly, one hand on your wrist and the grabbing for your waist, turning you, pushing your back into the rough bark, but so gently, so gently it prickles and scrapes and wounds.

“Why not?” You say like you haven’t noticed how he’s been treating you differently, like he doesn’t know what to say to you, like you aren’t the same person you’ve always been before all of this. Like you aren’t praying praying praying that he won’t make you beg.

(He doesn’t.)

—

It’s dusk when you stumble upon a still-smoking pile of ash, the crisp wind spiraling it up to the conifer fronds above, dancing its warning like a specter. It makes Joel stop in his tracks. His shoulders, ever broad and imposing, are tense.

He spins on his heel and almost knocks right into Ellie, who trails mindlessly behind him.

“Dude!” She protests.

“We’re goin’,” he hisses under his breath, grabbing onto the handle of her backpack to drag her along with him.

You have to pick up your pace to keep stride with him, bounding through the trees. “Joel—”

“Don’t,” he snaps, releasing Ellie’s bag. She remains next to him without issue or question. “We gotta circle back to the road. Ain’t safe if there’s more people out here.”

“The road?” Your skin is warm, your breath coming short, but you keep your voice quiet as his, startled to stir the crunching leaves beneath your tired boots. “Joel, we got off the road ‘cause there were people —”

“I know why we got off the road.” His countenance is fierce, his resolve steely, but he still won’t look at you.

“It’s safer with the cover,” you insist behind him, a furious ire bubbling in the back of your throat. “Here we can — we can —” You’re gasping for air now, and Ellie notices, her steps faltering. She tugs on Joel’s jacket, wordlessly. You have to stop and brace your palm on the rough bark of the oak that shelters you, your vision narrowing to a tunnel of blurred, black edges and brown sodden ground.

You don’t know how he got there, but he appears in front of you, one hand gripping your bicep and the other pulling your own hand to his heart.

“Breathe,” he commands softly, and you try, you really do, but you know he sees the truth of it.

You’re fading, ability dulling quicker than an overused knife, and you can feel the panic crest in your mind, the sting of liability pricking at your consciousness.

“Sorry,” you struggle to say. He just takes an enormous breath, the cavern of his lungs expanding and exhaling underneath your hand. You follow the mountain of it, the in and the out and up and down, and it makes it a little easier to see again.

You drag your eyes up to meet his, shame and exhaustion omnipresent parents in your expression. He looks blown wide open, sad, maybe worried, but mostly so, so certain.

His grip on you tightens. “Let’s stay in the woods,” he whispers his acquiescence. You feel no kind of victory. You want him to argue with you, not the dark circles printed onto the skin under your eyes. That can’t be all you are now.

Joel tenses suddenly, eyes flicking from you up to the edge of the tree line. You think he’s about to grab you and Ellie and run when you hear a muffled shriek from behind him, his broad form blocking your sight. He whips around to reveal two women, one with golden-red hair and one with a knife to Ellie’s throat. Ellie struggles and swears and writhes. You freeze.

The golden-red-haired woman has a revolver pointed at the two of you. You can’t see Joel’s face, but you know that he’s furious. You almost hope it’s with you, hope it’s because you caused him to turn his back, to lose his focus. You want him to feel the way you feel.

“Quit it,” hisses the taller woman that has a hold on Ellie, like she’s speaking to an incessant fly rather than a young girl at her mercy.

“Let her go,” Joel says lowly, calmly. There’s no questioning a tone like that. “Then you and I can talk like adults.”

“We don’t want trouble,” the golden-red-haired woman responds smoothly, her fist around the revolver begging argument. “Just hungry. Just lookin’ for food.”

You don’t even think about whether you should, whether Joel has a plan. You keep your eyes on Ellie as she continues to squirm. She’s afraid, but maybe not as much as she should be. Her confidence in you crushes you. You dart forward to Joel’s bag, unzip it from where it rests on his back. You pull out the measly offerings - two more pieces of jerky wrapped in flaking paper. An old health bar. Some roasted acorns you had made that taste like bitter ash. You throw the food at their feet. Joel doesn’t stop you.

The woman holding Ellie narrows her eyes. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” you plead. “You can check.”

You shoulder off your own, lighter pack and toss it to them. Joel glares at you, his fingers clearly itching towards his own gun tucked in the back of his pants, but you glare right back. Not with Ellie’s throat under a blade, you try to tell him with your fear.

The golden-red-haired woman bends down slowly to rummage through your bag, revolver still pointed your way. Joel shifts his weight while the woman looks down and she cocks the gun without even looking up, clicking her tongue in admonishment. Once she deems your supplies as paltry as you had claimed, she stands up, kicking the bag over, and slipping your meager offerings into her pockets. “Fine. Elaine, let her go.”

Elaine’s eyes flash like she’s considering an argument, and you try to calculate the distance from your hand to Joel’s gun, from the bullet to the spot between Elaine’s eyes, and the speed her lithe wrist would need to flick the knife across Ellie’s life.

Your action is decided for you when Elaine relents, shoving Ellie out of her grasp and forward to the forest floor. You’re there to catch her in your arms, her gangly limbs knocking painfully against yours, her furious demeanor tempered by your trembling.

You pull her back with you towards Joel, scrambling on the ground, and look up to see he’s drawn his gun. “Get movin’, then.” He bares his teeth at them.

Elaine moves to back away, but the other woman hesitates. Elaine nudges her shoulder with her own and hisses. “Madison.”

Madison looks between you and Joel as he helps you and Ellie up like she’s trying to decide something. Ellie seethes with derision and you have to clutch her to keep her from springing back towards her captors, this time on the attack. She only settles when she realizes she can’t lash out without hurting you, her fury still spitting but her face turning into your collarbone, probably more for your sake than her own. You rest your palm on her head. Joel’s got his free arm wrapped around you, too, sandwiching you and Ellie tight to his side.

Madison seems to decide and opens her mouth. “You know the way to Jackson?”

Elaine halts her retreat, brows furrowed and eyes clenched.

Joel holds his gun steady. “Get out of here.”

Madison continues to speak like she didn’t hear him. “Settlement out in Wyoming. My brother was headed there with an old army buddy. Heard they take people —”

She cuts off at the click of Joel’s safety. His finger rests on the trigger. He doesn’t say another word, just bores into her with eyes of molten lead.

Madison nods, and before you can blink, she and Elaine are gone. You’d almost believed you’d dreamed them up if your stomach didn’t turn at the thought of your reserves, now depleted.

Joel doesn’t let either of you move for a good ten minutes, his gun still raised and his arm still around you both. Ellie’s breathing has evened out and she turns her head up to look at you. You run a hand through her ponytail. “Okay?” You whisper. She nods, lips in a hard line.

You let her burrow herself back into you and look up at Joel. His thoughts race too fast to hide from his expression, and when he finally lowers the gun, he steps forward to grab your pack and swing it over his own shoulder.

His jaw grinds itself to dust as he stares at the ground, and it occurs to you what he might be agonizing over.

“Army buddy in Wyoming? Joel—” Your breath catches before you can really ask him. He looks up at you with hardened eyes and nods.

You let out a shuddering exhale, still rocking, rocking Ellie in your hold. The word rolls acidic off your tongue. “Jackson.”

—

It’s Jackson you’re headed for when the first shots ring out. You’re following the faded lines of a dusty map, hoping for the best. It’s brought you to a small town, several wooden buildings lining what must have once been a comfortable main road.

It’s not even that your guard is down, either — Joel had been antsier than ever after the run in with the women, especially since Ellie’s life had been on the line. She grumbles against his insistence, but you think she’s secretly appreciative of this mangled care, this devotion that no one before has extended to her.

They still get the jump on you, though, because they’re trying to get the jump on someone else. You glean somewhere during the shootout that it’s two opposing groups, both vying for the others’ resources. One had been holed up in the last building in town, the last one Joel had to clear before giving the signal. The other had been over the hill, peering down, waiting for their moment to ambush. They had thought Joel, ransacking and searching, was their target. It probably hadn’t mattered that he wasn’t.

You hear the shots before you know any of this, before you see anything that happens, so you follow protocol and grab Ellie and duck down behind a crumbling outpost, pushing her head under your cover. You peek over to see a torrent of people flooding out of that last building, the one Joel had been headed towards. Their guns are pointed away from you, up towards the peek where the last shot echoed from. Their shouts are incoherent, and your eyes search frantically for Joel. There’s no sign of him by the building, but there is a blooming red scar on the ground where he had been standing.

You feel a hand on your shoulder and spin around, knife raised high. It’s Ellie who stops you, grabbing around your middle, and swearing under her breath when she sees who’s startled you.

Joel’s managed to sneak around the back of the houses towards you, clutching his arm to his chest. Blood pours from between his fingers. His jaw is set as solidly as stone, and he jerks his head back towards the foothill you came from. He wants you to sneak back unseen, you’re sure, but you can’t focus on anything but the red viscous that flows from him, the life force, the cellular beat, and you feel it in you, too, you have that same blood growing in you, in your body, in your stomach, eating you alive to keep itself growing —

You reach your hand towards him, and he jerks back. All you can see is your hand, frozen in the air. He and Ellie must exchange words, something, but you don’t hear, the pounding of your eardrums too raucous, the rushing of your own tremulous blood overwhelming. He turns and crouches in on himself, hunched in pain or stealth, you don’t know. He runs on sure and quiet feet back towards the trees. Ellie only goes when you start behind him, like she’s not sure you can be trusted to follow.

—

You make it about half a mile up the side of the mountain before Joel’s using the trees to keep himself upright, the heft of him only supported by the roots at your feet. It’s Ellie who ends up stopping him and sitting him down, back against a bristled trunk. You waste no time falling to your knees beside him, whipping off your pack. Your hands shake as you riffle through it for the tweezers, for bandages, for anything that might help him. If only he still carried around oxy.

You pull out a small glass bottle of amber, stomach-churning liquid. Joel finds it in himself to shoot a judgmental glance your way, before his eyes are rolling back in pain. He keeps his arm clutched to his side.

“What?” You hiss. “It’s not like I can drink it anymore, of course I still have some.”

You flip the cap off as quickly as you can and pry his good arm away from the wound. It’s still bleeding profusely, an ugly, obscured fissure in the perfect planet of his skin. He makes a high sound in the back of his throat when you pour the moonshine over the wound, but his lips stay pressed tight together. When you’ve got it as clean as you can manage, you grab the tweezers. You can see the metal still buried in his flesh plain as day. You’ll have to get it out.

“Can I help?” Ellie flutters anxiously at your side, her hands lifting and retracting with directionless adrenaline.

You nod towards your bag. “Grab the bandages, then cut them into three strips for me.”

She doesn’t waste any time, and you turn back to Joel.

His skin is sallow, and sweat crusts his brow. You reach up to wipe some away with your thumb and his eyes flutter. “I’m gonna take it out.”

He nods, breathing heavily, expression unreadable. “I know.”

You search his eyes for any kind of direction, anything that would help him that he’s too reticent to admit. When you find nothing but grim determination, you grab the strap of your pack and offer it up to his mouth. He understands, and takes it gingerly between his teeth.

Your hands won’t stop shaking as you level the tweezers with the hole in his arm, so you balance your forearm across his chest. His great, heaving breaths push you up and down. You place the two tapered points of the tweezers as best you can on either side of the bullet, having to dig through some flesh. Joel keens under you. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, over and over, a mantra that pulls you forward into the next several minutes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

It takes several attempts, and probably a whole lot more damaged surface area than appropriate knowledge would have allowed, but you’re able to finally wiggle the bullet out of its warm home. The silver pelts to the ground and bits of Joel’s muscle, along with a whole torrent of blood, flow from the pulsing circle. Ellie’s there with the bandages and you throw your whole body weight into pressing them against his arm. His eyes roll into the back of his head, you think he might be shrieking through the fabric at his teeth. “Just have to stop the bleeding,” you tell Ellie, or Joel, or maybe the wind. “It’s okay. It’ll stop. I’m sorry.”

Eventually, it does, or at least it slows. You remove the soiled, rust-colored fabric from Joel’s arm and wrap it up with the remaining bandages, but not before pouring more of the alcohol on it. He sobs, eyes squeezed shut, and Ellie clutches on to his uninjured shoulder, her eyes wild with fear.

“No sepsis, Ellie, that’s why,” you pant, breaking off another portion of the bandages with your teeth to secure it. His breathing calms when he seems to notice Ellie pressed up against him, her trembling fingers pulling the fabric from his mouth and pressing her face to his chest. His good hand holds her to him, clinging with a strength you’re relieved to see remains.

You go to wipe your filthy hands on the grass when you notice a spare bit of Joel’s gore on your thumb. You crawl as far away from Joel and Ellie as you can manage before spilling everything in you onto the bushes. You dry heave long after your stomach is empty.

—

You lie awake several nights later. Your back throbs against the unforgiving forest floor, your blanket wrapped around the top of you instead of padding the ground. Ellie snores softly on your right side, the tender puff of her breath singing through the frosty air. You wish you didn’t begrudge her the rest, a better person wouldn’t, but no matter how tired you get you can never seem to quiet the racing of your mind when the sun goes down.

You turn onto your side to see Joel lying next to you, flat on his back, eyes wide open towards the night sky above. He looks almost comical, bundled up to his throat and arm crossed across himself in an awkward approximation of healing. He spares you a brief glance, raising an eyebrow but saying nothing before he turns his gaze back to the branches that bow above you. He’s keeping watch best he can, but his injured arm is still in a sling, which means he can’t wield the rifle properly. He’s to wake you or Ellie if anything happens. You all know you’ll probably wake in the morning curled together like a three-pod cocoon, the greater threat to your person the chill of the wilderness.

You see your breath crystalize in front of you, even in the dull silver light of the moon, but you can’t see most of his face. He turns it from you, shrouded in shadow, like he does the rest of himself. You never know what he feels, never know where you stand. He had said he didn’t blame you, but it’s hard to believe him when he clearly harbors some kind of sorrow.

You don’t know if its the faux anonymity of the dark that gives you the courage or the delirium that your baby secretes into your bloodstream, but you almost feel inspired to ask him. Instead, you open your mouth and stick your whole entire foot into its waiting orifice.

“What did you think about abortions? Before the outbreak?”

The harsh of your whispering disturbs the tranquil blanket of night. He doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. His eyes don’t even shift to indicate he’s thinking about it.

“Because,” you rush to cover your clumsy footsteps, “you were from Texas. Everyone always said — I mean, I’m sure there were people everywhere that—”

“I don’t know.” He saves you from yourself, his cool, clean baritone soothing your spiked and frayed nerves. The baby pounds its fists against your insides braying like it had heard the word you uttered. You feel sick.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No,” Joel continues, turning his head to look at you. “I mean, I don’t know because I don’t think I paid enough attention to that kind of thing. Sarah’s mom never even — considered — so I didn’t — ” His voice catches in his throat and he looks away.

You knew about Sarah, but not from him. Tess had whispered to you one putrid Boston night about his past, about Texas, about a daughter that hadn’t made it, which she only knew about from Tommy, but you’d never heard him say her name. You feel the scorching lick of shame about your heart, not having even considered what your current state would mean to him. One child, stripped away so cruelly from him, and here you were implying you’d thought about doing the same to another, but then again — maybe that’s what he’d want. To nip it in the bud, to end the pain before it could start.

You take a shuddering, bracing breath, but your voice still comes out meeker than you wish it would. “My sister told me about it. She said there was a place you could go in the QZ, some woman in the Fireflies. I don’t know how,” you admit, “but I kind of wish I did.”

“No,” he snaps, and you shrivel. “It never works out, especially not now. It would just kill you.”

You acquiesce. It makes sense. It seems too good to be true, a relic of medicinally sound days-gone-by.

“Sorry,” you say again, at a loss for anything more.

“Will you quit?” He huffs, and he surprises you, reaching out his good hand to latch onto yours. “Enough apologizin’.”

You can’t stop yourself from pulling his gloved palm even closer to you, into your chest, curling around it like you’re supposed to want to curl around this thing inside you, this parasite that eats away at you, this child you’ll evict from its warm, safe home, whether you want to or not.

He notices your reticence, turns on his side to face you, to coax your bile out of you.

“I feel sorry, though,” you whisper, blinking furiously, finding it hard to look right at him. “I don’t want it. I think I hate it, and I ought to feel sorry for that, right? That’s so awful, Joel. I’m so awful. But I’m so — I can’t —”

You shudder, and it’s like turning off. The tears you felt like crying halt their rise to the surface, and your breath slows. The blade of the hurt dulls, pricking instead of slicing, fading. It’s hard to hear him when he responds, hard to feel the gruff hand he lifts to cradle the back of your head. It only comes back into focus when he insists.

“Hey, listen to me.” He shakes you a bit, and with Herculean effort, you lift your heavy eyes to meet his. His expression is intense, pinched, and so, so beautiful.

“You’re not wrong, you’re not bad. I know this is hard. I know,” he shakes you again when your eyes start to glaze.

“Joel,” you breathe.

“Listen,” he says, fingertips pushing into the firm of your scalp, and you notice faintly that he’s abandoned his sling, that he’s pushed his pain aside to reach for you. “You’re doing better than you think you are. I see it, I see you fightin’. You’re not failing, darlin’. Not on my watch.”

You feel yourself nodding, not knowing where the internal command came from. “I know, Joel.” How do you tell him? How can he not understand that you trust him, just not yourself and your rotten, black heart?

He exhales harshly, searching your eyes for doubt, for something other than this flatness you feel settling over you. He gives in when he can’t find it, but his hand keeps rubbing your head, and you lean into it, relishing in the prick of his calluses. “Okay,” he says, then closes his mouth, opens it, shuts it again. His indecision pulls you back to the forest, back into the body you now share with another.

“What?” You venture, and his eyes alight, enthused to have found you in there.

“You ever been to Texas?” He says quickly, and he doesn’t blurt things, but maybe he did just then.

A startled laugh escapes your lips. The world shifts into focus, and the world is just his eyes, boring into yours. “Probably not. I don’t think we travelled much before the outbreak. Boston’s all I remember, besides a few summers in Maine.”

He lets out a low whistle, eyes flicking over to Ellie to make sure his sound hasn’t bothered her. She remains still, burrowed in the confines of her dreams. “Pretty different from Texas, then,” he says, and you laugh again, realer this time, easier.

“Colder,” you agree, “Even in the summer. We always had to bundle up next to the coast, even in July.”

“Nice though?” He prods into your memory with an iron poke, trying to keep you awake, keep you alive. Guide you ashore. The granite slopes wade into your mind, crashing waves and evergreen needles, a creaking Cape and damp, mossy mornings.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Really nice. Pretty quiet. Not many people, mostly just the deer and the gulls.”

His eyes flash, some emotion you can’t name, but it feels like it fits in the still blanket of space between you. “Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad place for a baby.”

You think of a child, toddling through the sand, tossing rocks into the water at your ankles. You think of a quiet life in a cove town, small but big enough for the three of you. You think of scribbled drawings on an antique fridge, of fatherly pride and big hands sweeping up a little girl, throwing her over his shoulder. Her lovely laugh peeling through the dunes.

You can’t help but smile. “Maybe you could have built us a cabin or something.”

He grins then, a real, full smile lighting up the planes of his face. You want to reach out and stamp it into your skin, hold this moment, suspend it in simplicity. “Big order for that. Think the invoice would be pretty intense. You plannin’ on compensating the vendors properly?”

You snort, curling his still-captured hand under your chin. “What, the baby’s not enough? Plus, your memory’s shot. Rural real estate isn’t anywhere near expensive as those city slickers liked to run you for.”

“I guess a nine month gestation is payment enough,” he says, and you feign to smack him, beaming.

“Three beds, three baths,” you continue. “One for us, one for the baby, one for visitors.”

He sucks in through his teeth. “Steeper and steeper, these costs. And it’s oceanfront, too?”

“Balsam fir,” you babble, the picture forming so seamlessly in your mind. “So it always smells clean. High ceilings — and a skylight! So we can still see the stars.”

Joel’s nodding, eyes shining. “Okay, okay, you’re right. Whatever you want. I owe ‘ya that much.”

Your heart skips a beat. You feel a giant spark smolder in your chest, so you tuck yourself into Joel’s side to share it with him. He carefully folds you into himself, stretching around the subtle curve of your abdomen that’s recently manifested.

Something unnamable pulses through you, through the bump, over to him. Before you drift off, you convince yourself you might have seen it in his eyes, too.

—

One stormy night in Boston, you’re helping Tess pack a couple of bags. The thunder cracks and you shiver, mind wandering to Katie, to where she might be sleeping that night, if she’s wet, if she’s cold. Tess hasn’t said much to you, her mind on her next move, her next haul; she’s particularly preoccupied with Joel’s absence, you think, but you don’t say anything. When her grim determination sets the precedent, there’s no getting around it. You wouldn’t want to pry, anyways.

She’s the one to finally break the silence. “He say anything to you before he left?”

You had been here at their place earlier in the day, while Joel was packing up to leave. He hadn’t said a word, had just brushed by you on his way out, your shoulder buzzing from the brief contact.

You shake your head. “No, I don’t even know where he was going.”

Tess hums, eyes flitting from the door to the radio against the wall. “Well, whatever. We can’t wait around all night. You hungry?”

Your stomach gurgles in response, carving deeper into the hollow pit of your abdomen. “Yeah,” you say, like there was ever any other answer.

Tess heats up the green beans with ham you had brought that day from your shift at the pantry. The corner of the can is dented, which is why no one cared that it had gone missing, but Katie had started rejecting the dented ones recently, saying botulism was a silent killer the Fireflies couldn’t afford to barter with. Your palms sweat. You’ve eaten so many like that, it’s probably fine. But what if this was the time it wasn’t? What if Tess ingests your poison and you’re the thing that kills her, after all she’s been through?

She doesn’t seem to care, dumping portions into two bowls and leaving the rest in the beat up tin pot on the stove. You both slurp in silence, letting the wash of sodium rush over your gums. You should have thought to add pepper, but getting up again feels too much like an inconvenience, and maybe a slight on Tess’s preparation.

You’re both jolted from complacency when Joel bangs through the front door, throwing it shut behind him and shouldering into the nearby bathroom before either of you can stand up.

“Joel?” Tess calls warily.

A moment of silence, then he responds. “Just a minute.” His voice is strained, slightly raspier than usual.

Tess immediately knows something is wrong, and you know because of the look on her face. “Fuck,” she mutters, and pitches towards the cabinets underneath the sink. She tosses you a couple of rags. “Will you go hand these to him, or get him to sit the fuck down? Where’s the disinfectant?” She starts muttering under her breath while she rummages around and you stand there uselessly, rags flowing limp between your fingers.

“Will you relax?” huffs Joel, emerging from the bathroom and moving stiffly to the kitchen table. You can’t help but gape at his complexion marred with bruising, the ugly discoloration above his eyebrow and around his jaw swelling to a reddened burst. Blood drips down his nose, around the contour of his rugged angel lips, then down onto the rotten floorboards underfoot. He sits, unable to hide a wince and a grunt, or maybe not trying. You’re still frozen.

Tess whirls by you, slipping the rags from your hands and settling next to Joel with a bottle in her hand. She wets one of the rags, then starts to dab at his face. He halfheartedly bats her hand away for a second, until she glares, then relents and lets her clean his face.

“You wanna explain yourself?” She murmurs lowly after a minute. Her voice spurs you into action. You want to help, want to stitch him together with your own sinew, dull his pain with a drug from your veins, but you don’t think he’ll take kindly to it. Tess has clearly done this before; even if she hadn’t, she’s comfortable, certain of where she stands with him. You can’t step into the space she takes up.

“Not really,” he mutters, a childish impatience squirming through him. You feel his own restlessness in your own feet; useless, you can’t just stand here. You turn to the stove, grabbing another bowl from the cabinet and doling him a portion of the sad green beans and ham. You grab the pepper, flaking a kick into his food that you’re sure he’s said he prefers, and turn to quickly set it down in front of him. Tess is done, grabs the rags to toss in the sink.

Joel seems confused. “We’re outta green beans.”

You grin at him, the flesh on your face feeling tight and out of place. “Good thing you’ve got a supplier.” You don’t say that you had stashed him a can extra even above your smuggling quota. You don’t mention it because you know he likes them better than any of the other shitty cans because they remind him of home, because they’re made down south, somewhere, because he can’t know that you know that about him, that you study him like he’s something worth knowing about. You can’t wear your love so openly like that, but you think he might see it leaking out of your porous heart anyways, because there’s a stern gratitude in his nod, in the bite he lifts to his mouth. Tess knows too, and squeezes your shoulder as she walks you out later.

“Thank you,” she says, “for doing that for him. He’ll never say it, but he’s grateful. I’m grateful. You’re a good kid.” Your heart beats faster. You can’t remember the last time someone said something like this, told you you were good, saw the care you hemorrhaged, and gave it back to you. You nod and head back to your own empty place, counting down the hours until you can see him again, until you feel like there might be a reason you’re here.

[tempe-brennans]

in the cold kentucky rain

summary: a search in the rain for lost love

authors note: so i don't go here but i've gotten the joel brainrot through osmosis and here we are. if he's out of character that's totally on me. hope you enjoy <3

The fabled Kentucky bluegrass squishes under his feet. Dimly, he thinks it isn't really blue. It looks like any other grass he's ever seen—especially in the rain—wet and green with mud beginning to squeeze up between the blades.

Who had named it that?

Back in the old days, before monsters and all this death, Joel knew horses and bourbon flowed through this state in nearly equal measure. But, in all the Derby coverage he’s ever seen, he’s never heard anyone explain why it’s called bluegrass. Not once. It’s not like he had imagined cobalt blue blades grew along Kentucky’s hills, but still. He was expecting something more than this.

He almost wishes there was some way to look it up, a computer he could get to with some modicum of ease. It would certainly make his actual search easier, if nothing else. Which, if he's honest, is the only reason he's let his mind wander down a tangent about bluegrass in a state he's never been to before.

A distraction. A desperate, hopeless attempt at a distraction.

What if he never finds you? Never sees you again? Never again wakes to feel the softness of your breath against his bare chest as you sleep?

He couldn’t bare it. Even the thought makes his chest constrict in a way he hasn’t felt since the parasite that flipped the whole world upside down—since the day he'd seen his only daughter dead in his arms.

He knows now. He understands the way he should have been with you. You weren’t a mission—didn’t require the efficiency and reservation it took to get him through the rest of his life. He could be soft with you, should have been soft with you. All the romantic comedies they used to play on television over and over, he should have followed their example.

He should have been over the top in the way he loved you, even now, with the world the way it is.

The love he feels for you had changed his life, had given him something to look forward to, but he had still treated you like a task to be completed—a problem to be addressed.

It's all so clear now, as he walks through the rain looking for you. It’s all clear now, when he’s lost you.

He’s interrupted, jolted out of his thoughts as a truck jostles down the road behind him. Practiced fingers curl around the gun tucked in his waist, just in case.

Lot of good it would do him to contract pneumonia looking for you and end up dying in a botched roadside robbery.

The truck slows to a stop beside him, wet wheels squealing as they still.

A window rolls down—the old crank kind, Joel can hear it even over the rain, and it makes him smile.

“You need a ride, son?”

The man can’t be much older than Joel, but still, he takes on the role of elder easily. Joel’s fingers release his gun, knowing he could reach it in time should he still need to.

He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

The man shakes his head, reaches across the bench seat, opens the door. “The only inconvenience I feel is my wet passenger seat. Get in.”

Joel does, running out of reasons he shouldn’t.

He settles, looks at the driver. “If you’re sure it’s not a hassle.”

“S’no trouble at all,” the man says, as he starts up the truck again.

Joel can feel the other man’s eyes on him and, without much other choice, turns to meet his eyes.

He quirks a brow. “You wanna talk about why you’re out for a walk in a torrential downpour?”

Joel looks down, shakes his head. “No big deal, really.”

“Sure.” He nods. “I go walking in the rain for no reason, too. I get it.”

Joel breaks. The stranger in the driver’s seat is a man he’ll never see again, and suddenly, his problems come pouring out. By the time the man stops again, outside an abandoned general store, Joel has spilled his guts.

He blows out a breath. “I wish you luck. Nowadays a search like that…”

Joel nods, shallows around the lump that has formed in his throat. “I know.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, thanks for the ride. I appreciate it.”

The man nods. “’Course. I hope you find her.”

“Me too,” Joel murmurs.

It happens when Joel is least expecting it, catching sight of you. He’s walking around the general store, having already checked inside, and there you are.

He could never forget the way you carry yourself, never forget the shape of your body. Like you, it’s burned into his mind for the rest of his life.

He tries to call your name, but his mouth won’t form the word. Instead, he tries, “Honey!”

You stop, turn to face him in slow motion.

“What are you doing here, Joel?”

Hands shaming at his sides with nerves, he attempts a joke. “Thought you could get rid of me that easy, hm, darlin’?”

You sigh, shrug. “I was hoping.”

Then, you’re turning, continuing on your way, and Joel can’t have that.

“Baby, please.” He hurries to catch up and tries to curl fingers around your arm and just misses.

“‘M’not your baby,” you mutter.

“Can you at least look at me?” Joel sighs. “Don’t I deserve that?”

You blow out a breath and turn to face him.

There’s a look in your eyes Joel has never seen turned on him. He’d call it something like disinterest.

“Just leave it alone, Joel.” You sigh. “Just let me go. Please.”

He shakes his head, tries to talk over a thunder clap. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can! You’ve done it for months!”

You turn on your heel, as done with the conversation as you appear to be with him.

Desperate, he calls after you, “Everyday I’m in love with you and everyday the feeling grows and if you could just…if you could just come home, I’ll make sure to show you that every moment.” Joel shakes his head, reaches out for you. You just slip out of his grasp. “You’ll never forget—never have to wonder how I feel—again. Not for a second.”

You simply stare at him, a look in your eyes he can’t place.

“Please, baby.” He can feel the tears roll down his cheeks and mix with the rain. “Please give me one more chance. Just one,” he whispers. “I promise I’ll never hurt you again.”

You’re silent for an entirely too long moment before you finally speak.

“Can you sing that song for me again?”

Joel knows exactly what you mean.

He remembers the night intently, the night you had cried on his shoulder and he had done the only thing he could think to comfort you.

Sing.

Gentle fingers had run up and down your arm as he had hummed.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy, when skies are gray

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take, my sunshine away

He murmurs them again now, meaning entirely different as he gets soaked to the bone in the rain.

“I’ll never do anything to make you wanna leave again, baby. I promise.”

“No,” you murmur. You run gentle fingers through his hair, laugh softly. “I’m sure you will.”

Joel feels his face fall, his heart go a bit topsy turvy, but you’re quick to right him.

“I just won’t run away next time. Not without speaking to you.”

His soul settles, and you lean in to kiss him. His rain soaked clothes, the water dripping into his eyes—it’s all worth it for this moment, the moment when everything falls into place once again.

“I love you,” he whispers, simple in its truth.

Your smile is a slow thing, taking over your face like honey. “I love you, too.”

[allforone-appreciation]

1. IF (I hope) DFO turns out to be canon, how do you think it would be revealed at this point? Izuku wouldn’t recognize his father as a child and I doubt he’ll say the “I am ur father” in a child’s body. It doesn’t have the same impact. What if as All Might is dying he reveals the truth? My idea is that he’ll rewind until he looks like Izuku’s twin and they’ll have a sudden realization or something.

2. It’s inevitable that AFO is gonna lose/die, but I feel like the best way to end his tyranny is by making him quirkless for the rest of his life. ie after the war he lives the rest of his life quirkless. That’s the best punishment for him in my eyes (and cuz I love him I don’t want him to die lol).

3. IF DFO is not canon, where the fuck is Hisashi Midoriya? It’s too suspicious he’s not in the picture. (My own father has worked overseas for the last 5+ years, I promise you he calls me almost everyday + visits 2 times a year). Do you think he’s some big hero? Or other villain? Or maybe he really abandoned Izuku? It seem like he shut his dad out of his memory completely, not even mentioning him once. Hori also said he had big plans for his reveal or smthin. Sorry for the long ask! 😅

Oh you're fine I love long asks it just takes me a bit to reply as I have stuff going on during the week in real life. So now I can take the time to share your lovely ask to everyone in all it's glory.

I don't imagine it being a I am your father moment, if anything it feels like something that would be revealed to All Might or figured out. Rather then something explicitly said unless All for One just absolutely loses it and shouts about how stole his family or something.

It is a foregone conclusion that AFO is going to lose/die regardless of everyone's intention. Through him becoming quirkless it would be quite a funny and poetic. Likely if the quirk rewind is stopped while he's young, it could just lock his quirks. We all wish he wouldn't die we can hope but even Horikoshi seems assured he definitely not going to survive. But we can hope. :' )

Honestly, that is the weirdest thing. Like many shonen series sometimes omit a parent from the equation. But Horikoshi when asked about Mr. Midoriya said he would be revealed. It honestly now would be weird for him to introduce a new character in the supposed final arc. So the only other idea I can have of him is just being AFO or maybe if want to be creative, the one we been seeing is a clone. His actual first attempt at retiring but the clone is left unaware of that and is why is using Tomura. Just a funny thought as I remember someone musing about clone AFO being a thing.

[vad-hander]

LET’S KEEP IT SECRET

pairing: Jaehyun x reader x Yuta

others: SM Rookies, multiple SM and JYP idols

genre: series | idol!au | smut | angst | fluff

warnings: smut! (read if you're 18+ only), idol!nct, idol!y/n, from SM Rookies till today, readers mom is degrading, love triangle

words: 14k

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

-

Why did life feel so overwhelming? Why did it feel like you were stepping on your own throat when you were just trying to chase after you dreams? 

Why were you avoiding contact with outer world for the past three days if what you were doing was for your own good? Why were you hiding in your room and chocking on your tears instead of spending your last minutes with the people that became your family?

”You should only do what’s best for you.” Your mom stated plainly, placing chopsticks in front of you. 

”Is it best for you to move there?” your dad asked softly.

”Maybe?” you looked up to the ceiling with a spoon in your mouth.

”It is. As long as they’re going to put money on your bank account and give you success they are much better than that company that left you caged in.” 

”SME is still probably the best out there.” You sighed.

”If they did not put you into that group, they are most definitely are blind for talent. What was the name of the group? L-red? Whatever it is, even the name is tasteless.” you paused, glitching with your mouth open as the chopsticks were about to deliver food on your tongue. What-, was your mom blaming the company? Was she not eating your brains out for not being enough- ”What are you staring at? Eat! Eat!” She hurried you suddenly, making you choke on sprouted beans.

”Did you hear that?” You whispered, following the figure of your mom with eyes. ”She tried to… cheer me up?” You squeezed your face in confusion.

”We’ll always be on your side, child. Now eat, you’ll need a lot of strength to show your best in the new place.” You nodded, wishing you could just give up the feelings inside you.

The moment you stepped out of the meeting room all the confidence faded and it became harder to walk, to breathe even. You got back to your room in dead silence as the SME employee dropped you off in front of the dorm and haven’t gotten out since, unless it wasn’t for the bathroom or the fridge or the lunch to tell your parents the news. 

It was hard to come out and look at the people you were about to abandon. It was difficult thinking of the unknown that was on your path as soon as you left the comfort of the company, the dorm that became your home. Were you selfish? Is the wish to be famous even pure? Were you just dying to be on stage because singing is your dream? Were you just an egoist and next steps would be walking over people just because you wanted to reach something else? 

A single thought of Yuta hurt your insides. He’s going to be pissed, he’s going to scream and probably will not talk to you ever again and to be fair, you’d probably do the same. You felt anxious because you knew there was no reason for him to happily accept the news, to let you go and wave as you exited the dorm and a huge part of his life. What would it be like to not have the safe space where you could see each other whenever? What would it be like to have to put in real effort to make it possible to see each other? The thoughts were just giving you anxiety, you were anxious before, when the word of NCT debut spread, but that feeling in the past was nothing in comparison to what you were feeling now.

You knew Jaehyun would at least try to understand, it is so him to try and put in effort to make everything better. You gulped and sat up. He would put in so much effort to make you feel better even now and you could feel it with your whole being, he had that utter believe in you and it would help him understand where you were coming from. He’s probably going to be upset and hurt but he’ll take the news because he’s the soft-hearted boy you love dearly and he would never want anything less than the best for you. 

Koeun would just cry, you knew that and knew that you would cry too so it’s probably the easiest to tell her. You almost jumped up to go and find her but you couldn’t. You couldn’t risk saying it all to anyone because saying it would make it real.

You knew that it was pretty real, there was an article prepared by the management already to announce your parting from SME activities starting Monday after you signed the contract and you could only wonder when will someone at the dorm see the article, you wanted them not to at all, but it was kind of inevitable to get attention from everyone at the company at least. You almost hit your head on the wall, realising that every one of your friends would understand everything even before the article, when you’ll move out.

Your phone made a sound that made your insides flip. Getting notifications became a disturbing thing, living a cave life. 

from: Jaehyun. 

“i have a very important question.”

to: Jaehyun

“go ahead”

from: Jaehyun

“are we still getting drunk on your birthday?” 

to: Jaehyun

“yeah.” 

“trying to back off?” 

from: Jaehyun

“you were silent I got confused” 

“tbh I wonder what to buy”

to: Jaehyun

“ask Yuta?” 

from: Jaehyun

“he’ll ask why I’m asking and would want to come too” you smirked.

to: Jaehyun 

“I won’t mind” 

from: Jaehyun. 

“I thought it’s just you and me.” 

It took less than a moment for a message to follow up. 

“I mean, if you want other people then that’s cool.” 

to: Jaehyun

“No, you’re right. Just you and me.”

“Just get sojus and beers.”

”And you should buy a lot, I’m sure I have great alcohol tolerance kkk”

“I want to be real drunk”

”Like real-real.” To tell you, that I’m not going to be here anymore, you swallowed. 

from: Jaehyun

“is everything okay?” 

to: Jaehyun 

“yuuup.”

“It’s our first time drinking!!!”

“we’re going to a safe place, I trust you. I want to have fuuuun”

from: Jaehyun

“no twister then…?:(“ you laughed at the message

to: Jaehyun

“oh”

“if you’re not scared to break your skinny legs then why not kkkkkk”

You stared at the phone for a while, but Jaehyun seemed to be off the chat already, putting your phone away too. 

What exactly did your plans for the future sound like? Not the future future, but at least a couple of days before you’re leaving? 

Well, they were vey unclear to you. One thing was set for sure - on Friday you’re signing all the official papers, right after you turned of age. 

Your breath hitched when you realised. 

“My parents.” you mumbled and looked at your phone to see what time it was. Not that late to give that JYPE woman a call, you reckoned and ran up to the jacket you wore on the day of meeting, fishing a card out of your pocket. 

“Lee Soonhyuk, I’m listening.” she picked up the phone quicker than you built up courage, her voice already was filling the line as your brain was coming up with words to say. 

“Mrs. Lee Soonhyuk, it’s Y/n, we met at SME.” you gulped. 

“Oh, Y/n! How are you doing? Nice hearing from you, I hope you’re not calling me to say you’ve changed your mind.”

“No, no.  Mrs. Lee, I wanted to ask you questions, and you’ve told me to call you if I have anything to ask. Actually….” you realised that maybe you should’ve not taken her words literally “maybe you could give me your colleagues contacts, I could ask them.”

“No, no, no. Y/n, darling, you could ask me, it’s fine. We’re going to work together, I have to make sure you understand perfectly how the work flows at JYPE.” You nodded and then realised that she wouldn’t know if you did so or not. ”Go ahead, you can ask.” She broke off the silence that suddenly hung between you.

“Right, do I need my parents with me at the signing this Friday?” 

“How old are you, again?”

“I’m 18 this Wednesday.” 

“No, you’re legally okay to sign these papers yourself, but if you want to, they’re more than welcome to support you through the journey.”

“I… okay, thank you.” 

“For sure. Anything else?”

“Yes. Can I move to JYPE dorms this Friday?”

“Can I ask if everything is okay between you and your friends?”

“Yes, yes. I just hoped I could start adjusting to my new home quickly.” 

“Oh… oh… sure, if that’s what you want I’ll happily arrange everything.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for calling! And have a great birthday! See you on Friday.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Lee, thank you, goodbye.”

-

“Koeun?” you called out when three knocks on your door disturbed the silence. There was no response, just three more knocks that kind of made you mad. “Yes?” you called out once again and finally stood up. “What is it?” you sighed and opened the door. “Oh…”

“Happy birthday to you!” A loud group sang in front of your door. 

“Wha-, what are you all doing.” you smiled shocked, suddenly feeling like you could cry right this very moment. You were trying to abandon these people, pack your bags and runaway without a notice and they were in front of your door singing a happy birthday and caring for you. You hid your mouth in your palms staring at each of your friends.

“Blow the candle!” Jaehyun exclaimed and you finally focused your eyes on his face. Your best friend held the cake, smiling all too widely showing off to you his dimples. You smiled too, finally, holding your palms under your chin to make a wish. 

“Make it a good one.” Yuta’s voice stroke through your body right into your heart. You grinned widely noticing the boy you were missing terribly due to your recent life decisions. 

“I will.” you nodded and closed your eyes before you could blow out the candles. 

“Hey.” Yuta called out for you after the hugs and birthday wishes from all your friends were finally given and wished, as you stood in the corner of your room with Jaehyun glued to your side by wrapping his hand over your shoulders. You were trying to discuss quietly the plans for your secret party while others were too preoccupied to share the cake equally. “Can you help me?” he walked up to you two closer, running his eyes visibly over your hand that was entwined over Jaehyun’s waist. 

“Yeah? How?” 

“We need plates for the cake, can you show me where you keep ‘em?”

“Yes, sure.” you smiled at Yuta and untangled yourself from Jaehyun, leading the way to the kitchen. “We keep th- Ugh, ouch.” you cried out and ran your hand over your mouth immediately. “What are you doing?” you giggled, wrapping your hands over Yuta’s neck, as he turned you around to face him. 

“I wanted to wish my beautiful girl a very happy birthday.”

“You already did.” you teased. 

“I did, but it’s not everything I wanted to do.” he walked you slowly backwards over to the countertops.

“Yeah? What else is there?” you couldn’t stop smiling even for a second with the way Yuta’s eyes burned holes into yours. You licked your lips as your back hit the countertops. 

“A lot was planned, but since we’re short on time…” Yuta placed his hands on the back of your thighs, helping you to jump onto the flat surface. 

“This is… new.” you chuckled, as he pulled your body closer to the edge, forcing you to allow him stand between your legs. 

“There’s a lot of things that are going to be new to you in the nearest time.” he chuckled and made your heart miss a few beats. He didn’t even know how right he was about it. “I’ve got something for you.” 

“You do?”

“Yes.” he reached out to his back pocket and showed a fist in front of your face. You caressed the skin of his fingers with yours and he opened them up. 

“Are we getting married?” you joked before you could think, you didn’t mean to be mean towards Yuta’s gift. 

“No, but these have your birthday and mine engraved.” you grabbed the ring and did see it for yourself, there was a heart engraved on the outer side of it as well. 

“This… must’ve cost a whole lot.” 

“It wouldn’t matter even if it did.” 

“Yuta.” you sighed and placed the rings back into Yuta’s palm. Your eyes met his and you got emotional. 

“This is getting heavy…” he paused “I’m into you, I hope you know that, but the job is getting heavy on me, not letting me see you, be with you, take you on open dates, kiss you when I want to, tell the whole wide world I’m in love with the most talented, beautiful, outstanding girl in the world. I know these rings won’t help much to stop missing you when we’re not together, but… just by looking at it I’ll remember I have you during hard times… Will know that I have someone to hold and love, and I want you to feel the same way when you’re having a hard time, or if you just miss me suddenly. This,” he held the ring with his birthday engraved between his fingers, putting it onto your finger. “goes onto your finger, and this one, is supposed to go on mine, but…”

“But…?” you asked still smiling.

“But to not draw attention, will go onto my neck.” he reached out to the chain he wore and made the ring go through it and put the chain back on his neck. 

You reached out to play with the ring hanging over his chest, before you hid it under the shirt, reaching out to caress Yuta’s cheek and then leaning in more to kiss his lips softly. 

“I really-really do love you.” you mumbled into his lips. 

“I love you too.” Yuta’s hands held your head, pulling you a little back. “Let’s spend some time alone.” you nodded excitedly. You would spend all the time you had alone with Yuta, he didn’t need to ask. “Tonight? Or tomorrow night?”

“Oh, no…” 

“Mmh?” Yuta pecked your jaw and made you shiver. 

“I can’t tomorrow.” 

“Something exciting?” 

“No…” you shook your head. “Just agreed to hang out with Jaehyun earlier.” 

“Will I ever be the first one to ask you to hang out?” 

“Mmm… no?” you squinted your eyes. “He seems to always be one step quicker.” you teased, Yuta moved his palm onto your jaw, squeezing it between his fingers. 

“You’re mine anyway even if he’s 10 steps quicker with invitations” he tried to sound serious but his eyes gave him away. Yuta pulled your face closer to his, peppering kisses all over your face all of a sudden. 

“Yuta.” you cried out for mercy, holding onto his wrist as he didn’t leave a single inch of your face, finally being done with it and moving his lips onto your neck, to hide his face in the crook of it, holding your body tightly with his hands. 

The sudden silence dropped over the room, you ran your hands over Yuta’s back a couple of times, finally setting them over his nape. 

“I really want you to stay when everyone leaves.”

“Why?” he raised his head a little to see your face. 

“To… I don’t know, maybe just do the same thing but horizontally.” 

“Okay.” he chuckled, and bent his neck weirdly to be able to kiss you. You quickly kissed him back, pressing onto his body with yours. Your fingers ran over his nape soothingly, while you asked for permission to enter his mouth with your tongue. You haven’t kissed Yuta for so long, you haven’t touched or seen him at all for so long you were not able to possibly detach yourself from his body. 

Of course, if only the situation didn’t ask for it. The little screech your door always made was inevitable for you to miss, and even though just a moment before the sound flooded your mind Yuta rocked his hips into yours and turned you into a flooded pool, your hands were quick to push him off and your feet were even quicker to jump off that countertop. 

“Shit!” you exclaimed, hitting your foot as you jumped off on one of the handles. 

“Are you okay?” Yuta squatted in front of your seated body, reaching out to your cheek. 

“Are you guys okay?” Jaehyun asked concerned and Yuta moved his hand away. 

“I hit my toe!” you cried out.

“H… how?” he asked confused. 

“This stupid door, ouch.” 

“I’m at a loss of words.” Jaehyun smiled a little. “I could not possibly imagine hitting your toe on the door handle of a cupboard.”

“What do you want?” you hissed. 

“Plates, people are starving in your room.” Jaehyun’s eyes ran over the kitchen. “Where are they? I thought you went to get them.” 

“Yes.” you sighed, still holding on to the toe you hit. “Yuta, they’re in the cupboard on the left.” 

“Okay.” the boy stood up to finally get the plates. 

Jaehyun watched you sit on the floor and when his eyes focused too much on your probably way too swollen lips, you reached out a hand to him, and his eyes moved to it.

“Please, help.” you whined and reached out your other hand too, so Jaehyun could pull you into the standing position. “Thanks.” you pecked his cheek as the pulling motion he made forced you too close to him. 

“I’m taking these back to the room.” Yuta shoved the plates between you two. 

”Okay.” You nodded. 

“Did you cry?”

“Mmh?” You asked confused.

“You’re flushed like you cried or something.”  

“No.” You quickly replied, slowing down with your words to not seem weird. “Blood rushed to my face after I hit my toe.“

“Okay.” he chuckled. 

“Do you plan on staying for long?” you asked hesitantly as you two walked back to the room. 

“Me?”

“Everyone else.” 

“Do you-, I mean, should I tell everyone to go?” 

“Yes, please… I’m a little tired.” 

“Okay, I’ll tell everyone to go.” 

“Thank you.” you raised your head to take a look at him, caught with Jaehyun’s stare as he was already looking at you.  

“Of course.” his hand ruffled your hair, before opening the door. 

-

“I think, we should head back.” Jaehyun stretched out his arms, acting tired not much later after the two of you returned. 

“Yeah, you’re right, I have school tomorrow.” Mark put the plate on the floor. 

“Me too.” Koeun jumped up next to the boy.

“Let’s call it a night then.” you pursed your lips, catching a glimpse of Yuta. He sat in the corner quietly, not attracting anyones attention. You wondered if it really would work out like that, moving your gaze from him to not give him away. 

“You know… I thought…”

“Mmh?” you raised eyebrows at Jaehyun attentively. The others were leaving your room but Jaehyun was slow and almost teasing with the time he took to leave. 

“I wanted to make your birthday special. Can we have the whole day tomorrow together? Like a birthday breakfast, then we could do something fun and have our little party afterwards? What you think?” Jaehyun bit onto his lower lip while expecting the answer. You smiled at him softly, he couldn’t look any cuter than that. 

“Do you not have schedules and other things?”

“I really don’t.”

“Let’s see in the morning, parents probably will call me.”

“Okay.” he nodded and sat a little away from you. “Ugh, Yuta?” you almost swore loudly in distress. “Is he asleep? He sleeps with his eyes open sometimes.” Jaehyun looked at you confused.

“I don’t know… should we just let him be?” Jaehyun chuckled at you. 

“Yuta?” The boy called his friend, calling his name once again when Yuta didn’t react. 

“Yes?”

“Let’s go, the party’s over.” Jaehyun stood up and looked at you as a goodbye. 

“Go ahead, I’m catching up.”

“I’ll wait, it’s fine.” Jaehyun walked to the door and turned around to face both of you. “We’re going to the same floor anyway.” he looked attentively at you. 

“I was actually planning to go to a convenience store.” Yuta stretched out his body nonchalantly.

“At this hour?” you held back to not make a joke about Jaehyun’s nerd antics. 

“Yes, I’m craving a lemonade.” Yuta shrugged and walked up to Jaehyun. You watched the figure of the older guy pass you quickly confused. He must’ve gotten an idea on how to trick Jaehyun out of your room. “Want to go with me?” Yuta turned around to look at you, ignoring Jaehyun’s presence in a weird attempt to hurt him, probably. 

“She’s tired.” Jaehyun stated sounding tired himself. “And asked me to make everyone go.”

“Including you.” it wasn’t a question, Yuta stated the obvious to Jaehyun’s face for no reason. 

“I know.”

“Honestly.” your heavy sigh broke off their head butting. “You two should probably leave already.” 

“I’m sorry.” Jaehyun lowered his eyes to the feet like he was scolded. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, you two.” 

You sighed once again, as the boys closed the door behind them. 

Jaehyun needed to know the status of your relationship with Yuta, you thought to yourself undoing the sheets of your bed. If he did know he’d allow the private space between you and Yuta to at least exist. The frustration bubbled up in your stomach. You just wanted to hug Yuta’s waist and feel his hands cover you like a shield, feel his hot breath and listen to whatever he had to say. Probably something that would make you chuckle and blush. 

You dropped the pillows onto the floor with force. 

”I should not be mad at Jaehyun. He meddles unknowingly.” You started talking to yourself in an inner battle, probably looking insane to everyone on the outside. ”Maybe he gets in the way just because he doesn’t understand how it is when you want to spend time one on one with someone you love?” With a pyjama set in your hands you grabbed a fresh towel to shower. 

The best way to get over your frustration and longing over Yuta’s touch was to just get to bed quickly and wake up fresh and happy tomorrow. 

A knock on your door though invaded your loneliness and your eyes focused on the door expectingly. It didn’t open, you voiced out what you thought. ”I’m in bed already.” You lied tired, someone probably forgot their belongings in your room, but you were not in the mood to give it back even if their life depended on it. Another knock followed and you threw clothes in your hands onto the bed, fiercely walking up to the door.

”I’m sleeping, who are you?” You turned off the light on your way to the door to make it less obvious you weren’t in fact yet in bed. 

”I thought you wanted to see me.” Yuta smirked as you opened the door, being swayed away by his hands, that pulled you swiftly away from the door to lock it from the inside. He then quickly pushed you against the door before you could even come up with any words, all sorts of emotions circulating over your body. 

”How-”

”I messed with Jaehyun.” Yuta chuckled, pressing his fingers onto your cheek. You leaned in to capture your boyfriends lips in a kiss, holding on to the hem of his shirt. Yuta let go of your face, keeping the eye contact with you, his fingers trailed down to your shoulders. You felt heated just by being close to him, standing next to the door of your pitch black room, not even a dim street light inside with your black out curtains. Was it normal to feel so heavy in your lower stomach from this brief interaction? 

Yuta pressed on your shoulders, making you lean against the door. His lips followed yours, and when you were about to open your mouth to talk, Yuta laid his lips atop of yours. ”I thought you said you were in bed already, these seem to not be your sleeping clothes.”

”I lied because I was frustrated.” Yuta tried to talk more, forcing you to wrap your arms over his neck so the boy in front of you would not be able to move away anymore. You tried to kiss him slower, savour the kiss, make him stay for as long as possible because actually, you didn’t know for how long was he planning on to stay with you.

You opened your mouth and Yuta slipped in his tongue, pushing your body more against the door. You pulled him in closer too, Yuta pushing his thigh between your legs. 

”I actually came here for a reason.” he pressed your head to the door to not let you follow his mouth for more kisses. 

”Yeah? What is the reason?”

”To spend time with you. I’m not sure you’ve been missing me, but I obviously miss spending time with you. Now that you’re going to spend an entire day with Jaehyun, not just a day - your birthday, I thought we could at least be together at night.” You pouted slightly at your boyfriends face expression. “In case your brain wonders if I’m playing or not, I am not. I might be a little hurt at the fact he’s ahead of me.“

”If only Jaehyun knew, it’d be so much easier to reject him.” Yuta pushed himself off the door, walking over to the bed. You followed behind. ”Now if I’m going to tell him I can’t see him during the day, he’s going to ask why and I’m terrible with lying.” You kneed your mattress next to Yuta, wrapping arms over his shoulders. ”I think I’m going to tell him tomorrow night.” You attracted Yuta’s attention. 

“I think I’m at the state where I don’t really want to stop you from telling him.” you nodded your head in agreement, wrapping your hands tighter. 

”Since you’ve began debut preparations we barely interact.” You gulped, kissing Yuta’s temple. ”Maybe later on we won’t be able to even have this.” There was only so little time to tell Yuta you were moving out and you were wasting it, tip-toing over the topic like a fool.

”Don’t.” his arm wrapped your body, pulling you down onto the mattress with him. ”When we’re going to Japan next-”

”I’m not going to Japan this time.” You didn’t let him finish feeling full on ashamed. The damned SMTown in Japan that you completely forgot about. 

”Why?”

”I was told I’m not, I didn’t ask any further questions.” you cringed at your own lying. You were terrible, indeed. You hid your face against Yuta’s chest.

”I’m sorry.” Yuta pulled you more onto his body, running his palm over your cheek. ”I wanted to say since last time we didn’t get the chance, I wanted you to meet my family this time, but-.”

”Oh, Yuta.” You felt more upset than you probably should’ve in Yuta’s perspective, but in your perspective - when would you get a chance to visit Japan next time at all?

”It’s okay, it’s not your fault, baby.” It is, in fact, you sighed. ”Next time they’ll visit me here you’ll come with me to meet them, okay?” You nodded, Yuta capturing your lips with his. 

“I wish I could meet your sisters.” 

“Momoka probably will come to Korea with my parents and Haruna… I’m not sure.” he suddenly thought too seriously of it. 

”Do you think you’d want to meet my family…if we had a chance…?” Yuta paused his breathing. 

“Mmmh, yes baby.” He nuzzled his nose against your cheek, pressing your side against his body. “This makes me feel so happy and calm. I want to sleep here with you every night until we’re moving somewhere else.” 

“Is that happening soon?” 

“The date’s not set, but, probably, yes.” 

“We’ll still be able to see each other, right?”

“Of course, baby, I’ll make all the time in the world to see you.” 

“I worry… sometimes… how will it be when you’ll debut.” 

“We, debut.“ He corrected you “First we’ll have to get used to the new reality in front of us and then… we’ll have each other and will be happy.”

“I wish it’d be like you describe it.” you turned more onto your side to rub the back of your hand against Yuta’s cheek. 

“We should not be sad about us on your birthday. It’s better we have some fun.” you smiled at the boy. 

“How?” His hand pulled your face in front of his. “In that way?” you whispered. 

“I didn’t bring condoms.” 

“Why? I thought you came here for that.”

“No.” he chuckled at you fully amused. “I came back without a second thought. Just to have time with you, sleeping is also good, we can do just sleeping.”

“Okay.” you stretched out a smile. “I’m going to shower first, though.”

“Okay, I’ll be right here.” he smiled and you smiled back, pecking Yuta’s lips quickly. 

-

“Hi.” you said quietly, clearing up your voice as you tried to sound more cheerful. 

You couldn’t work out what time it was but the sun was already beaming behind the curtains, you could tell. Your body still felt genuinely tired and you wished it wasn’t too late into the day. 

“Honey, are you still sleeping?” your dad asked softly. “It’s midday.” Oh fuck, you thought. So it is pretty late in the day, you tried to move yourself in bed but Yuta’s deadly grip on your body was of no help. 

“Yeah, I got to bed pretty late last night.” You didn’t actually know what time you got to bed even. It was hard to tell since after you got out of the shower Yuta felt like taking a quick shower too and when the both of you got in bed the time stopped moving in the little universe you were in when you were next to Yuta. You talked and kissed, embraced each other and then just quietly laid next to one another, before everything turned out a little more heated than you expected, finally being completely tired and unable to keep on functioning. “Don’t tell mum.” you chuckled.  

“Happy birthday, baby.” your dad finally said what he planned to start the conversation with.

“Thank you.” you smiled. 

“I love you very much, I hope you know that I’m always on your side, I’ll always support you and do anything for you. I hope you’re healthy and happy.” he paused for a moment before you could get too sentimental at his words. “I know you’re going to achieve in life everything you wish for. Just, please, be happy, healthy and eat well. I love you.”

“Dad.” you gulped. “I hope you’re not crying.”

“I’m a though cookie baby, I’m not.” a breathy laugh left his lips.

“I love you too, thank you.”

“Of course.” the line went silent, you heard a little shuffle next to you, feeling Yuta’s lips land over your pulse point. You smiled at the boy, squeezing his fingers under the blanket. “Your mom called you earlier but you didn’t pick up and now she’s running around the house preparing a grand dinner for us. Would you… mind join? Of course if it’s not conflicting your schedule.” he added awkwardly in the end. 

“Dad, it doesn’t. I would love to come home and eat moms food. Maybe I could even stay to sleep home?”

“That would be absolutely great.” your dads voice brightened up. Your stupid brain suddenly remembered you can’t, you had to go see Jaehyun in the afternoon. 

“Dad?”

“Yes baby?”

“Can I bring a friend?” you took a look at Yuta, the boy moved his head from your neck, hiding his smile behind your shoulder. 

“You mean Jaehyun-ie?” You almost chocked on nothing at his tone.

“No, not Jaehyun. You’ve actually never met him before.” 

“Okay, is he-.” you cut off your dad mid-sentence. 

“He’s maybe a boyfriend.”

“Maybe?” his voice didn’t change one bit in concern or fear or anything you imagined he would feel after you told him you had a boyfriend. 

“I mean, just a boyfriend, not maybe.” you expected too feel more cringed while talking about this to your dad. 

“Okay, of course you can.” he seemed… to not care, your insides finally were able to function again.

“Can you please-“

“Talk to mum about it?” now it was your dads turn to cut you off. 

“Yeah, please. I’m worried about her…”

“Yes, baby, me too. I’ll talk to her, don’t worry. You can bring your boy over, I’ll tell your mom to set one more plate for him.”

“Thank you.” 

“See you, then?”

“Yes, bye.“ You dropped the phone onto the night stand. 

“I didn’t know your parents loved Jaehyunie.” Yuta teased the very next moment. 

“Me neither.” you turned your body on the side to face him properly and move your limbs from the numbing position “Good morning.” you smiled. 

“Hey.” 

“This feels nice, right?” 

“What does?” 

“Waking up and seeing you.” 

“It sure does.” he grinned, sucking on your lower lip. 

“Oh, by the way.”

“Mmh?” 

“You’re kind of invited to the dinner at my place tonight.”

“What time? I gotta check my schedule.” You pushed his body off you, his morning husky voice filling the room with a chuckle. “I should probably look presentable and shit to sweep your mom off her feet and satisfy your dad?”

“Hmm…” You made a thinking face. “My dads probably going to be fine but my mom… oh, you might have to fight for her liking.” 

“Just for reference, are you teasing or for real right now?”

“Come and find yourself.” you giggled, kissing Yuta on the mouth. 

-

“Are you upset with me?” you stared at your feet like a scolded child standing next to Jaehyun. 

“No, I’m not.”

“For real?” you raised your eyes relieved. “I stupidly overslept and then my parents called and now I’m going to see them for dinner and I promise I’ll be at yours as early as I could possibly make it.” 

“Okay, okay.” you grabbed onto his wrist, making sure he did actually mean what he was saying. 

“Jaehyun-ah?”

“I swear it’s fine, we didn’t set on hanging out for the whole day anyway.”

“You know that I love you a whole crazy lot?” you smiled. 

“I actually do.” he smiled a little. 

“Okay, then I guess I’ll see you at your place, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re the very best, see ya!” you waved your hand at him as you ran out of the boys apartment, counting down the stairs as you paced down to your own floor to get ready. 

You wanted to look pretty, you wanted to feel that it was your birthday, spend the day with a light heart and go into the night with a heart even lighter. 

-

“I might sound rude.” you immediately turned your head to face Yuta. The two of you were in a taxi on your way to the birthday dinner with your parents. The air in the car was thick as hell, you wouldn’t be able to cut through it even with a saw, thanks to you, not Yuta. You were just the tiniest bit nervous and even the taxi driver could probably sense that. 

“I don’t think you will, go ahead.” You squeezed his fingers that were laying lifelessly on your knee. 

”Can’t get the feeling off my chest that you’re dreading inviting me to come home with you.”

”No I’m not.” You immediately protested making it sound weird, like you were dreading but tried to hide it. 

”It doesn’t even seem like you’re breathing with how tensed up you are.”

”Yuta, it’s definitely not about you.” ‘It’s about me, the fact that my mom doesn’t love anyone in this world, most likely the list is including me and she wouldn’t act nicely to you at all and I already have the image in my head and most likely, which is almost the worst part, she’ll start talking to you about my company transfer and the next second you find it out in such a dumb way you probably wont ever talk to me ever again.’ You wish you could add all of the words that bubbled in your head to your sentence but you just couldn’t. You still had a little hope and that hope was your guiding star. A simple wish to get this dinner over with and go see Jaehyun, tell him everything you are too scared to tell Yuta and hopefully get accepted and possibly get advice on how to tell Yuta. 

”What is it then? It’s your birthday, please smile just a little.” Yuta pulled onto the seatbelt to be able to reach out to your face in a soothing manner. “Will you?” He smiled and you couldn’t hold back the butterflies inside your stomach at the proximity and warmth that he radiated. “Yeah, that’s much better” he chuckled, seeing the smile rise up on your lips. “I’m with you so you don’t have to be scared of your mom or anything else.” His lips pecked the corner of yours, making you melt completely, making the nerves bubble inside of you untangle. “I love you, you know that? Your mom won’t change that.”

“I know… And i love you too. And I do really hope you mean what you just said.” You kissed him too, on the cheek, wrapping your hands over his neck as much as possible in your position to give him a hug. 

“I am.” He nodded, rubbing your back with his palm.

“I’m sure next turn is where my house is.” You suddenly gulped, being able to see outside the window while hugging.

“Is it?”

“Yeah.” You nodded

“Should we run away?” He chuckled obviously amused, moving your head to watch your face. You felt like your body got electrocuted, fully understanding what he said was a joke but somehow still wishing to catch the bait. 

“Shall we? Can we? Do you want to? I mean we can if you want to. I could tell we have to practice and can’t make it.” You suddenly moved very quickly, looking for your phone. Yuta watched your sudden burst of energy confused. “I can text my dad right now.”

“Baby, baby.” He called out multiple times to catch your attention. 

“Yeah?” You looked at him, slowing down.

“I thought this will make you laugh, I didn’t think you’ll actually get hooked on the idea.” 

“We’re here.” Taxi driver announced before you could tell a thing. 

“Mean.” You squinted your eyes, pecking Yuta’s lips afterwards just so he knows you’re not mad at him, finally getting out of the car, and walking around it to watch Yuta get out too. 

“Darling.” Your attention was attracted in a different direction though as soon as you heard your fathers voice. 

“Dad!” You ran up to your father. 

“Happy birthday, baby.” 

“Dad.” You rubbed your face against his chest a little. “Thank you. Were you waiting by the door? How did you know it’s us?” 

“I was, it was about time you two arrived. Will you, by the way, introduce me to the someone that came with you today?” He chuckled, brushing your hair with his fingers. 

“Oh, I sure will.” You smiled and straightened your back. “Dad, this is my boyfriend Yuta. He used to be a soccer player before he came to Korea and now he’s already fixed to be in a boy group, so you can brag to your friends you met an idol.” You teased a little.

“It’s nice to meet you.” Yuta bowed awkwardly you almost cooed at how well behaved he suddenly got. 

“It’s great to finally see who my daughter spends time with.” you nodded, ungluing your body from the hold of your father that you missed so much to stand next to Yuta, hold his hand in the nerveracking event of meeting your mother. “Shall we go in? Your mom made an excessively massive dinner, so I hope Yuta you have a great appetite.” your dad patted Yuta’s shoulder. 

“He doesn’t, idols have to keep in shape.” you chuckled. 

“No, no. I do” Yuta immediately corrected you, nodding his head and threatening you with a finger. “I’m sure I won’t be able to stop once I try the food.” your dad nodded satisfied, finally walking inside the house to find his wife. 

“You’re such a well behaved cutie.” you stood on your tiptoes to mumble into Yuta’s ear so your father wouldn’t hear it, pecking his cheek afterwards. 

“Honey, look who’s here.” 

“Y/n!“ She exclaimed loudly, making you jump. It’s not that you hated your mom, it wasn’t the case at all. The case was that it seemed like she only cared for you to make you achieve goals that she wanted you to achieve and once you drank in a life without her it felt even more wrong than before. You never really wanted to get in contact with her because she would nag, critique or point at your flaws and ‘obvious’ to her eyes reasons you were lacking in something. You had a feeling Yuta wouldn’t like her the minute he hears any of her casual rants and the realisation made you worry even more. Now, besides all other things you were scared of, you feared Yuta would want to fight your mom, which you could only pray for not to happen. “Oh, my child!“ She exclaimed, taking your face in her hands. You expected a snarky remark about your appearance. “You’re too early for the dinner. Go upstairs, the kitchen is a whole mess!“ She pushed you back to the corridor, so your feet wouldn’t pass the threshold of the kitchen. Yuta’s fingers brushed against your back as he caught you.  

“Mom, it’s my birthday.“ You chuckled pissed. “You could’ve said happy birthday.“

“I’ve called you in the morning.“

“I was asleep.“ 

“Exactly.“ She nodded and walked to the stove as if there was no further explanation needed.

“Can you pay attention to the person I brought with me?“ You gulped to not get furious. Yuta sensed that you were on the verge, caressing your shoulder. Why did she have to be like that on your birthday? Why the day when she decided to act sweet wasn’t on your birthday?

“Let’s go upstairs, let’s wait until everything is done.“ He tried to keep his voice low.

“Yes, listen to the boy.“ Your mom nodded and gestured with her hand for you to disappear. 

“Dad!“ You hissed. 

“Honey, please go upstairs. I’ll have a word with your mom.“ You grabbed Yuta’s hand, storming to your room. 

“Hey, hey.“ He caught your shoulders with his palms as soon as you entered the room.

“That’s exactly why I was nervous.“

“I don’t care.“ Yuta said softly, you turned around to see his face. “I don’t care if she for a weird reason doesn’t want to acknowledge my presence, if you’re worried about it. It only matter to me that you wanted me to come, share this with me. It only matters to me that I can spend my time with you and see what you had to live through your entire life.“ you sighed, lowering your head onto Yuta’s chest. “I wonder though, do you not have anything from your mom or will it poke out as you’ll get older and I will have to deal with you.“ He chuckled, pressing you more onto his chest. 

“Straight up just choke me then.“ You chuckled. 

“I kind of fear you would enjoy it much.“ 

“What?“ Your lips raised in genuine amusement now. 

“Would you find it weird if I told you I really want to have you right now. Like, for real fuck you.“

“Yuta.“ You gasped a little scandalised and at the same time, maybe, turned on at the idea. 

“Mmh?“

“I don’t know about that.“

“Okay.“ He chuckled as if he didn’t suggest a thing. “Come here.“ He pulled you by the hand onto the bed, sitting down. “I just want to kiss you. Can I?“ He snorted at your mortified face expression. 

“Yeah.“ You gave in, allowing him to pull you in. Yuta’s hands roamed over your body softly, pressing you onto his lap. The position wasn’t comfortable one bit and even though you really didn’t want to, you crawled a little onto his lap, forcing your knees onto the mattress. Yuta didn’t just leave you be, as soon as his lips were able to reach yours, his hands crawled under your legs, pushing you more on top of him, dropping his back onto the mattress and making his butt sit further on the bed. “Yuta!“ You broke off the kiss to scold him through laughter. 

“Yes, baby? You’re so pretty when you’re smiling. Thats exactly what I wanted to see on your face.“ His hand brushed your hair behind your ear. You dove into the kiss, caging his head between your elbows. Yuta touched up your body, running his palms firmly against your sides, caressing your jaw and cheeks with his thumbs, almost tickling your thighs with how lightweight his touches were at first, making a loud and very unexpected moan leave your lips as his fingers kneaded your thighs roughly, lifting up the dress you wore as the touch went up your legs. You pulled onto his lower lip, pulling away as his head tried to follow your lips up.

“You wanted just to kiss.“ You reminded him of his words.

“I still just kiss.“ He smiled innocently. “Or… do you somehow want more now?“ He chuckled, trying his best to act surprised. You squinted your eyes at him. “I do have the condom.“ He whispered more seriously, your breath hitched at the baldness of the suggestion.

“I can’t, you know that. It’s the birthday dinner.“ 

“I know. I really do. You don’t need to worry.“ He added softly, running his fingers over your cheek.

“Why did you bring it then?“ You smirked.

“Now that we don’t have any legal restrictions between us I just feel like I’m obliged to have it with me at all costs to secure your happiness.“  

“You’re such a fool.“ You cackled. 

“Can I please have my tongue in your mouth now?“ 

“Mmh…“ you thought for a minute. “Yes…?“ You made it seem you were unsure. Yuta took your head in his hands, rolling you on the bed so he’d be on top. “What is this?“ He pulled one of your legs onto his waist, rolling his hips right against your clothed centre. “What are you doing?“ You mumbled into Yuta’s lips as he smashed his lips against yours. 

“I forgot to mention that the other part of my gift besides rings was an orgasm.“

“Yuta.“ You hissed for him to keep his voice quiet. “That is not funny.“ he pressed against you once again with his hardening length. “You’re insane.“ You gasped. “We’re not having sex.“

“We’re not, I know.“ his lips trailed a line from your chin to the ear. “But you’re going to cum.“ Yuta mumbled into your ear, biting onto your earlobe.

His hands little by little closer to your clothed heat, the dress you wore already was pulled up your thighs, making it much easier for Yuta to touch you. His thumb ran up your clothed slit and your leg got tighter over his waist. “I’m not going to stretch you out, okay? Just your clit, we have to be quick.“

“Yeah.“ it sounded more like you meowed. 

“Try to hold back the sounds.“ You granted him with another weak reply, before Yuta’s fingers crawled behind the thin fabric. “Shit.“ He gasped at the feeling of your completely wet folds. “So wet.“ 

“I know, so please be quick.“ Yuta smirked at you, kissing your lips while his middle finger rubbed into you. It didn’t take him much time before the pleasure started to build up in your lower stomach. It really didn’t surprise you at this point how quickly he took you to the peak and even higher than that. Both your hands wrapped his neck tightly, pressing his chest flush against yours. You wanted to whine but his lips swallowed every sound that came out of you or just tried to. “So, so close.“ You managed to let him know. “Yuta?“ you asked sheepishly, even his hand slowed down to pay attention. “I kind of want the sex.“ you felt terrible by admitting. 

“Are you sure?“ He asked clearly not believing the words that left your mouth.

“Yes, is it weird that now I can’t think how would it feel to cum with you inside of me?“ You asked innocently.

“Fuck.“ Yuta cursed under his breath and moved away from you. You felt like you scared him away for some reason and already were ready to take your words back if it would make him feel better. “Does your door have a lock?“ 

“It does, but why?“ Yuta rushed to the door, locking it immediately. You almost asked why he didn’t find it important to lock the door when he was doing what he was doing before. “This is so fucking not how I actually wanted to have real sex with you for the first time.“ He mumbled as he got closer back to you, gesturing for you to crawl to the headboard and lie down. His hands quickly took off the plain white shirt he was wearing, undoing the pants with the same pace.

“You’re going to undress yourself completely?“ 

“Yes, and you should take your dress off quickly.“

“Okay.“ You nodded, pulling the material up your body. “Come here.“ You whispered with trembling hands. You wanted him terribly, the orgasm that almost washed over you was of no help to stop staring at Yuta that was visibly hard even through his underwear. You had seen his cock before, you’ve touched it even, but never with the idea of him getting in beetwen your legs and inside of you.

“Are you scared? Or nervous?“ Yuta asked carefully, as he crawled over you.

“We don’t have time for that.“ you gulped slightly upset. “I am literally about to have my first time while my parents are downstairs about to call us to have the birthday dinner.“ 

“You’re crazy for that.“ 

“I am, and you’re with me.“ You smiled, catching your breath at Yuta’s fond smile. “But please be quick.“

“I’m sure I’ll be, no worries. I haven’t been in a pussy for a really long while.“ you chuckled a little at him. “Just if it hurts, I’m going to have to stop.“

“Yeah.“ You nodded and spread your legs for Yuta to get between them. His fingers quickly pulled down your underwear, lowering his head suddenly to move his tongue against you. “Yuta.“ You pushed him away by the shoulder when he seemed to forget what you were about to do, you were almost cuming from his tongue.

“Right, you’re right.“ He nodded and pulled a condom from the jeans he thoughtfully left laying on the bed. Yuta’s hand quickly lowered to his cock, freeing it of clothing and placing the rubber material onto it. You watched him do it closely, forgetting to say that you actually were deadly scared of getting pregnant even if he wore that. Suddenly your throat felt too dry because the whole thing felt too real to be right. This somehow made you feel like you were in a movie, an awkward teenage movie where the first sex was one of the disappointments in life. How long will it take? Will this feel at least a little pleasurable? 

“This is fucked up.“ You mumbled once again finally realising what you made you two do. 

“Shh.“ He was focused, lining up himself with your entrance. You gasped before you could even feel anything, swallowing loudly. “Okay.“ He gave you a nod, pushing little by little. You were just focusing on how you felt, how he was pushing inside of you more and the expression on your face probably made Yuta scared. “Are you… okay?“ 

“No, yeah, I mean I’m good, you can go deeper.“ 

“I don’t think I should if you want me to last for at least minute.“

“Why?“ You asked concerned.

“Too tight.“ He panted, sucking on your lower lip. It did feel too tight, he was right. Tight, but somehow, still right. Your face expression changed into a brighter one. Yuta moved back, going back a little further than before. You were so scared of all the things combined you didn’t even realise that having him inside of you didn’t actually hurt. He was moving his hips in and out of you now and the both of you breathed harder. “Is it good?“ He suddenly asked.

“Yes, so good.“

“Right.“ Yuta mumbled under his breath. “Can I go harder?“

“Please.“ You nodded, feeling Yuta’s hips slap against yours for the first time. The sound was so loud and nasty, you almost chocked out of fear. If your bed will start to creak you’ll most definitely die of shame. 

You felt a little stiff and you knew for sure Yuta couldn’t possibly not feel it. You wanted to tell him you were sorry and you couldn’t even focus on the feeling of him stretching you out so perfectly, making you feel so heavenly, you could only focus on all the little sounds you two made during the intercourse and it almost felt like your soul drifted behind that door to stay on a watch. 

Soon enough Yuta rubbed your clit again and you felt like cuming. You were already pretty much spent and when he got you clenching you moaned into his mouth, almost crying. It felt too good to wrap around his cock when your body was spasming, feeling him push your walls while chasing his own high. 

You couldn’t understand who came first and who chased behind, you just liked to think you were connected on so many levels your bodies made you do it at the same time.

You panted, Yuta dropped his weight over you. 

“You’re the literal best.“ He found it in him to raise his head and peck your cheek. 

“Thats not true. It’s like you fucked a brick.“

“No.“ He cackled, leaving kisses over you neck. “I don’t think we took more than like what… 10 minutes? Embarrassing.“ he chuckled “I wouldn’t cum this quickly if you were a brick.“

“Thanks.“ you forced a smile and Yuta shifted his body weight.

“I don’t want to pull out.“

“Why?“ 

“It doesn’t feel nice to you?“

“I don’t know.“ you told sincerely. 

“We’ll work this all out later when we’ll have real time to get into things that you like and don’t.“ Yuta pecked your lips, pulling out and standing up. You kind of immediately understood what he meant by not wanting to pull out. Could you possibly ask him to come back?

“Do you have a bin?“ 

“Yes, but isn’t it going to be weird if my parents found a spent lonely condom in there?“

“Do you want me to take it?“ He chuckled but then realised you were serious. “Well if you’re okay I’ll leave it here for the dinner.“ He chuckled again, wrapping it into many paper towels and placing almost under the bed. Yuta quickly put on his clothes and nothing in his appearance gave away he just came. “Are you okay? Can you move?“ You nodded quietly and moved forward, collecting yourself back together. 

“Wait, is that you?“ Yuta smiled widely, staring at one of your childhood photos. 

“It is.“ You walked up to him after cleaning yourself up and getting your clothes back on. “Why are you laughing?“

“Can I steal this? You’re so cute.“ He cooed, caressing your cheek.

“No, its mine.“

“But please?“ He whined and you stared him in the eyes, getting scared when you heard knocks on your door. 

“Yeah?“ You replied as your dad already walked in. 

“Dinner’s ready. I hope you two didn’t get too bored while waiting.“

“No, I was looking at her baby photos.“ Yuta smiled.

“Okay, come downstairs.“ Your boyfriend nodded and grabbed your hand in his and walked you behind him. 

-

“Mom,“ you cleared your throat. “This is Yuta.“ The dinner was going relatively well with your mom keeping herself quiet. You thought that this maybe was a great opportunity to introduce Yuta properly, since she paid him hardly any attention for the past 40 minutes. 

“Yuta?“ She finally raised her eyes at the boy next to you. Yuta, who was pushing chopsticks full with meat and rice into his mouth pulled them away, making all the food drop into the bowl mixed. 

“Yes, Mrs.Y/L/N.“ He stretched his lips in a polite manner. 

“You’re a foreigner?“

“That’s right, I am Japanese.“

“You speak Korean well for a foreigner.“ She sighed, chewing on her rice. Her manners gave off royalty out of nowhere. 

“I learned it thoroughly.“ He bowed. 

“And your ancestors didn’t try to do the same when they occupied our country.“ A cold sweat ran down your spine. What the actual fuck was all this.

“Mom?“ you chuckled awkwardly.  “Why suddenly?“ 

“Maybe you need a reminder what your great-grandparents went through because of Japanese?“ 

“I don’t, I know it way too well.” Your eyes ran from your dad to Yuta. ”I just don’t understand what this has to do with Yuta.“ 

“I’m not sure now that you’ve brought him to the house where people that suffered from his countries’ hands lived.“

“Honey, I’m sure Yuta’s ancestors didn’t take part in the terrible things that happened to our people.“

“Are you so sure? Or trying to pretend like you are?“ She looked dissaprovingly. 

“Mom, you don’t even care about it.“ You bursted. ”You had too much to drink already, dad. Take the soju from her.”

“Y/n, it’s fine.“ Yuta squeezed your palm under the table. “I will ask my grandparents if they have any knowledge on how their parents lived during the occupation of Korea. I’ll give you my deepest apologies, Mrs.Y/L/N, when we’ll see each other next time if I’ll learn something regarding their relationship with Koreans.“ 

“Sure.“ She gave him a careless nod and the topic seemed to be closed, for now, thankfully. “That is exactly why you’re still a trainee while other girls get to debut.“ She didn’t let you to just have a conversation with your father about his co-worker.

“Yes?“ You stretched out your lips in a thin line and blinked.

“If you gave all of your attention to work, instead of boys, maybe you would’ve debuted in that girl group.“ 

“Honey.“ Your dad sighed. “It’s our daughters birthday.“ He finally grabbed the glass from his wife’s hand.

“Yes, and I’m wishing her to focus on work in her next year of life. First that sweet boy Jaehyun, now Yuta.“ Her voice shown disgust when she said your lovers name. “What happened to Jaehyun?“

“Nothing, he’s my friend. Always has been.“

“Thankfully you’re transferring to that other company, I hope they’ll take better care of your free time. When is your first day there, by the way?“ She raised her head to look you in the eyes. Your head turned to Yuta in fear, you almost cried in an instance, seeing his head low, focused on the rice bowl. “Y/n.“

“I’m moving on Friday. From the dorm and from the company.“ Yuta’s head flew up to see you with confused eyes. 

“Will you need any help with moving?“ your dad asked. 

“Yes, I guess I’ll need your help.“ You gulped, feeling a buzz to your butt. You almost didn’t understand what it was but remembered you sat on your phone. Jaehyun’s name and face lit up the screen. You almost declined the call but felt like you needed an excuse to leave the room that suddenly became so sickening. You hated your mom now for sure, you wanted to cry and throw up and never stay alone with Yuta because you were scared. Jaehyun’s voice would make it so much better, you gulped and jumped up. “I need to pick this up.“

“Hey.“ Jaehyun smiled and you could hear it through his voice. 

“Hi.“ You tried to smile but couldn’t at all.

“I’m at the store, I was thinking of cooking something for you.“

“Yeah?“ You were just lost.

“Please don’t get too full at the dinner.“ His voice turned into a whisper with a cute undertone. You wondered why would he whisper in the grocery store.

“Thank you.“ You smiled.

“What for?“

“For making me smile with your call.“

“Is everything okay? How’s the dinner?“

“You know what my mom’s like.“

“Yeah…“ he sighed.

“She said I should’ve brought you.“ you tried to smile.

“Yes you should’ve.“ He chuckled.

“You’re a fool. I don’t think I’ll be able to stay here for too long, so expect me to be early.“

“Okay, I’ll go back home quickly then.”

“Okay.“ You nodded.

“Wait, hold on.“ He suddenly rushed when you almost hung up.

“Yeah?“

“What are you favourite flowers?“

“Why you’re asking?“ you bit onto your lip to not smile too widely. 

“Just… for reference.“

“Well, for reference… you should know by now, are you my best friend or what?“ You scolded him playfully.

“You’re right.“ You could tell he was nodding.

“Okay, I’m going back.“

“Yeah, bye.“

“Love you.“ You hung up and dreaded the idea of going back in. You so wish you could just teleport to Jaehyun.

“Is everything okay?” your dads eyes trailed your figure as you entered the room. 

“Yes, yeah. Just a friend wished me a happy birthday.” you nodded, trying to see how Yuta was with your peripheral vision. 

“I think your mom unintentionally sounded like she’s too harsh on you, right, darling?” your dad chuckled, squeezing his wife’s shoulder. 

“On a brighter note,” your dad cleared his throat loudly. “Your mom baked an amazing cake, I, might I say, helped her decorate it. Will you blow the candles? Honey, shall we bring the cake?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll go light up the candles.” your mom jumped up with such a sweet tone to her voice like she was the most loving and caring mother. 

“Yay.” you faked a giggle, watching your dad get up and leave you alone with Yuta. 

You gulped, he seemed to be frozen for the previous couple of minutes. You were debating whether to touch his hand or not, would he shake you away in an instance or would he give you a chance. He broke off the silence first and you almost jumped up in your seat completely startled to hear him speak. 

“I think I should be going, will you excuse me to your parents?” those weren’t exactly the words you expected from him. You didn’t know what you expected exactly, but you wanted to talk. Yuta stood up and pushed the chair with his foot. 

“Please.” you mumbled almost inaudible. “I’ll blow those candles and tell them we have to leave, please stay.” 

“Why? To not ruin the picture for your dad?” Yuta spoke from behind you, there was no chance you would turn around and look him in the eyes so easily. 

“No! Not for that, I’m so sorry and embarrassed for what my mom said about your ancestors… I couldn’t even imagine she’d bring up something like that…She usually never drinks. I swear to god, I feel so sorry. And besides that I think we should talk about something else. We should’ve talked way before in fact.“

“I think we’ve been doing pretty good, fantastic even, without the aspect of sharing important things that happen in our life’s and talking them through. Aren’t we?” this stung. 

“Yu-“ you wanted to stand up and drop onto your knees to beg him. 

“Happy birthday to you!” distant singing interrupted you, a moment later your dads hand showing up to turn off the lights and then entering the room. 

“Yuta, sing along, aren’t you a singer!” 

“Ugh, yeah.” Yuta took a step back to the table, clapping rhythmically without making a sound. 

-

“Please wait for me.” you whined as Yuta’s feet were making around a meter wide steps. “Yuta!” 

“What?” he snapped and turned around, stopping. You finally caught up with him, lowering your eyes on his chest to not hold his piercing gaze. You could see the shape of the ring hanging on his neck through the shirt he wore.

“I wanted to talk to you earlier, about all this, but I was scared. I had a feeling you’ll be upset.”

“So you’re blaming me for this?”

“I’m not blaming you. It’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying I was postponing this conversation out of fear.”

“Fine.” he turned around and walked away from you, this time much slower, as if expecting you to walk side to side with him. This was a good sign, it was… a good sign… right?

“Will you not ask me where I’m going? Or do you not want me to tell you everything?”

“You’re going to see Jaehyun.” 

“You know I didn’t mean where I’m going like, now.” 

“I meant you’re going to Jaehyun after this, don’t ruin your mood and don’t bother and just go.”

“I-,” you chocked on air. “This is bullshit.” you hit his shoulder from behind and regretted the move a little. 

“Excuse me?” Yuta was scandalised. His eyes dilated to the state they might’ve popped out any second. 

“I know it’s the worst way to find out I’m going away from the dorm and the company… at this stupid ass torture dinner… from my drunk venomous mother. I-, Yuta.” you grabbed his palm with yours and he jerked away immediately. “I was scared to tell you, for your reaction, for the idea that telling you will make it real, and I’m still so scared to move somewhere else where I won’t have you.”

“Does Jaehyun know?”

“No, nobody knows. I haven’t told him either.” You couldn’t decipher what his face expression said. Was he relieved by the fact Jaehyun didn’t know too? “I really, Yuta, I don’t want to fight. I love you. We just did what we did in my bedroom couple of hours ago and now you’re looking at me like I disgust you.”

“Is that why you wanted sex?” he snorted and all your insides dropped.

“No-, NO!” you made it loud and clear. “I only wanted it because I wanted you.” 

“I need a minute by myself. Go to Jaehyun’s.”

“Can I say something else?” he gave a nod. “I’ve never loved anyone before you. I may be doing dumb and stupid things, I can make things harder, I can be closed off, maybe I should indeed share more, but… I was suffering so much. I was, I mean, I’m still depressed because people around me move forward and I stay just there and I kept things partially to myself because you’re in a boy group and I’m just there. I’m so tired of hearing words like you’ll do it, you’re great from people who actually do have a future. I didn’t have one before I got in contact with JYPE. Maybe that’s for the better I’m moving to a different company, if I’ll get to live my dream, wouldn’t you be happy?” 

“What about us?” his eyes dropped onto your face finally, inspecting it. You took a step closer. 

“Weren’t you just yesterday telling me how we’ll fight for what we have? What happened to that?”

“Nothing. It’s going to be different and that’s the thing.” 

“Are you mad because you’re worried for us?” you pouted. 

“No, I’m mad because you’re moving almost tomorrow and I didn’t hear a single thing about it until now!”

“Will you forgive me?” you blinked at him apologetically. 

“I don’t know.” your heart stung. 

“L-, like…like seriously don’t know?”

“Yes-“

“Yuta.” you gasped, tears prickling your eyes. 

“I’ll get you a taxi, don’t cry and go to Jaehyun’s.”

“I-, I’ll cancel that. I want to be with you.” 

“No, I don’t want that. Go ahead and have all the fun you can.”

Yuta caught a passing taxi with his hand, forcefully pushing you inside. 

“Happy birthday.” he said without even looking at you and closed the door. 

“Where to?” the driver turned around.

-

“Hey-y-y.” you sung as Jaehyun was opening the door, you placed one of your hands on the hip, the other going up in the air with a bottle of strong alcohol in it. 

“Hi.” Jaehyun smiled, immediately after focusing his eyes on your hand in the air. “What’s that?” 

“I-I-It’s soju. I got it on my way here because I felt kinda bad for going to a party empty handed.” you puffed your cheeks, passing the threshold to wrap your hands over Jaehyun. 

“I’ve bought more than we could possibly consume, it’s fine.”

“But still, it’s a gift for you.” you moved back, pressing the bottle against his chest. Realising a moment later Jaehyun was wearing an apron, you couldn’t hide away the smile at how cute he looked wearing it. You let the bottle slide down his stomach, finally dropping into the pocket in the front part of the apron. “I actually have one more thing for you.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I might’ve opened the gift number one on my way here, sorry.” You pouted. ”The jelly’s. They’re completely yours.” you announced loudly and Jaehyun chuckled, placing the bag in the pocket as well. “So what are we doing?” you slid the shoes off your feet, quickly grabbing Jaehyun by the elbow. “I didn’t want you to put too much effort.” you said as the smell got into your nose. “We should’ve just ordered.” 

“It’s fine, I wanted to do something for you, you’re my best friend after all.” you felt goosebumps run over your body. 

“Your girlfriend will be the happiest girl ever.” 

“Shut up.” He rolled his eyes, letting go of you as the two of you reached kitchen. 

“Mmh, pasta?” you smiled widely. 

“Yeah, tomato sauce pasta with seafood.”

“Yummy.” you smiled. 

“You haven’t tried it yet.” he smirked lightly. 

“You made it I’m sure it’s bomb.” Jaehyun grabbed your hand, smiling at you. 

“Yeah?” you nodded at him, smiling playfully. “ I bought many snacks because I know what you’re like, will you help me put the chips in a bowl?”

“Mmh.” you let him part your hands. “Is that it? Pasta and snacks?” 

“No, I have a pizza in the oven.” Your mouth made an O. “Before you scream it’s a pre-made pizza, I just defrosted it.”

“Thank god.” you chuckled. 

“But it’s a cool one if it matters to you, a handmade.”

“Cool-.” you started, as your phone vibrated, making everything inside of you stir. You only expected it to be Yuta, your brains going in complete overdrive while you were trying to see. “God.” you sighed, dropping the phone on the counter. 

“What’s up?”

“Koeun lost her blow dryer and asking everyone in the chat.” 

“I think I know where she lost it.” he cackled, bringing to you a pack of chips with a bowl. 

“Mmh?”

“Donghyuck might’ve said he found a blow dryer that seemed to be no one else’s when he came to your floor to wish you a happy birthday.”

“He didn’t wish me a happy birth-.”

“He saw the blow dryer and ran away I assume.” you laughed loudly. 

“Okay, sounds like he’d do that for a blow dryer.” 

“Yeah.” Jaehyun made a breathy laugh. 

-

“And the weirdest part?“ you exhaled, lowering your hand a little as the thought drifted away from your tongue. What was Yuta doing at this very moment? Was he asleep, was he thinking of you? Was he mad at you? Or did he calm down a little and is ready to talk? Should you maybe call him?

“Wait, wait.“ Jaehyun grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand back up and getting your brain off the triggering topic. “You’re spilling on my jeans.“ you focused your vision on his thigh, the material turned darker than on the rest of the leg. 

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry.“ you finally let him take the glass from your hand. “We should go back inside and wash it.“ You turned your head back, staring at the sky for the last time. 

“It’s just a somaek spill, it won’t stain my jeans.“ He shook you off, grabbing onto your wrist once again as you tried to get into a standing position. “Sit back down.“ you disobeyed, causing him to pull onto you harder and force you to drop your body back onto the terrace with a loud thud. You fell onto your back, finding it impossible to not laugh. You were most definitely too drunk to even walk. “I’m sorry, did this hurt?“ You forced him on his back too, laughing still. “How drunk do you think you are?“ He asked as your laughter seemed to die a little. You turned your head for the slightest moment to take a glance at your friend and then turned back around to measure amount of alcohol you had by the empty soju bottles on your side, there were barely any. It hurt your pride a little, you expected yourself to at least go through three of these with ease. Was this day bound to be the day of disappointments and first times? You cackled.

“I consider crawling back inside.“ You looked at Jaehyun once again with a smile, taking a hitched breath as your eyes could take in his focused face expression. He must’ve looked at you the whole time, you thought and gulped with the unusual burdened feeling to it. His teeth nibbled on his lower lip and at this very moment he seemed to be completely sober. “I can’t walk.“ You added to make it more clear what you meant. Jaehyun’s eyes traveled all over your face, batting his eyelashes as his eyes paused on your lips.

“Want me to help you walk?“ he sighed, moving his head an inch closer to yours. Jaehyun caught your eye out of nowhere, you found your eyes focus on his face a little more than you usually did. Under the drunken spell his face looked a little funny to you and you pulled your head a little more toward him in hopes of focusing your eyes properly and unseeing the funny features that weren’t even there in the first place. Was that the reason he stared so thoroughly? Did you look too funny to him too, but in his case he’s just too well-mannered to point anything out. You gulped and stared down his soul to not laugh. 

“No.“ You smirked.

“What? What did you think of?“ You bit onto your lip, holding in the grin on your face.

“Should we crawl back to the kitchen?“

“Crawl?“ 

“Yeah, who gets there faster, gets to… hm…“ you ran your eyes over the sky.  “Let’s crawl and then decide.“ You suddenly turned around onto your stomach, getting on your knees and elbows, you false started in your silly competition, hearing Jaehyun’s protest and whimpers behind you. You crawled to the terrace door, getting onto your feet as soon as you got inside, sprinting back towards the kitchen island. 

“This was meant to be a crawling competition!“ Jaehyun whined behind you, getting on his feet, by the sound of it, too. The sudden reassurance that he indeed was on his feet took you by surprise, you gasped and grasped onto his hands that were now pressing your body against his, unable to make any sound as the air got beaten out of your lungs by the push. Jaehyun giggled next to your ear, dragging you the rest of the way to the island. “You’re a terrible cheater.“ You tried to turn your head but to no avail. “You should tell your manager you want to be an actress, you acted like a drunk naturally.“ He chuckled.

“I might be drunk but I would never allow myself to lose in a competition.“ you finally found your voice back, holding onto Jaehyun’s arms tighter, pulling for him to let go. 

“What was the point… of this, again? The competition?“ 

“Turn off the light and get on the floor.“ you gulped, not knowing if you were really not that drunk, if the alcohol faded away or you were shaken by something else that your senses began to come back to you. 

“Ugh… oh?“ Jaehyun malfunctioned. “Why?“

“I want to drink more… and maybe share a secret or two with you… I think I might’ve lost the drunken haziness after the sprint.“ 

“Me, too.“

“Hm?“ You got on your knees to plop on the floor next to the island.

“I want to share a secret with you.“ 

“You do?“ you lit up, unable to contain the smile. “My baby’s all grown up.“ You felt an excited shiver run down your spine. “Come on, sit down.“ You tapped the space next to you. Jaehyun walked over the light switch, turning the room pitch black. It was, to be fair, a little scary, the house was big and creeped you even in the day time, but when the lights were completely off you felt your palms get a little sweaty before you felt the warmth of Jaehyun next to your body. You squeezed more into his side, just in case. The boy gave you the glass you left on the island before the two of you got outside a good hour ago, tasting the drink with your tongue, you took a couple sips to build courage. Maybe, Jaehyun wouldn’t mind sharing his secrets first?

“Do you want to go first?“ Jaeyun broke off the silence. 

“Oh, man.“ You sighed and plopped your head on his shoulder.

“No?“ he chuckled. 

“Mmh, I’m kinda sober now… should we not?“ 

“No, I don’t think we’ll get any other chances like that.“ 

“You’re right, but-“

“If you’re shy and I’m shy too, should we tell each other on the count of 3?“ 

“That’s silly.“ You sighed, feeling Jaehyuns fingers brush over you in search of the glass. “But I agree.“ 

“Do you?“ 

“Yeah.“

“Okay, should I count down?“

“Yeah.“ You nodded, feeling your heart beat faster. Which secret exactly should you spill out first? You swore at yourself for having so many. 

“1… 2…3…“ Jaehyun counted down slowly, but still not slow enough for you to come up with words. “I l-.“ 

“Stop!.“ You cut him off before he could say any more. “I-, I wasn’t ready. Can you count down once again?“

“For real, this time?“ 

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was just unable to form words into sentences.“

“Okay, one.“

“Two.“ You said as Jaehyun took a longer pause. 

“Three.“ He almost whispered as he swallowed. “I am in love with you.“

“I am dating Yuta.“ You said loudly in unison with Jaehyun, blood pumping in your ears so loud you were not able to hear a single word Jaehyun said. 

“What?“ The face expression he made was visible even through pure darkness.

“Wait, did you hear what I said?“ You gasped, you didn’t think his words would be so quiet. 

“Yes, you’re dating Yu-“ he didn’t finish saying his friends name. “How? When… why?“ You could only imagine how betrayed and shocked he felt. And it wasn’t even the main news you wanted him to know. 

“But what did you say? I couldn’t hear.“ You whined, ignoring the boys’ questions completely. 

“I- It doesn’t matter at all.“

“It does.“ You touched his arm with your suddenly cold fingers.

“No, I- it doesn’t.“ Jaehyun chocked on his words almost for the first time in front of your eyes, he never felt this small next to you before. 

“Hey.“ You furrowed your eyebrows. “You heard mine, that’s unfair.“

“Yeah, that’s why we’re going to talk about yours first and come back to mine later.“ He spoke firmly, putting everything in him to hold back his true feelings. You wouldn’t know that, you wouldn’t know that the tremble to his voice wasn’t caused by the shocks of betrayal. Well, maybe, partially, betrayal too, but Jaehyun couldn’t come in terms with his feelings at this very moment to say surely what he felt. He wanted to get all the information he could from you first, he was focusing his brain on the possibility of you hearing him and immediately playing pretend just because it’s not what you expected. But what did you even expect? How could he be sure in anything if a big, no, a huge part of your life slipped from his attention. Was he not reading the room right? Yuta? For real? He wanted to smash his head into the wall. He wanted to smash Yuta’s head into the wall, to be exact, and tell him you two were meant to be together. No you and Yu-. Jaehyun suddenly found disgust in his friends name and wanted to fight with your boyf-. He swallowed again because even the thought of Yuta being your boyfriend made him gag. And then he swallowed again, realising that fighting and confrontation in general was so out of his character, and as Jaehyun took two steady breaths and the first aftershocks left his body he was able to focus his attention on you. You were trembling on his side, sobbing, even. Wait-.

“Are you crying?“ he asked, taking your face in his hand. “Y/n, I- I’m ha-.“ No, Jaehyun wasn’t happy and he couldn’t even lie that he was. “Are you crying because you’re happy that I finally know or because you didn’t want to tell me?“ 

“No.“ You sobbed, untangling your hand from Jaehyun’s to hide your face in your palms. You were crying because after saying the words you suddenly remembered what happened between you two, how he said he weren’t sure if he’d forgive you, and you questioned if there was even a point in telling Jaehyun about this if it’s almost over. 

“I don’t understand.“ He sighed lost.

“I am leaving SME and Yuta found out about it from my mother tonight in between her blaming him for everything that happened to our country. Now you found out about it in a fucked up way too. Jaehyun-ah, I’m so sorry, I’m such a terrible friend.“ You cried. ”I didn’t want to upset you and now I’ve ruined everything you prepared and I-” you broke down.

“You- you’re what?“ Jaehyun felt his own tears prickle his eyes. He had to swallow them harshly before you could sense that. “Leaving SME? Where to? Why? I mean, weren’t you happy here, with us.. you were-.“ He chocked as the world he built so thoroughly around you was shuttering terribly with every passing minute. He wasn’t sure what else could leave your mouth the next minute. Was there anything else that could hurt him more?

[mellowwillowy]

○ Invitation ○

Yan!Pantalone x missing childhood friend (deity)

Just another day of managing everything except that today got a little bit too bloody on him, collecting debt from a man who tried to run away leaving his family behind without a care of the world. How sickening. Pantalone took off his glasses, wiping the blood that was splattered on the lens. Dirty. He shouldn’t be dirty. He doesn’t want to upset his sister.

“ As if I’m not dirty enough already…” Pantalone chuckled to himself. He at the very least wished for his attire to be clean, free from any dirt such as a bastard’s blood. That way, it’ll hide his impurities away. Only for a moment of course.

Pantalone walked around the house, checking everything up and down. What was once a warm house had turned cold after a cold slaughter. What was once filled with warm laughters had now turned into a quiet hell. Well, it’s still better than hearing them plead for their lives. How pitiful that they lost their lives just because of someone’s mistake. Just like how he lost the warmth that a child deserved because of his parent’s mistake. Just like how you lost everything because of a woman.

Just like how you lost your visions and yourself because of him.

Pantalone leaned himself toward the wall. Blood spattered. How long had it been since he last felt your warmth? How long had it been since he heard your voice? How long had you left him alone? How long had you … passed away?

He shook his head. No. Until he found your corpse, he refused to believe that you had passed away. Until then, he’ll forever look for you. No matter how far or deep you had strayed. You are still alive. It’s simply because he knew you are still alive that he didn’t think slaughtering everyone that was involved in your disappearance as an offering for you. You are still alive. You didn’t ascend nor did you descend.

After all, if you had truly passed away, you would at the very least show hints that you were watching him , right? You’d probably either show yourself for a split second or did something to acknowledge his ‘offering’. An offering in which he slaughtered everyone that was related to the people who forcefully took you away from him, be it their families or their beloved. No matter how innocent they were, even if it’s just a newborn, all of them faced the same fate. Death. Be it a swift, painless death or a slow, torturing death.

And now, he had done the same too although it didn’t really satisfy him. That man didn’t show the reaction he expected him to. A monster.

“ Hahaha… who am I to comment someone else…” Pantalone brought his gloved hand to his face, smearing the blood that was on it onto his face. Could it be that you had actually ascended but decided to abandon him? Could it be that you no longer wish to acknowledge him? That would be the logical reason why there’s not a single hint about you being around him. He had thought of himself too highly. Why would you watch someone who stole everything from you?

He felt like dying, stabbing himself right on his heart over and over until all the dirty blood flowed out of him so that he’s finally worthy to see you again. But what if you are still alive? What if you are still waiting for him to keep his promise? There’s not a single day he could feel like he’s not being torn apart.

Until tonight.

One of the agent delivered an invitation from the Tsaritsa herself. A banquet in which everyone was required to attend. Anyone who didn’t attend would be …executed? Pantalone sighed to himself, he had to cancel all his appointments for this banquet. But why? If it’s something urgent then why a banquet?

Just before he left the house, he looked back once more. The man’s body had been hung by the door, revealing a pitiful yet disgusting face. The bodies of the family members had been moved to the family room. And just like that, Pantalone threw the match and burnt everything down. A befitting ending for everyone.

“ Do you know why her Majesty holds this… banquet… sir Pulcinella?”

Pulcinella simply chuckled to himself before patting Pantalone’s arm.

“ Just wait and see, you’ll love the surprise”

And so he waited. Whatever it might be would probably not disappoint him. Especially after the threat that was directly stated in the invitation. All the harbingers are present. The lights were suddenly turned off. Everyone’s attention shifted toward the glowing dresses of the Tsaritsa and the girl that she escorted. Both Mirror Maiden and the Cicin Mage were tailing them both from behind. Well this is surprising?

And archons was it surprising. Upon taking a closer look on the girl, he noticed the unmistakable pink hair that you had. Petite. Long white dress. Flowers ornaments on your head. And those eyes. It’s you. Childe was the first to stand up and clapped his hands toward you. Everyone simply followed what he did while Pantalone tried to process everything in his head.

Hah. So you are alive? Well, he’s not sure if you are alive this whole time or not but still

You are here.

And that’s all that matters.

And so, Pantalone clapped his hands as well, his eyes never leave your side. A shame you couldn’t notice it because everyone’s gazes were on you. It’s alright, he didn’t mind it at all. It’s only natural for him to not be noticed by you but that doesn’t mean he won’t make you notice him. He will make your eyes land on him. He will make you acknowledge him again.

Such a pleasant reunion that we have right here, Sister.

(You can read more about what happened before and after the banquets from my other posts but it won’t be exclusively about Pantalone *aka sharing with all the harbingers*) , inconsistent updates so there might not be any posts about it yet

[amour393]

this isn’t how it’s supposed to be

Traveling with Wu and the others is really weird to Kai.

He’s not used to this, okay? He’s rarely around guys his own age, and on the rare occasion he is, it’s the snobby kids from his hometown that either make snide comments about the abandoned blacksmith, what a loser, or whistle at Nya as they walk by and Kai has to stare them down with a glare so hot that Nya swears one day they’re going to burst into flame.

A bit ironic, considering the turn of events in the last few days. Kai wishes those jerks could see him now. 

He shoves that thought down, blinking at the dying embers of the fire. He’ll see them again soon. It’s not like this whole thing is going to last. He’s just going to get Nya back and go back to the shop and he’ll never see these people again.

Kai turns, glancing at Jay, who sleeps soundly with his arms around...something, his legs tucked up, curled like a tight ball. He looks at Cole, who snores so loudly that surely this can’t be good for their stealth, but the big guy somehow looks extremely comfortable despite sleeping on the ground, so Kai supposes it’s fine. He looks at Zane, a peaceful look on his face and lying so still it’s almost hard to tell he’s breathing.

For some reason, the thought of never seeing any of them again kind of sucks. 

Not that it matters.

This won’t last. It never does. 

They’ll entertain Kai for awhile, but then they’ll grow tired of him, and ask him to leave, and he and Nya will be back on their own. It’s better for all of them to skip the middle. 

(Sure, from what he’s seen, maybe that’s a bit out of character for these three, but Kai reminds himself they’re just like everybody else who took pity on him.)

Kai might be surrounded by three guys and one mysterious fighting master, but he’s never felt more alone.

Even when he had nothing, even when he had no one, when his friends turned on him and his parents left him, he had his sister. He always had Nya, every second of the day and every moment of the night.

Until now. 

Because of him, because he failed, because he didn’t realize sooner-! If he’d only been stronger, been faster, been better-

No. That’s not going to help him now. He just wants to get Nya and get back home. He never thought he would miss his crappy mattress back home, but wow, the ground is really uncomfortable. 

Kai sits up, sighing as he leans his back against a tree and watches the smoke rise up into the sky. 

Jay might be a little bit annoying, but he’s going to miss the way he’s able to light up any situation. It’s refreshing being around someone who doesn’t take everything so seriously.

Zane’s a little weird, but Kai’s going to miss his patience, how when someone (Jay) is rambling on and on about something, he just smiles and listens. Being around someone who listens no matter what is...nice.

Cole can be kind of bossy sometimes, but Kai appreciates being free of responsibility for the first time in...Kai doesn’t want to think about how long it’s been. He didn’t realize how nice it is to just sit back and let someone else carry the burden for once. He likes how Cole takes that in stride, how he watches over everyone, how he puts others before himself. Kai doesn’t get a lot of that often.

Kai blinks, pinching himself. Remember, this isn’t going to last anyway. Just...just enjoy the quiet.

...Quiet?

Kai glances at Cole, whose back is turned to him. Cole shifts, laying on his back with his eyes trained on the trees above.

“Sorry if I woke you up,” Kai whispers. Cole flinches, and Kai immediately regrets speaking.

“No, no, you’re good.” He sits up, looking over at Kai. “You can’t sleep either?”

Kai shrugs. “Just..thinking, I guess.” 

Cole grunts. “Yeah, I feel that.”

Silence falls between them, long enough for it to be kind of awkward, before Cole speaks again.

“Hey, you know we’re going to get your sister back, right?”

Kai starts, wide eyes staring at Cole, searching through the darkness for a hint of sarcasm or humor or something, but there’s none to be found. He seems genuine, which is something Kai should have expected from Cole by now.

“Yeah, I-” Kai clears his throat- “I know. Doesn’t mean I’m going to stop worrying though.”

Cole chuckles a bit, but it’s humorless. “I understand that.” He glances at Jay, then at Zane. “I mean, I never had ay siblings, and I don’t mean to say I know what you’re going through, but these guys...they’re kinda like the brothers I never had. I gotta look out for them, y’know?”

“Yeah” Kai draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs. “But...what if...”

Cole looks at him patiently.

“Never mind,” Kai mutters, staring into the last of the burning coals. 

“Kai,” Cole says softly. “It’s alright. You don’t have to keep up this super strong facade. It’s okay to be worried. But remember, you don’t have to do this alone. We’re your friends. We’re here for you.”

Kai stares at Cole with wide eyes. Everything he says is so bizarre, so foreign. It’s him and Nya, he realized long ago, to the end of time. The idea of anything contrary to that...

“How do you do it?” Kai whispers. “How do you look after them everyday knowing all the danger they’re in? And if you hold yourself responsible for their safety, what do you do if they get hurt? How do you sleep at night knowing everything that could happen?”

Cole is silent for a moment, but Kai can tell he’s formulating his thoughts. Finally, he speaks.

“You know, Kai,” he says slowly, quietly, “I really don’t know. I think it’s that if I don’t do this, I don’t know who will. I know that Sensei Wu looks after them, and me, but...” He glances at Zane. “Zane doesn’t remember his parents. Jay...well, he and his folks are fine, but still, they’re far away. If one of them is in danger, I feel like I’m the one who has to save them. Which I’m fine with, because yeah, it’s a lot to bear, but for them...” He smiles, looking back up at Kai. “It’s worth it.”

Kai swallows. “They’re pretty lucky.”

Cole grins. “Hey, man, if they are, then so are you. You’re one of us now. We look out for each other, and we’ll look out for you, right? The five of us...we work together. We’re a team. And you’re a part of it, which means we’re not going to be satisfied until you can rest easy. We’ll get your sister back. She’s one of us, too.”

After one, two, three solid seconds of Kai being frozen, Cole chuckles a bit. “You good?”

He slowly shakes his head. “I just...I don’t understand.”

Cole frowns. “What?”

Combing his hands through his hair, Kai grunts a little, frustrated. “It’s- that’s- this isn’t how things go with me. My whole town either hates me or pities me so much I would rather they hate me. I’ve been working for a living for me and Nya since I was nine. Everyone I meet is gone within a month. Even my own-” Kai pauses, takes a breath, starts again. “People like you guys don’t stick with people like me. That’s not how things work with me. It’s not on you guys, it’s just how things go, and-”

“Kai.”

Kai freezes. Cole’s voice is solid and steady and very, very sure. Cole’s dark eyes bore into him, like he’s looking through him, firm and sure and gentle all at once.

Kai swallows. 

“We are never going to abandon you. You’re part of our team. We’re here for you. That’s not going to change. Ever.”

Kai peers at him. “How do you know?”

Cole smiles. “Because you’re a brother now, whether you like it or not. And siblings look out for each other, just like you’re looking out for your sister, we’re looking out for you.”

Cole says it with such confidence Kai has no choice to believe it, and he’s so grateful for it. “Thanks, Cole.”

He grins. “No prob, though I will say, I can’t guarantee Jay’s going to see Nya the same way.”

Kai groans, shaking his head. “I’m going to have a stroke if they ever get together. I can barely look after her as it is, if she has Jay there, she’s going to get even more crazy ideas than she already has.”

Cole laughs. “Sure, she’s the one with the crazy ideas. Definitely.”

Kai lays back down. “Shut up, Cole.”

Cole does the same, laughing as he draws up his blanket. “G’night, brother.”

Something warm stirs in Kai’s chest, something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

Belonging. 

[kyberphilosopher]

Smile

Word Count: 3467 Requested: yes. Based off ‘505′ Warnings: strong hints to sexual disposition. Spoilers if you squint.

“I’d probably still adore you with your hands around my neck... I did last time I checked.” -Arctic Monkeys, ‘505′.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

With hoarse breath and unwavering eyes, you look up to the stars as you speak. “So, you’re really going to do it then?”

“I have to,” you hear him say. His voice has gotten far more mature and calm since the first time you’d heard him speak. Still angry and determined, but in an intelligent, adult way. Eren is a more capable person now. The only thing left to do is wait and see if that’s a good thing, or a bad thing. 

“What do you think are the chances of winning?” you question. A shooting star whizzes across the sky at that very moment, and it’s gone before you can think of a wish. 

You turn around to face him, but his eyes are already on you. Once upon a time, Eren’s eyes were emerald and teal and deep. Now they’re paler. They are cold and steady as a byproduct of who he’s become. It’s hard not to wonder what he’s thinking about when he looks at you like this, especially since he’s become harder to read over the years.

At first, Eren was one of the most insufferable people you’d ever met. He acted out so often, it was hard to see him as another person of intelligent life. You mostly just minded your business through your cadet years, usually hanging around Reiner, who was also difficult to see as intelligent life. Sometimes you and Eren would argue, but it was never passionate. You just had different world views. 

Things got better when you found out what Eren really was. Since you hadn’t made top ten, you could only choose between the Garrison Regiment, or the Scout Regiment. And with Eren’s newly discovered power showing the promise of hope, you decided on the Scouts. He liked that. 

After that, it was hard not to mature at the same time as he. Eren often blamed himself for the death and carnage that surrounded the regiment. You were solely responsible for the passing of your best friend. And after everything that happened with the government, almost dying at Shiganshina- you knew you couldn’t stand this much longer. With your relationship with Eren still budding in its early and steamy stages, he was the only one you told of your desertion. You abandoned the corps, finding a small, abandoned farm within wall Maria to hide out in. 

Eren was too tired and sick of everything to think you were being cowardly. He wanted to leave too. Maybe come with you. But Eren had plans in the works that he couldn’t leave alone. He visited you less and less. Luckily you never made a fuss. 

And now Eren wants to end the world, to save the world. How does he expect you to react to this?

“I just thought I should see you,” Eren replies. You know he’s deflecting your question. You’re not stupid. 

You nod slowly, blinking as you think. “Am I going to die?”

Your companion crosses his arms calmly. “Yes,” he tells you. 

There it is. 

“You know I can’t support you in this, right?” you tell Eren, equally as calm. 

He only replies after a moment, also in deep thought. “I know.”

You look back up to the sky, sighing out through your nose. “Why did you come, Eren? Did you want me to tell you that I think you’re doing the right thing? Or was it because you need to let out some anger? I wonder.”

“I did want to see you.”

“Do you still?”

Silence. 

“Yes.”

“And I suppose there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“No.”

The stars are glittering with pastel hues, like a rainbow, or kaleidoscope. Each one is a different size, bordering on different shapes, all fusing and melting together like your idea of heaven. You can barely even see the midnight color of the sky through all them. It is beautiful, but it’s also bitter. Everything is bitter, here. 

“I didn’t make myself any dinner yet,” you say. “Couldn’t think of anything.”

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

When she was alive, Eren’s mother would make a soup for the family. It was creamy, hot, filled with meat and cheese at the bottom. Eren never liked soup, but he did love that dish. She was always sure to make extra for him, so that he could enjoy it for several days. And although it wasn’t until after she was gone that Eren realized he rarely ever thanked her for it, it was still one of the warmest memories Eren had. 

He fills your wooden bowl with it, being awfully generous. He knows that even though you haven’t eaten much in the last few years, you too had grown fond of the soup. He knows no matter how slowly you force it down, you are enjoying it. It burns the roof of your mouth every time, but you’ve never cared. All that matters is the creamy sauce, and the cow cooked to perfection. 

You stare at the fireplace beside you, flames cackling and licking upward. Eren sets the bowl in front of you, and takes the seat on the other side. You know he sets his long hair behind his shoulders. You’re already prepared. From your pocket, you produce a stretchy brown hair tie on the verge of snapping, handing it to him. 

“Thanks,” he says, even though this routine has happened however many times he’s seen you. 

“You’re welcome.”

The soup is as amazing as usual. You’re willing to bet Eren makes it even better than his mother did, but you dare not say it aloud. It’s creamy, perfectly seasoned. It goes down your throat, still steaming. 

“Does Mikasa know about this?” you question, taking one more delicious bite. 

“No. None of them do,” Eren answers. “Armin will figure it out soon.”

“You want me to kill ‘em?”

Eren shakes his head. To a lot of people, this would be taken as a joke. But this is nowhere near it. Your tone is too casual, too low for it to be humor of any kind. And the way the man across from you reacts- he’s thinking the same thing. 

“No.”

“How are they, then?”

Eren thinks as he takes another bite, the warmth creeping up his chest sweetly. “They’re alright for now. I don’t know for how much longer. I can’t see everything.”

“Can you see who’s next?”

He squints at his bowl as if he were angry, but his eyebrows barely move. “Sasha.” 

Sasha. She was always a good presence to have around. While she seemed like the type of person who would annoy you, it was hard to hate her. And you admired her keen intuition anyway. 

“Will you give her something for me?”

Eren nods. Then you both go back to eating for a few seconds, basking in the orange glow from the flames. 

“How are things here?” he questions after a minute. 

“The same,” you tell him. “I think the cow might die soon.”

Some people might reply with condolences, or sympathy. But your lover does not, and you do not expect him to. “I’ll get you a new one,” he says flatly, almost like a promise. You nod once.

Despite the atmosphere which can only be described as bitter, you’re glad to see Eren again. You’re glad that he’s alive, and as alright as he can be. The bed is always colder without him, heated up only by your lingering fingers that you pretend are his every other night. Whenever he leaves an article of clothing behind, usually on purpose, you hold off on washing it so it can smell like him for you as long as possible. Then there are the hair ties you keep either in your pocket or on your wrist, specifically for him. The razors in your cabinet he often didn’t even bother using. 

Even with the sullen demeanor that had managed to overtake both of you, there was at least one thing you cared about in the world still. Maybe it wasn’t the most conventional kind of caring, or the healthiest coping mechanism. But it was still caring. And all that you cared about was him. 

You knew you weren’t Eren’s first priority. You were probably second, or third. It didn’t bother you. Eren’s head was one of the first things lost when the truth was presented to him. It came back coldly and sternly, in contrast to how previously hot and impatient it had been. But by then your head had also grown colder and sterner. In simpler terms, Eren did care for you. He did love you. But he would consider letting you die if it meant achieving what he set out to do, and you knew this. 

Across the table, Eren lifts his head to look up at you as he chews slowly. The burning meal slides down his throat easily, albeit painfully. It doesn’t even register with him, his piercing eyes slowly gaining a glint from the fire light. 

You meet his eyes after a few seconds, feeling them on you. You don’t say a word, don’t even give a questioning look. You just hold him patiently, which is something the two of you find yourself doing often. 

“You can’t stop it,” Eren speaks, looking you dead in the eyes with a steady gaze. There is love behind his eyes, far behind the anger, but you can tell from the tone of voice he is trying to tell you something as if it were an order. Your lips part slightly from the intensity radiating from your lover, who doesn’t move a muscle. “You’ll be free soon.” 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Dinner ends. Eren helps clean up the dishes for you and goes to get water from your well so you can clean easier. You already know from the way his thumb brushed against your own when you took the bowls that you’ll likely be bent over the sink in a few minutes, which you don’t mind, but you wonder if he’ll be willing to be softer than usual as an apology for what he’d said earlier. 

He’d meant to scare you. You’re intelligent enough to figure that out. Even though you don’t scare easy, and you didn’t even give an extreme reaction, the look in Eren’s eyes had made your heart drop to your stomach. Sometimes you forget that Eren sees everything. Then he says something like that to remind you in the most memorable way. 

The wooden door opens and closes behind you. Boots scuff the ground for a few seconds, drawing closer and closer as something in you sparks with anticipation, as it always does. A pail of water hits the surface beside you, partially sloshing over the sides, shining silver in the moonlight from the tall window in front of you. Finally, ultra hot hands slide around your waist and push gently but tightly against where your ribs diverge. 

A jaw leans down on your right shoulder, chin poking against your collarbone. Locks of hair brush against your own, just as the hand on the left runs across your side to finally put a small band in your pocket. 

“I did miss you,” Eren’s low voice seemingly growls, his chest rumbling softly against your back. 

“I was thinking about you,” you admit with monotone, knowing your lover can read through it like as easily as a knife slices through skin. 

“I hope I didn’t worry you,” he says, though you can also read through his own tone. He probably didn’t care about worrying you. He definitely doesn’t still. 

“You didn’t.”

You place a both bowls in the sink, running your fingers over the dirty spoons. Eren’s orbs follow your movement. You can feel his chin change positions ever so slightly in the coming seconds. 

“Can you pass me the rag?” you ask, eyes focused on a piece of food on the spoon that doesn’t even exist. 

In response, Eren doesn’t pass you anything. Only his right hand gives you any kind of acknowledgement, passing from on your ribs to down lower. His fingertips skin over the erogenous zone under the waistband of your undergarments. 

“I worried about you,” Eren murmurs boldly. The hot fingertips pass under the cloth finally, pricks of stubble on his jaw scratching your neck and shoulder as he shifts. “I wanted you to be okay.” His left hand raises to grasp the breast above it. Slowly at first, then firmly, like a warning. Everything is a warning with him. 

Your head lulls back uncontrollably. The back of your hair matts up as it rolls against his own shoulder. 

“I said you worried me,” your partner grumbles. “Did you hear me?”

“No,” you lie lowly, refusing to let your voice shake despite the shiver in your throat. 

“Mm,” Eren hums in condescending understanding. A force presses against your core, which has turned burning hot and ice cold at the same time. The force pulls away, a string of something smooth and slimy following it that makes a sound draw from your lips. It’s high pitched, weak, and unstoppable. You’d be embarrassed if you weren’t so associated with Eren. 

His hand gives your breast a firm squeeze, soreness blossoming from the center. Your back arches quickly and returns lax against him, though now something pokes against your bottom that makes your eyes pop open with a new alertness. Eren’s hand gives you no time again. From your chest, it flies to your throat, holding it back with soft strictness as the other finally dips into the hot pool between your hips. 

“I worried about you.”

A strangled groan releases from between your lips again, this time fully carried up through the air. To Eren, it must sound like nothing more than music, or background noise. 

Thick cylinders pump inside you to the knuckle. They feel better than your own. They always have. 

It feels good. Full. Tight and fast and like the inside of you is quivering under the weight of something that you can’t see or hear. Eren is like a blanket supporting you from falling over, keeping you upright with his grip and his fingers buried inside of you. Prodding every angle, every spot. Not necessarily romantically, but still lovingly. He has always had this goal during intimacy. Nothing matters but communicating to you just how close he wants to be. 

“Eren,” you choke, a dribble of spit sliding from the corner of your lips. 

“Again,” he hisses in response. His fingers hit a tight spot, making every muscle in your body clench at the same time. 

You don’t say another word, your mouth hanging partially open as you focus on everything around you. And it’s all Eren Jaeger. His smell, his growls, his voice, his breathing, his chest, his muscles, his hair, his anger, his bitterness, his intelligence, his determination. It’s overwhelming. It reminds you of getting swept in one of those waves at the ocean he described to you. He’s yours. No- more likely, you’re his. End of story. 

“I said again.”

“Eren,” you moan.  

His head nuzzles into your neck comfortingly, his fingers pushing faster and harder. You can feel how warm you are, never mind how slick. And the way your own body holds around his digits every time he pulls away is enough to make you all the more warm and slick. 

But then...

What is he doing?

He had said “you’ll be free soon”. And yet, here he is, gripping you tightly as he forces you into the corner of submitting. And yes, it is hot. It arouses you as it always has. But something about it makes your stomach turn into a knot of unpleasantness, in contrast to the other one of liquid pleasure. 

“Eren,” you strain, squirming against him. 

Eren speeds up again. A grunt falls from his own mouth from his own power, and you know he’s getting off almost as much as you are. It doesn’t stop feeling good. Feeling euphoric. 

It’s getting rougher. Rougher and harder and faster, more intense. 

“Eren.”

Another gruff moan from him. 

“Eren! Stop! Stop!”

Eren’s palm softens away at once. It lifts away, his eyes opening and his hand stilling inside of you. He watches you shake as you gaze up to the ceiling, wide eyed. Your thighs sputter, entire body twitching. You didn’t cum. 

His eyes trail over you. You’ve worked up a steady sweat glistening and glowing, shivering and shaking and quaking because of him in the best way. You’re his. His partner, his friend, his ally he knows for a fact he can rely on.

“C-can we... Eren...” 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

Drips of water dribbling down Eren’s temple. One of your hands are threaded in his brunette locks, holding them back so you can have an uninterrupted view. The other hand is dabbing cloth against his forehead and hairline, bathing him softly. 

He’d gone a while without bathing again. You could tell. Eren’s eyes are glued to yours, deep teal memorizing all the flecks in your own as if he hadn’t a million times over. 

Eren loves you. Dearly. He’d travel all seven hours and forty five minutes just to tell you that. He doesn’t know what made you stop earlier. He doesn’t ask. But he’s not mad. Overall, Eren understands that it doesn’t matter what you asked to stop for. You give the word, he obeys. Not because he has to, but because he loves you. 

Still, he knows something is wrong. You don’t show it. You’re steady, calm, mature, apathetic as always. But in the pit of Eren’s stomach, something brews. A warm, strange feeling of intuition and omniscience. 

“You look very pretty today,” Eren ventures, wondering only of your response. “Did I tell you that?”

Your eyes squint. “Thank you,” you reply back. 

The cloth continues to rub against his skin, cleaning something that probably doesn’t even exist. Dirt, maybe. Eren’s stopped taking care of his skin in the past few years. 

“You’re welcome.”

Your eyes squint again. This time, they gloss over with sharp wetness like glass. The eyebrows crease like a break, your bottom lip trembling as you suck it between your teeth. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting. But your lover wasn’t expecting this. 

Eren hates when you cry. He can remember the first time he’d seen it, but not the most recent. You didn’t cry often- you were strong. Crying over something as useless and flimsy as emotions didn’t seem worth it. So what was this for? What were you about to make Eren break down inside over?

Your hand falls limply from his forehead. Shoulders hunch over in defeat, staring down at the floor as your hair covers over your face. And then the sniffles come, choked out coughs like sobs. 

Eren can see the lightest of bruises he’d left on you from earlier, but you’d never had a problem with it before. No, it was something else. But what?

Silent, your teeth grit together as you wince, tears streaming down your face inexplicably. 

“Earlier w-when you,” you gulp, snot beginning to form, “when you- I did worry a-about you. I- I don’t know why I didn’t...”

You stumble forward. Eren stands from your bath tub to catch you as you slump against him tiredly. 

“I hate it when you go.”

Eren switches positions with you, pushing you down to sit on the edge of the tub. He takes the wet rag from your hand and holds your shoulder back so he can have a good look at you. Then the cloth dabs against your own forehead, just as you had done to him. 

“I hate it here,” you sigh, a single tear drop blurring your vision as it falls finally. 

Your lover moves the cloth from your head to your cheeks, smearing the wetness into your skin and away. They moisten and dry, your eyes red and shiny. Eren tilts your head up under your jaw, creasing his brows and using the towel to clean closer to your eyes. 

“If it helps,” he says, looking straight into your eyes, “you’re crying, but I still think you look pretty.”

You’d be lying if you said that didn’t help even a little, because you love him. 

A soft smile creeps to your lips, your hands dropping in between your thighs. 

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

No I didn’t reread this lmfao enjoy. Hope I did you justice anon

[songbirdstyles]

screw my brain (’till it hurts)

summary: you and harry are spies on an assignment to pretend to be a married couple in order to take down a drug trafficking ring. the only problem? you two can’t stand each other.

warnings: smut (18+), hate sex, knifeplay, breathplay (choking), slapping, fingering, phone sex (sort of); enemies to lovers, one bed, fake dating 

song inspo.: death on two legs (dedicated to ...) - queen / back chat - queen / you’re so vain - carly simon

word count: 19.5k 

You can practically feel Harry’s anger simmering beside you, and you’re tired of it.

He’s been acting like a child since you got on the plane, his eyes narrowed and venomous and steam practically blowing out of his ears as though he’s on the verge of throwing a temper tantrum, and you’re sure if looks could kill you’d be dead a million times over again from all the staredowns he’d been trying to initiate. And you’re used to this, for the most part, but it doesn’t make you feel any less annoyed as he huffs beside you, flicking through the file on his lap.

And - look. You don’t like Harry. You can hardly even tolerate him, most of the time, and the only times you manage to be near him without gagging is when you’re on missions. Usually he’s the same way, pushing aside the mutual disdain you’ve shared from day fucking one when there’s goals to be accomplished and targets to take down but he’s just sitting here like an angry log, thumbing noisily through papers as you swipe through your phone.

He’s looking for attention, Mark would tell you - your boss is the epitome of coolness, desperate for you and Harry to get along because of his tendency to force you together on missions - and that is true. You’re just as pissed as he is and you aren’t making a show of it. No, he’s an attention seeking crybaby, and you won’t give him what he craves. Won’t even look at him.

The plane dips a bit, then, and your stomach lurches, grabbing at the armrest in between you two where Harry’s elbow rests, and he jerks it into his side as though you’d burned him. You scoff, then, the pretense of faking casualness abandoned as fast as you’d stuck to it, and you can sense him rolling his eyes at the noise.

“For Fuck’s sake,” you huff, leaning to the side so you can stare at him as you roll your eyes pointedly, and he mimics the movement. “What are you so whiny about?”

“M’not whiny,” Harry insists in a tone that’s strikingly similar to the whine he claims he doesn’t have, and you sigh before reaching over, snatching the file off of his lap. “Hey - I was readin’ that!”

“Really?” you inquire, shifting so your back is to the man next to you and he can’t read the words on the page you’re squinting at. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought you were just sitting there huffing and rolling your eyes like a baby.” After a moment where he doesn’t respond, you risk a glance backwards and are met with the back of his head full of curls as he stares out the window at the passing sunset as you whiz through the sky. “What’s got your knickers in a twist, hmm? Did Mark not put enough into the budget for hair gel and dirty shoes?”

“Oh, shut up,” he says in a wildly mature way of response, and you can hardly resist the urge to smirk at it. “F’the record, m’mad that I have t’do another mission with you.”

You nod, trailing your finger along the line of words detailing aspects about the target you know you’ll have to utilize later - he has four cats. He and his wife are on the brink of divorce. He has two daughters, and he doesn’t speak to either of them. His name is Vincent Carfield, and, boy, does he sound like a real catch - you’re so focused on reading about him that you hardly register that Harry’s started speaking again.

“Wish Mark would realize m’good enough to do shit like this on my own. Don’t need you t’come around an’ pretend to be my - my girlfriend. S’stupid.”

“Well, if you were good enough, I would be at home with cucumbers on my eyes right now instead of reading about the leader of a drug trafficking ring -”

“God, you’re a bitch -”

“And you’re an asshole -”

“Fuck you - m’calling Mark.”

You snort, leaning back in your seat as Harry fumbles in his bag at his feet for his tablet, and he shakily sets it up on his lap, tapping through the screen until he gets to the FaceTime app. “Real mature, Har, going to tattle to Mark.”

“God, not everything’s about you, narcissist - half hour out, need a debrief.”

You crane your neck to lean in front of him and look out the window, and - sure enough - you can already tell that you’re getting closer, plane dipping slowly lower and it wouldn’t be perceptible to you if he hadn’t told you. Harry’s always been a tad bit more observant than you, though you wouldn’t confess that to him if your life depended on it.

Mark answers Harry’s call within mere seconds - he’s always on high alert when you guys call, especially when you’re off on missions together - part of you suspects he’s always waiting for a call that one of you killed the other. “Hello, lovebirds,” he chirps, the pure image of relaxation as he adjusts his tie, shifting in his seat - you and Harry both roll your eyes at his nickname for the pair of you. “Surprised to see you haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out.” “Wish I did,” you mutter beneath your breath, and Harry glares at you out of the corner of his eye.

“Anyway,” Mark says, and you know he heard what you said judging from the ghost of a smile on his pale face, but he brushes past it. “When you land, you’ll have around an hour to get settled into the hotel before dinner. I’ve sent you the address to the restaurant - the target is eating there with his wife, most likely to discuss their divorce, so he’ll be feeling vulnerable and insecure -” “And that’s where I come in,” you finish, trailing your nail across the fine printed page which holds the plans the three had deliberated over for two weeks prior - compared to most of your missions it was an extraordinarily short amount of time to plan but none of you could foresee this one going anything other than disgustingly easy. If you pull through, you could be home by the end of the weekend.

“And that’s where you come in,” Mark affirms, thick rimmed glasses mirroring the image of you and Harry that he’s seeing on his screen. “Find any way to touch him - pretend to trip - and plant the audio tracker on his jacket.” You nod, and Harry drops his head against the seat with a soft sigh that nearly makes you turn and throttle him but you hold back, fingers tensing as though itching for a throat to grab. “Then you guys go back to the hotel, hold back from slaughtering each other, and listen in - he’s staying at the room next to yours.”

If this situation were occurring a year ago in your first few weeks of working as a spy perhaps you’d marvel at the seeming coincidence of Mark just happening to get you a hotel room right next to your target - but your one-year anniversary working has just come up and, as it so happens, you know he can make just about anything happen by pulling the right strings. And staying in the same hotel, on the same floor, is the perfect talking point for dinner - you’re already storing it in the back of your mind to bring up in conversation when you manage to get the tracker on his jacket -

“ - and, look, guys, I know you don’t particularly like each other,” Mark is saying when your attention snaps back to him, and Harry snorts. It’s the understatement of the century - you almost want to laugh with him. “It’s just really important that you sell yourselves as a couple. I don’t care what you have to do - share a drink or hold hands - but he needs to see you as a couple. All of his mistresses have been seemingly happily married - he’ll be more inclined to get closer with ____ if he sees you’re in a good relationship. Then, Harry, of course, can explore his hotel room - snuff out anything suspicious.”

You nod but Harry seems less convinced - his brow arches as his arms cross over his chest, and you glance over at him with confusion written over your features. “M’confused,” he says, and you raise your eyebrows. “She’s gonna fu - have an affair wit’ him, then?”

God, we fucking talked about this, you want to shout at him, to shake his shoulders until he’s dizzy. If you paid attention while we planned instead of sitting there whining that you don’t go on missions by yourself because nobody goes on missions by themselves unless they’ve been here for nearly 10 years and you’ve barely scraped three -

Mark is more patient. He just shrugs, fingers tapping away at the keyboard connecting to his screen. “Maybe - maybe not. Depends how vulnerable she can get him without resorting to sexual means.”

“Don’t think I’ll have a problem with that,” you can’t resist saying, popping the ‘p’ in problem as you smugly smirk, scratching your nails against the smooth paper you’d been reading as Harry glares at you, seemingly affronted. “Only had to resort to getting down and dirty with a target once - that asshole mob boss - everyone else is just dying to tell me their juicy little secrets. Guess it’s a perk at being good at what you do, right, Har?”

“Oh, you’re such a -”

“Children, children,” Mark interrupts the beginning of Harry’s speech about what a cunt you are, holding up his age-worn palms with mock exasperation as he stares the two of you down. “Stay civil. I’ve just booked your reservation at this Italian restaurant called Fucina’s - it’s for 7, under Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson. Vincent Carfield and his wife have a reservation for 7:30 but have a tendency to arrive early. They requested seating in a more private area, as did I, so you should be able to hear their conversations -”

The conversation rolls on for another few minutes until the pilot announces that you’re landing in ten, and that’s Mark’s cue to sign off - with a fleeting inquiry about any questions the pair of you may have he’s gone, wishing you good luck and making you promise to call him after dinner once you’ve set up the tracker and begun listening to your mark. You don’t suspect you’ll forget to - you and Harry generally can’t be in an enclosed environment together for too long without having overwhelming desires to take each other out, and Mark balances you out. Eases the two of you, calms you down, even when you’re so angry at Harry you want nothing more than to stamp your feet on the ground and scream.

It’s how you feel now, a bit, as Harry shuts his tablet and shoves it back into his bag with a dramatic huff after Mark has signed off. He’s angry about something again, surely relating to you and the mission and how he constantly feels snubbed by Mark but, truthfully, as the plane dips lower and lower to the Earth, you find that you really, really, don’t care.

 ~~

 The hotel room is, for all intents and purposes, fairly large. It’s nicer than a significant portion of the ones you two inhabit on missions and you should be grateful, toeing off your boots in the entrance of the suite, that it has a functioning kitchen and a bathroom with a door that closes and an L shaped couch facing the television (based on the description of the suite Mark had sent), but your mood has been entirely soured by Harry’s sore attitude during the drive from the airport to the hotel.

He drops his suitcase against the carpeted ground of the entrance, and it slams onto the ground so close to your sock-covered toes that you jump back, glaring at him as he pointedly ignores you and descends further into the hotel room, peeking his curly head into the kitchen and the bathroom. You watch him as you rest your suitcase against the wall, nudging his closer to the wall with your foot before following him, already tugging your phone out of the back pocket of your jeans to check for any new texts from your boss when -

“You’ve got t’be fucking kidding me.”

You arch your eyebrows, tilting your phone into your chest as you turn the corner into the main living area. And it’s nice, eyes wandering over the couch that Mark had told you about, and the TV mounted to the wall with a Roku connected to it that you’re sure you’ll take advantage of later tonight. The carpet is soft beneath your feet even through your socks, and the bed is nicely made, pillows fluffy and looking soft -

Bed.

Shit.

What a bastard, Mark is - booking a room with only one bed? And not even telling you two about it? God, you could kill him. You really could, and you will, as soon as you get back to headquarters and see his stupid bald head in person - you’ll throttle him. Or shoot him. Hell, you’ll even stab him.

“You’re taking the couch,” you tell Harry, and before he can protest you take a running start to leap onto the bed, plopping onto your back and tucking your arms beneath your scalp. “Looks real comfy, doesn’t it? The bed - not the couch. Couch looks like it’ll kill your back.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Harry practically snarls, voice all venom and teeth, and he sits at the edge of the bed anyway, hands going up to loosen at the black tie wrapped tight around his neck. “So entitled - I’ll take the fucking bed. Been here longer than you, y’know - just ‘cause y’like t’act like you’re so good -”

“And yet,” you interrupt, bringing your foot up to kick at his side, and he turns around and glares at you, “I’m the one getting put on assignments with you, even though I’ve hardly been here a year. Oh, yeah, what’s that Mark told us? I was put on duty the quickest than anyone else after finishing my assignments?” You screw up your eyes as though trying to fact check yourself before nodding, smiling at the positively hateful expression on your partner’s face. “Guess I am good.”

He opens his mouth to reply and perhaps he assumes better of it - he simply rolls his eyes, pulling his tie off of his neck and dropping it on the ground beside him. For a moment you simply stare at him as he peels his jacket off, littering it on the floor in a similar fashion as his tie, until he’s merely donning a white button down and his black dress pants, hair messy and face light red. 

Sometimes you do that - you watch him - because it’s nice to see him look so peaceful and silent when you’re used to spewing hatred back and forth. You could even be into him if he kept his mouth taped shut and promised to never make a single noise, but he would never comply with it - and you’re sure you’d find a reason to get pissed off at him if he didn’t speak.

You hadn’t realized how long you’d been staring at him until he turns around, and your gazes lock, and you lift your eyebrows.

“Don’t stare at me,” Harry demands, backing up on the bed until his head rests on the pillow beside you - you turn your head to stare at him, affronted. “Told you - m’taking the bed. An’ m’gonna take a nap f’a half hour- already set the timer on m’phone - so you can either take the couch or sit here right beside me.”

You push yourself onto your elbows, glaring down at the man beside you who closes his eyes (rather smugly, you’ll add) and mimics your own previous position, arms tucked beside his head. “You dickhead.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Fine by me.”

“I’m gonna nap too -”

“Go ahead -”

“And I stretch out a lot when I sleep.”

“How ever will I handle it?”

You’ve seem to run out of responses, furrowing your eyebrows as Harry’s face settles into an expression of slight comfort and you wonder if he really has gone to bed, resting in the button down shirt and dress pants that he’s always itching to get out of at the end of the day. You’ve had to watch him undress with absolutely no shame in front of your far too many times for comfort, shoved into small hotel rooms together but at least they had two beds - you can hardly control your heart rate as you stare down at him.

(Because you’re angry, of course. Whenever he’s acting like a dumbass your heartbeat quickens to match the pace of a fucking freight train, and that’s nearly every time you’ve ever had to talk to him.)

After a moment you rest back on the bed beside him, head dangerously close to the center of the two pillows where you can feel Harry’s curls, spread upon his pillows, brushing against the sides of your temples. With every feel of his hair against your skin you feel your anger rising, and you exhale softly, pressing your palms to the top of your stomach as you listen to his steady breathing beside you.

He sounds too peaceful.

You wait nearly ten minutes before beginning your plan of attack, not nearly as meticulously planned as the ones you and Harry will employ later - you slowly begin to spread your legs out, feeling your calf brush against his foot, and your arms follow in a similar pattern. They stretch outwards, forearm thrown across his neck, and you can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing against your skin but he doesn’t take the bait - doesn’t even move a muscle, and you can feel his even breathing against your arm.

For a second you wonder if he really is asleep. You’d be surprised.

It’s uncomfortable sleeping on your back and that’s your justification for rolling over onto your stomach, body halfway on top of Harry’s, chest pressed against his and face buried into the pillow beside him so your nose presses into his hair, softly inhaling the fruity shampoo he uses. Your arm lazily throws itself across his torso, leg nudging his until they fall off the bed, and he grunts.

“What th’fuck are y’doing?” Harry questions gruffly, voice just raspy enough to make you consider the very real possibility that he truly had fallen asleep, and you don’t respond. “Get off me, dumbass - tryin’ t’sleep.”

You remain silent. You work on steadying your breathing, faking sleep in the way that you’ve mastered over the past year (and a half, if you count the six months of training you’d done before beginning work) - on one of your earliest missions you’d pretended to be passed out in the back of a work party you’d seduced your way into with a tape recorder taped to your underboob and you’d been able to get enough recording of a conversation between two sleazy old men to support your hypothesis that their paper company was a front for a sex trafficking ring. You suspect this case should be likely the same, albeit easier and likely without the work party, and you’ll breeze through it like nobody’s business if it requires fake sleeping like you’re doing now.

“I know you’re not sleeping,” he correctly deduces, lifting his arm to slam it against your back entirely too hard and you nibble on your bottom lip to keep from making any type of noise at the slight pain the motion brings. “Get off me. Go t’the couch - stop being so stubborn.”

You mumble something incoherent under your breath, digging your face further into your pillow just to hear the way he hisses as you (un)intentionally tug at his hair. You feel his hands dig into your sides and before you can pull off of him he pushes you away with as much force as he can muster, and you’re send tossed to the other end of the bed, grappling at the duvet to stop yourself from slipping over the edge of the bed onto the carpet.

“Fuck,” you hiss, pushing yourself to sit out with your legs stuck straight out in front of you. With a glare directed towards the man opposite you you pull your legs back and push them towards him sharply, kicking him directly in his thigh, and his legs tumble off the bed, forcing him to sit up to maintain his balance. “Take that, dipshit.”

“Can’t you do better than that?” Harry questions, tone so mocking and condescending that you push yourself to his knees just as he rises to stand, the top button of his shirt mercifully coming undone, and you resist the urge to glance at it every so often. “C’mon, babe - if you’re gonna be a bitch -”

You push yourself to stand on top of the covers, taking a leap towards Harry where he stands on the other side of the bed, and your legs hook around his torso, effectively catching him by surprise as his hands immediately land on your waist, tugging you off of him and throwing you onto the bed with an ease that shouldn’t surprise you after this long of knowing him but it still knocks the breath out of you. His body hovers above you, pinning your arms above your head but you won’t have that - hook your legs around the back of his thighs and force him onto his back, throwing your legs over his torso as you mimic the position he’d trapped you in.

“1…” you begin counting tauntingly as you stare down at his face, reaching down to grab his wrists and hold them above his head, watching as he wriggles beneath you, his stomach tensing against your core. “2 … not even gonna put up a fight? What an agent you are -”

He practically growls at that, jerking his hands upward until they slip out of your grasp, nearly whacking you in the chin before he pushes himself up. You’re slammed into the headboard before you can even stop to think of your counterattack, back slamming into the wood as you drop your head forward to ensure you don’t knock your head into the wall, and Harry kneels in front of you with an exasperated, smug smirk, reaching up to press his forearm over your throat.

He’s not pressing hard - not enough to constrict your breathing at all, merely to hold your head in place - and after a second he begins counting just as you had - “1 … 2 … 3.”

You struggle uselessly against him until he reaches the final number, and a satisfied smile etches itself across his face before he pulls away, resting back on his knees to watch you huff before him before he begins crawling off the bed. “An’ I think that means that you, m’lady, have t’take the couch -”

You deliver one final swift kick to the back of Harry’s needs, and he tumbles off of the bed onto the ground with a cry, knees dropping onto the carpet and hands instinctively pressing to the wall he’d nearly slammed his head into. His position becomes one similar to a prayer, dropping his head forward against the wall with a dramatic groan.

“I won,” you tell him, flopping onto your back on the bed with a satisfied hum. “Get on the couch - reckon we still have a good 10 minutes left of our nap.”

Harry pushes himself to his feet in the blink of an eye, turning around with a look on his face that’s so serious you nearly want to double over in laughter, and as he plants his knees on the edge of the bed to resume the fight you’d had earlier, a sudden noise from the wall opposite your bed causes you to hold your palm out to him, effectively stopping him in his tracks.

“Shh!” you hiss, pushing yourself onto your elbows as Harry furrows his eyebrows, craning his neck towards the wall as though it’ll help him hear better. “D’you hear that?”

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, pondering the muffled noises coming from the hotel room next door. “Wha’?” Harry questions after a moment, voice hushed and soft, and you wait a moment before responding.

“The shower -” and, sure enough, just as the thought crosses your mind and the words leave your mouth you know that that’s the noise you’re hearing - the sound of water streaming onto the buff body of Vincent Carfield or perhaps his wife - “what time is it?”

“Uh -” Harry scrambles off the bed, digging through his backpack thrown on the ground until he can pull out his tablet, and the light shines on his face as he turns it on. “6:34.”

“Shit,” you hiss, rolling off the bed and practically darting out to the entrance hall where your suitcase rests against the wall, and you knock it to the ground and unzip it quickly. “Vincent’s already getting ready - we need to be at the restaurant soon. How fast can you get ready?”

“Pretty fast -” by the time Harry’s made his way into the entrance hall to dig through the suitcase he’d attempted to hit you with earlier you’ve peeled off your clothes, dropping them in a pile by your feet until you’re clad in only your bra and a pair of lace panties that leave entirely too little to the imagination, holster holding your knife firm against your thigh, and he freezes. “Christ. Can’t y’get a room f’that?”

“Oh, says the one who strips naked in the middle of the room every single night!” You shake your head, digging through your suitcase until you can find the black dress you’d packed specifically for dinner - it’s folded and mercifully wrinkle free, and you unzip the back to begin stepping into it. “Get ready. I’m going to do my makeup.”

“Make sure y’put a lot on - don’t wanna scare him off -”

“Shut up, Harry!”

 ~~

 Fucina’s is dark and fancy, with hosts dressed in all black and waitresses in a similar fashion. You would almost feel out of place, your arm hooked with Harry’s as you’re led through the main dining room towards the back where your table is, but it’s not any more elegant than any of the other expensive restaurants and galas the pair of you have infiltrated together, and with your tight dress and his suit, you look like exactly the couple to eat and afford a restaurant like this.

“The pasta’s $65,” Harry murmurs, trailing his fingertip down the laminated menu that you can hardly see in the dim light of the restaurant. You squint down at the page, bringing your head closer down to confirm that, yes, the fettuccine truly is that fucking expensive, and - not for the first time - you’re immensely grateful for the headquarters-mandated debit cards that you’ll use to pay for this. “Y’see that? The fettuccine?”

“Yeah,” you nod, though you’re not looking at the menu any longer - your eyes scan the restaurant behind Harry’s back, and of the three other tables in the private section Mark had requested for Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson to be in, none of them are occupied except yours. You and Harry had gotten there ten minutes late, much to Mark’s chagrin when you called him in the taxi, and the Carfields still hadn’t arrived. “Think I’m just gonna get a salad - not too hungry, anyway.”

“Me too.”

The conversation drains into a weird sort of silence - not awkward, and not malicious, either, as all of your silences usually are typically the result of one of you purposely ignoring the other. It’s harder to air out your disdain for each other when you’re supposed to be a couple that’s hopelessly in love in a high class restaurant, and you find that you don’t have much else to talk about with your partner besides discussing either the mission or whatever he’s doing that may be pissing you off at the moment -

He actually looks nice right now. Calm, collected - if you didn’t know better you’d say he looks like a pretty stand-up guy. The kind you’d take home to your mom.

“Why are y’lookin’ at me?” Harry questions, then, glancing up at you, and you internally curse at yourself - you always tend to forget how good he is at identifying someone staring at him. 

“Just thinking about how much I prefer you when you aren’t speaking,” you tell him, voice dropping lower as a host clad in black leads an older couple into the area, sitting them at a table towards the window as Harry rolls his eyes. You lift your water glass to your lips, taking a slow sip as you attempt to inconspicuously decipher if the couple is your target -

“You’re being so obvious,” Harry hisses, voice soft like a breath and yet still retaining all the venom his words always tend to hold. “Is it them?”

“No,” you decide, resting your glass back on your coaster as you slide your chair further into the table, foot accidentally kicking his ankle as you do - his face contorts in both annoyance and pain as he repeats the motion to you. “No - Carfield’s wife is young, isn’t she?”

“27.”

“Yeah.” The wife currently settling into her seat, draping her jacket over the back of her chair, is decidedly not 27 - add 50 years, or so. “Not them. They should be here soon, though.” 

“Good.”

In another moment your waitress has come to take your drink orders - you get a bottle of red wine just to hammer in the notion that you’re a young couple on a date night, even if you really prefer white wine, and you’re sure Harry would rather have a beer, but Mark always tells you to go for red when you’re out to dinner on missions. And - well - you’re not necessarily complaining. Wine is wine.

The wine arrives at your table with two tall glasses and Harry takes it to pour with a faux cheerful grin that has the waitress flushing in the dim light of the room - you tell yourself the tinge of jealousy at her clear adoration for the man currently uncorking the bottle to pour for you is simply because of how in character you are in terms of your fake marriage - and if you were someone else, perhaps you’d get angry at her for clearly flirting with Harry, though he doesn’t seem to notice.

Strange. You’d always taken him as the more observant one of the two of you, but he’s paying no mind to the waitress’s blushed face as he pours wine into your glass and she pulls out her notepad, ready to take your order.

“I’ll have the caesar salad, please, without chicken,” you tell her, giving a tight lipped grin as she scribbles it down onto her page. When Harry’s rested the bottle of wine back on the tablecloth-clad table, you reach over and rest your hand overtop of his, feeling his veins jump beneath your touch. “What about you, honey?”

If he’s confused, he doesn’t look it - just gives you a warm smile that feels entirely wrong coming from him, and the waitress looks positively affronted as he orders a large Mediterannean salad, and when she’s tucked her notebook back into the apron tied around her waist and left the private area, he furrows his eyebrows at you.

“Y’jealous?” Harry inquires, leaning his head in with a mocking grin that makes you roll your eyes, though you make no effort to move your hand from his - it looks better for appearances, anyway. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“In your dreams,” you insist, straightening your posture once a different hostess leads a couple into the room. The man is old, bald head shining in the dim light and donning a suit jacket that clearly hasn’t been tailored to his proportions, and his wife is significantly younger, pale face flushed red and wearing a black dress that looks as though she’s attending a funeral - you suppose she is, to some degree, mourning her marriage, so perhaps it’s fitting.

Harry can tell by the way you straighten up that the new couple sitting at the table behind him is the Carfields. Vincent sits with his back to your table, his wife on the opposite side, and immediately they lean their heads together, surely speaking in hushed tones about - prenuptial agreements and custody of their two girls and the like.

You need to be a couple. Mark had insisted on it, that it’s the most important part for you to get closer to Vincent and make him susceptible to your manipulation - he needs to see you as some sort of forbidden fruit - a married woman with a seemingly happy husband. It’s a control thing for him, and one you need to play into if you want to take his drug ring down.

It would sound like an ambitious goal if you weren’t as confident in yourself and Harry - because even if you hate him, he’s a damn good agent.

Your eyes meet Harry’s across the table, and he raises an eyebrow. You nod, jerking your head up and down before wrapping your manicured fingers around the stem of your wine glass, lifting it up and giving your partner a soft smile - one that he’s rarely on the receiving end of, if you’re being truthful - and you nod your chin towards his glass. Harry follows your lead, lifting his glass and raising it to clink against yours.

“Cheers,” he murmurs, and both of you sip from your glasses before resting them back down on your coasters, the rim of your glass decorated with a generous pink stain from your lipstick. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

His voice raises in volume just a bit, and from the table behind him you can see tears fill Mrs. Carfield’s eyes at the sentiment of a happy couple, and Mr. Carfield’s head tilts to the side though you don’t watch him long enough to see if he’d heard Harry - you simply smile - lift your intertwined hands in the air and to anyone else in your private area you’re sure you simply look the perfect part of a happy couple, celebrating their marriage anniversary. Two years together. Mr. and Mrs. James Robinson have been married for longer than you’ve known (and despised) Harry - surely there’s irony hidden in there, deep enough that you can’t see it.

It’s easier than you’d like to admit to fake a meaningful conversation with Harry. Mark generally gives the pair of you a list of things to talk about so people get the impression that you can tolerate each other but you typically don’t even need it - it’s easy enough to talk about your faux plans for the rest of your marriage.

It’s almost fun, even. Not in a way you’d expect - but it’s funny, talking about whatever the pair of you would imagine married couples would discuss - mortgages and trying for babies and politics - keeping your voices loud enough so the couple behind you can hear but quiet enough so it doesn’t seem intentional.

“D’you think we could turn the guest room into a nursery?” Harry inquires, lips quirking upwards as he lifts his wine to his lips, and you nibble on your bottom lip, pretending to contemplate the question.

“Of course,” you respond faux-thoughtfully, leaning forward just a bit, and his eyes flicker downwards for hardly a second before rising to meet your eyes again. “Or perhaps the office.”

“Yes, that’s a bit bigger,” he says seriously, and you nod, reaching for your glass of wine to take another small sip. It’s bitter and leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you’re determined to drink the entire thing - it’ll soothe the nerves that you’re sure will arrive when it’s time to plant the bug on Mr. Carfield. You still haven’t figured out how you’ll manage to do it smoothly. “Then perhaps we could save the guest room for the second.”

You nod, hardly able to keep the small smile off your lips, and Harry leans forward, reaching for the stem of his glass - perhaps he miscalculates the force needed to pick up a glass, or maybe he’s beginning to feel the effects of the first glass of wine he’d downed - but his hand knocks into the glass, sending it toppling forward onto your arms, sticky red liquid coating your skin. You jerk your arms back as though he’d burned you, watching him hiss as he reaches for the glass before it can spill any further onto you or the white tablecloth now stained with redness.

You swallow the urge to snap at him - that’s counterproductive, and it’ll blow your cover - so you merely inhale, willing the anger down as you reach for your napkin to begin to mop up the mess. “Should watch what you’re doing, honey -”

“My bad, darling - didn’t mean to -”

And the moment of you beginning to like Harry is gone as fast as it had begun, feeling the simmering anger that’s ever-present beneath your skin already beginning to bubble into existence. He’s looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if this is your fault that he can’t control his own glass, like you’re the nuisance, and your desire to retort snarkily is thwarted only as Vincent Carfield’s head turns just slightly to the side, and you can see him and his wife watching the pair of you in what’s clearly an attempt to be subtle.

You rest your palms on the table as Harry sets his glass back on the coaster, and you can feel the similar waves of annoyance rolling off of him that you’re sure you’re mirroring. “I’m going to go clean myself up,” you tell him. “Excuse me for a moment, sweetheart.”

“Take your time, princess.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes as you push your chair back with a tight lipped smile, standing up and resting your napkin on the table before your seat as you push past the table towards the bathroom you’d passed when your host had lead you to the table.

The restrooms are nicely decorated, with large mirrors and sinks and two singular stalls - entirely too fancy for the thoughts racing through your mind as you lean over the sink, turning the faucet on and shoving your sticky arms beneath the flow of warm water. You’d managed to clean most of the wine with your napkin but you still just need - perhaps just a moment to yourself, without Harry’s eyes piercing into you in a way that makes it impossible to feel like he doesn’t want to throttle you.

And you want to throttle him, too. That’s why your relationship works because it doesn’t, because you hate him as much as he hates you - and yet, while you were drinking wine and messing around and pretending to be a couple you didn’t hate him. Not even a bit -

Until he spilled the wine. It’s a forcible reminder of why you want to shave off all of his hair when he sleeps, sometimes.

The water has gone cold on your skin when you finally shut the faucet off, picking up a small stack of paper towels to dry off your arms. When you’ve chucked your trash in the wicker-basket garbage bin you take a moment to simply stare at yourself in the mirror, black dress hugging your body just enough to leave very little to the imagination - you adjust the fabric to hide the bulge where you have your knife holstered to your thigh. The cut of the dress dips low into your cleavage - and then you recall how Harry’s eyes had briefly dipped downwards when you’d been talking earlier -

A smile twitches at your lips. You’ll have to remember to use that one against him later.

Just before you turn to leave you pause - stick your hand down the front of your dress to the small audio device you’d hidden in your bra. The bug is small, barely the size of your pinky nail, one side sticky enough to hold onto Vincent Carfield’s tan suit jacket -

You hadn’t thought too much about how you’d manage to subtly get the device on him, but there’s no time like the present, is there?

You leave the bathroom, then - nearly run into your waitress as she stares down at her notepad, and you’re not sure if you’re imagining the dirty look she shoots you - and climb the two short steps it takes to get to the private area you’d been seated in. Harry’s back faces you, curls looking particularly messy and head dropped forward to surely stare at his phone, and you can see Vincent leaning in to talk to his wife with narrowed eyes and a hushed tone.

You inhale and begin your walk over to the table, heels clicking on the tiled floor, and Harry’s head tilts to the side as he hears you coming. Vincent’s eyes rise to meet yours just as your heel slides a bit on the floor and you slip forward right beside their table, and the plan falls into action just as you’d planned in the thirty second walk it had taken to get from the bathroom to here.

Vincent’s arm sticks out instinctively to catch you, wrapped around your stomach for just a moment too long as his other hand rests on your back, and you use the opportunity to reach up and grab his shoulder as a way to steady yourself. Harry jerks around in his seat to watch you, and the concern in his eyes almost makes you revive your brief moment of liking him but it’s overpowered by the pride you feel - if he can’t immediately snuff out that the fall was a fraud, then it had clearly looked realistic enough that the Carfields wouldn’t be able to tell, your hand with the bug pressing to his shoulder

Boom. Planted. Your grip presses the bug against the back of his shoulder as he helps you to your feet, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes trail up your body - his poor wife looks affronted at the clear display of attraction.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” you apologize, trailing your finger down his arm as he drops his hands back to the table. “I’m so clumsy sometimes -”

“No worries,” he assures you, and perhaps he would seem like a kind, well-adjusted man if it weren’t for the way his eyes zero in on your chest like a magnet - Harry shifts in his seat, watching the two of you, and his wife picks up her glass of wine and downs it in one sip. “Always glad to help a pretty girl in need.”

A blush works its way up your cheeks and before you can flirt back - it raises bile in the back of your throat to do it - Harry intervenes, leaning forward with a goddamn award winning smile and absolutely stomping on your chance to ensure some sort of relationship with Mr. Carfield as he says, “Did she wrinkle your suit at all? We’ll get the laundry bill, if she did.”

You grind your teeth together through a smile as Vincent shakes his bald head, sending Harry a warm smile which your partner gladly reciprocates. “It’s fine - are the two of you married?”

Didn’t he hear you two loudly celebrating your anniversary? Perhaps he just needs to confirm it - nothing wrong with it - but, God, he’s forward.

“Yes, we are,” you reply, and you step away from Vincent to walk back to your table - Harry reaches for your hand and pulls you to him, and you suspect the motion would look awkward if done by anyone else but it feels entirely too natural for you to be bothered. “It’s our two year marriage anniversary, actually. That’s why we’re here - on vacation.”

“That’s lovely,” Vincent says, and his smile stretches wider until it makes you uncomfortable to look at so you busy yourself gazing down at Harry’s head as though you’re so smitten you can hardly stand to look away. Then he holds out his hand, and you grab it, letting him shake it vigorously before he moves towards Harry. “It’s Vincent Carfield,” he tells you both, and Harry jumps in to introduce yourselves by your false names. “How long are you here?” “Just th’weekend,” Harry responds, nodding as Vincent does. “We’re staying downtown.”

“Really?” Vincent leans forward, and you lean your body back just a bit - not enough for him to notice, thankfully. “What hotel?”

And Harry gives him the name and Vincent acts as though it’s the wildest coincidence in the world that you both happen to be staying at one of the nicest, most popular hotels in London but you’re glad he overreacts, in a way. It’s important to establish some sort of relation between the two of you and maybe this’ll make Vincent feel like he’s destined to start some sort of affair with you - sure, it’s stupid, but he’s insecure and you’re ‘married’ and that should make him feel a bit more in control, knowing there’s a man waiting for you when you’re with him.

The thought could nearly make you gag. You hope beyond hope that it doesn’t have to get to it - that maybe the two of you could just sit and talk while Harry searches his hotel room - but, judging from the way he’s practically salivating as he stares up at you, you don’t think that’ll be the case.

After another moment of chatter your waitress arrives with a large plate of salad in each hand - you let go of Harry’s hand with one last departing wink to Vincent Carfield as you walk around the table to your seat, pushing your seat into the table just as your salad is placed before you.

Vincent’s wife glares at you - you’d feel bad in any other scenario. But - hey - at least they’re getting divorced already.

You pick up your fork, stabbing into a crouton and a few pieces of iceberg lettuce, and you raise it to your mouth, chewing thoughtfully on your food as Harry mirrors your actions. The two of you eat in silence for a minute or two, and you occasionally lift your wine to take a sip - he hadn’t poured himself a new glass, for which you are extremely grateful - before he leans in, curls flopping around his ears in a way that would be adorable if you didn’t have any sort of niggling annoyance for him still lingering.

“Good job, Mrs. Robinson,” murmurs Harry into a forkful of lettuce before shoving it into his mouth, and you scrunch your nose at his sloppiness.

“It’s what I’m best at,” you respond in earnest, and you relish in the way he rolls his eyes.

 ~~

 Harry takes forever in the shower.

It’s an indisputable fact at this point and one you should have gotten used to but it never fails to amaze you as your fingers type away at the headquarters-issued laptop resting on the carpet in front of you. He’s already been in the bathroom for nearly 20 minutes - you can hear his music playing, old hippie music that’s always blaring from his earbuds on plane and car rides, and steam billows out of the crack in the bottom of the door - and you’ve been picking up where he left up setting up the audio transmitter you’d attached to Vincent Carfield so you can hear what he’s saying, wired earbuds plugged into the computer preparation for when you start the audio.

Harry hadn’t done much at all to set it up - you can’t imagine what he was doing in the hotel room while you were showering if he wasn’t working on the mission, but you’d come out after your shower and hardly anything was done.

They should come up with better technology for this, you think as you drum your fingernails against your laptop, watching the small loading bar inch across the computer screen, transmitting the audio from next door to both your laptop and to Mark, back at headquarters. You’d texted him briefly to ask if he still wanted you to call him and he told you to merely connect the audio to him and there would be no issues - well, that’s fine by you, even if you’d largely counted on him coming between you and Harry when you’ll inevitably want to kill him later tonight.

The water shuts off. You roll your eyes for a good few seconds as you hear the shower curtain being shoved open from inside the bathroom, and you lean further into the computer before you, squinting at the loading bar that hasn’t progressed further since the last time you examined it. You sigh - push yourself off of the floor, arms stretched above your head and the sleeves of your t-shirt slide further down your shoulders. You’re simply donning a worn college shirt you’d gotten when you were in high school and still had dreams of attending a typical university - dreams that, evidently, you had squashed in the years to come - and a pair of sleep shorts, their waist just a tad too big on you and you’ve tugged them up further than they should rest.

It’s decidedly chilly in the hotel. The steam dissipating through the room from Harry’s shower serves as the only way to heat you up, humid air warm on your skin, and you hate the way you almost appreciate him for taking such a piping hot shower - but the thought doesn’t have to linger too long before the bathroom door opens with the force of a fucking bullet and Harry walks out, towel tied around his waist and hanging low on his hips, sopping curls brushed and resting on his shoulders, droplets from the strands rolling down his chest.

Your stomach flips. 

“Christ,” you say as a way of hiding the way your skin suddenly feels like there’s a fire lighting it from the inside out, burning your insides with it. “Don’t have any clothes to put on?”

He rolls his eyes - you swallow thickly, perching yourself on the edge of the bed as he takes a moment to stop and glance at the computer on the ground before turning back to you. “Changing in the bathroom is gross,” and - well, yeah, you have to agree with that. “Y’practically stripped naked in front f’me earlier, y’know.”

“You did it first,” you mutter, pulling your legs to cross beneath you as Harry crosses the room to the full length mirror mounted on the wall, fingers running through his wet curls, and you tear your eyes away from the water dripping onto his bare skin with only mild difficulty. “The audio is loading.”

“I saw that, believe it or not.”

Dick. You bite your tongue, though, and resist the urge to retort that he’d clearly not even started to set up the transmitter while you were showering, because the loading bar has moved nearly to the end of the screen while you’d been conversing with Harry. You climb off the bed, kneeling in front of the computer as Harry looks down at you, and you distinctly feel a drop from his hair land on the top of your head.

“S’done?” he inquires, and you glance up at him to reply but he’s already plopping down next to you, leaning over you to squint at the screen so you get a nice whiff of the hotel soap he’d used and his own distinct scent of shampoo - it’s fruity, mixed with something musky you can’t decipher - maybe tobacco? It’s hard to tell - he smells good. You wonder if he’s noticed how still you’ve gotten but then he pulls away, leaning back on his arm while you clear your throat and lean forward, tapping the mousepad on your laptop a few times in quick succession. “You’ve got it hooked to Mark?”

“‘Course,” you say, if only to regain your composure and keep your pretense of light annoyance with him. “Probably why it’s taking so long.”

“Ah.”

Then he stands, crossing to the entrance hall where his suitcase is opened, clothes folded meticulously because he’s nothing if not a freak for his clothes - out of the corner of your eye you see him pull out a pair of pajama pants and only a pair of pajama pants, and when his head turns to glance back at you, you’re quick to avert your gaze back to the computer -

Which has loaded. Hooray!

“It’s done,” you call to him, a decibel too loud and you’re quick to lower your voice with a small glance to the wall separating you and the Carfields. Earlier, you’d heard their door slam when they got home from dinner and you could make out their faint voices arguing if you focused hard enough - you don’t want them to hear you. “Get changed and we can listen.”

You pick up one of the earbuds connected to the laptop and shove it in your ear, fiddling with the volume buttons until it’s loud enough that you can hear their conversations as Harry ducks back into the bathroom. Clearly the coat with the bug has been folded in such a way that it muffles their voices but hell, it’s a strong bug, and you can still manage to hear them fine enough.

You send a text to Mark, and he confirms he can hear it too - you toss your phone to the side, letting it slide across the carpet as you lean in, adjusting the earbud in your ear.

Vincent’s voice is what you hear first - he’s talking fast, as though he’s in a rush, and your brows furrow.

“The new shipment isn’t set to come in until the first,” he says, tone hushed and soft, and you can’t hear his wife’s response after a moment of listening, and then he continues. “Think, you idiot! She’s trying to milk me for everything I’ve got - everything we’ve worked for -”

For a brief moment you wonder who she is, but after another few moments with no response you figure that he isn’t talking to his wife as you’d expected - he’s on the phone with someone, speaking of his divorce. A business partner - of course. The bathroom door opens, and your eyes shift to Harry’s figure as you hold out the available earbud for him.

Fuck. He’s gonna fucking kill you - not with his hands or with his gun but with those fucking pants, so low on his hips you can see the trail of hair leading beneath the plaid fabric, the tie done loose and casual. He’s not wearing a shirt, tattoos on full display for you to ogle if you had the time to, and you don’t, of course, but it doesn’t stop your eyes from roaming over his torso, throat feeling suddenly dry as he pads over to you on the ground, dropping to his knees beside you.

“Are you checking me out?” Harry questions, a soft smirk dancing on his lips and you roll your eyes, dangling the earbud for him to grab and he finally takes it, placing it in his left ear just as Vincent begins to speak again.

“Never,” you murmur, and if that isn’t the furthest from the truth you could get to you’re not quite sure what is. “Listen to him - I’m going to the bathroom.” And, as you push yourself to stand and walk towards the bathroom, you swear you can hear him murmur slacker beneath his breath but - well - you don’t need to respond to everything he says sometimes.

Truthfully, yes. You did have to pee. And when you’re done with that you turn on the faucet to wash your hands and you stare at the bathroom mirror that’s still damp from the steam of his shower, edges still frosted with the humidity, and it makes your reflection fuzzy as you look at yourself.

What the fuck? Seriously - what the fuck?

There’s a pressure in your lower stomach and a neediness between your thighs that you can only assign to Harry’s freshly-showered, no-shirt-low-pants appearance and it has shame bubbling under your skin mixed with some other feeling you don’t care enough to figure out. You’re feeling very strange things for Harry - things you’ve never felt for him, ever, in the entire year of knowing him - and you’re almost completely positive he doesn’t feel the same, doesn’t have the same desire to bend you over this sink -

Almost. But almost is very close to absolutely positive.

You feel embarrassed for yourself as you glance around the sink. His hairbrush sits on the counter, and there are so many assorted beauty products scattered across the surface that you can’t tell which ones are yours or his.

The lotion is his, you decide. You don’t use unscented lotion - but you reach for it anyway, squirting a dollop onto your palms and rubbing it in for a reason you’re not entirely sure of. When your hands are as soft as they’re going to get you glance at yourself in the mirror again, shirt baggy and long, the ends of your shorts peeking beneath the fabric.

You reach up, pulling the waistband of your shorts up until they aren’t visible beneath the ends of your shirt, exposing your legs until it appears you’re wearing no sleep shorts beneath the shirt. It’s more comfortable like that, anyway, you tell yourself, which isn’t quite true, before pushing the bathroom door open and walking back out to where Harry’s perched on the floor.

He turns to look at you, and you don’t miss the way his eyes crawl up your legs but he’s a bit more subtle about it than you’re sure you were - his bottom lip looks a deeper shade of red than the top and you wonder if he’d been biting it.

You decide not to repeat his retort about checking you out, even if you’re almost entirely sure he was.

“How’s it going?” you inquire, picking up your earbud to begin listening again. The wire connecting the two buds is short and you shift closer to him until the tip of your kneecap brushes his - you’d expected him to jerk away like you’d fucking stepped on him but he doesn’t, surprisingly. “Got anything juicy?”

“Jus’ vague references t’shipments and goods - they’re trying t’trace his call, see who he’s talking to.” You nod, resting your chin on your palm as Vincent drones on about exactly what Harry had said - the only substantial piece of evidence you have pointing to his business being a coverup for a drug trafficking scheme is references to obscene amounts of money he fears losing to his ex-wife that he would’ve never been able to obtain working at a privately-owned tailory. 

For ten minutes Vincent’s phone call remains as a bit of a drag and, truthfully, a rather large waste of time in your opinion - this is stuff you’d already known, including the shipment coming in a week’s time that you know headquarters will be able to intercept - and you’ve just begun to pull out your earbud to retreat to the bathroom once more to brush your teeth when Harry’s arm jerks towards you, fingers wrapping around your wrist and effectively preventing you from rising.

“Jesus hell,” you hiss, dropping back down onto the ground as you shove your earbud back in, “what -?”

But then Vincent is speaking again.

“ - look, buddy,” he says, voice suddenly dropped lower so that Harry reaches out, tapping the volume button a few times until you can hear him properly, “met this girl at dinner tonight, out with Bonnie. Real cute - body like a fuckin’ goddess.”

Your cheeks flush as a small smirk spreads across Harry’s face.

Vincent pauses, clearly awaiting his business partner’s response to this shocking bit of news, and when he speaks again he sounds more annoyed. “Fuckin’ done with Bonnie - I’m a free agent, Jules.”

You snap at Harry, but he’s already fishing for his phone, pulling up the notes app and jotting down the name Jules in a fresh page.

“Can fuck whoever I want to, now, and I swear, you’d die if you saw her.” You can practically picture the scumbag’s face as he says it, all smug and arrogant - as though you’d ever give him the time of a day if you weren’t being fucking paid for it. “Staying at the same hotel too, with her husband.”

Another pause. “Jules, do you think I give a shit about husbands? Remember Mia, in LA? The one married to that big fella? She was all over me.”

Your lips quirk up into a smile even as your stomach continues to churn in disgust, and Harry exhales softly, resting his phone on top of his knee. Clearly, Vincent’s conversation with Jules has turned from fighting for nearly fifteen minutes about shipments and payments to you and it’s entirely less important but it still piques your interest more. The gritty details of their shipping is for Mark to handle back at headquarters - you need to make sure you can distract Vincent long enough for Harry to search his room.

“ - and, man, you should’ve seen the eyes this girl was giving me - and her husband was all over her, too, checkin’ her out but she was still looking at me -”

You nearly choke at that, head whipping to the side to look at Harry, and he’s doing a sufficient job of furrowing his eyebrows and looking entirely confused at Vincent’s words but you don’t believe him for a moment. Checking you out - God, and you had the nerve to feel embarrassed for your desire for him. A month ago you may have been truly annoyed at Vincent’s observation but it only fuels the fire igniting in your core as Harry puts on his pretense of adjusting his earbuds, tips of his ears bright red as he pointedly avoids your gaze, and you bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from grinning.

“I’ll let you go. God, don’t sound so pretentious - didn’t you hook up with that French chick who was married to the boxer? - Yeah, that’s what I thought -”

You’re much less interested in Vincent’s conversations now, pulling your earbud out and standing up, arms stretched high above your head as Harry stays, leaning against the ground with one arm. After a moment, though, Vincent must have ended his phone call - Harry shuts the laptop and pulls his earbud out, standing up, and your gazes meet for a moment.

“Vincent’s an idiot,” he tells you, flush creeping up his neck, and you nod.

“Is he?’

“Y’know he was just saying that so he seemed cool, right?”

“Said what?”

Harry rolls his eyes, then, and you can’t stop the smirk from gracing your lips once more as he crosses across the hotel room, collapsing onto his back onto the bed, and you furrow your eyebrows as you watch him. “Didn’t check you out.”

“I didn’t say you did.” He doesn’t respond, and you sit yourself on the edge of the bed, glaring down at his slumped figure. “You’re not getting the bed.”

“‘Course I am. We fought it out, remember?”

“And we didn’t finish.”

“We absolutely did,” and then he pushes himself to sit up, leaning against the headboard, and it takes more willpower than you possess to keep your eyes from roaming his body but you resist with everything in you - you’ll just about die if he calls you out for checking him out. “I beat you. I had y’against the headboard.”

“That was inconclusive.”

“Get on the couch.”

You narrow your eyes at him and he narrows his right back, staring into his fucking soul because you’ll be damned if you sleep on the couch, even if it makes logistical sense because he is taller than you - but, no. You’re the one who could possibly have to fuck Vincent Carfield in all his glory. You deserve the bed, size be damned.

In the end, you blink first, and come bedtime, you’re nestled on the couch with blankets you’d found in the hotel wardrobe.

You hate Harry.

 ~~

 The couch is extremely uncomfortable. It’s what you’d expected but your back still aches in pain when you wake up at 3 in the fucking morning, blankets dangling off the edge of the cushions you’re bundled on top of, and the pillow your head was resting on has slipped off onto the ground.

The room is pitch black as you groan, the noise purposefully loud, reaching down until your fingers graze the edge of the pillow - but your grip is slow, tired, and as you pick up the pillow to throw it back behind your head it slips from your grasp, dropping onto the ground and bouncing against the carpet until it’s resting a solid six feet from the couch.

Do you really need a pillow? You’re not sure, but you desperately don’t want to have to get up and get it because you know your sleepiness will melt away before you can even think about it, and, more than anything, you desire going back to sleep in order to try and be well rested for tomorrow. 

You reach down and pull your clump of blankets back up over yourself, pulling your knees further against your chest so the entire area of the blankets coats your body. Your head rests against the flat cushion, pillow be damned, and you shift again until your back is rested flat against the cushion as well, legs sticking straight out in front of you, the couch creaking at the movement.

The blankets don’t cover your legs - you push one of them down until they’re situated onto your feet, collectively covering your entire body even if it isn’t necessarily warm. At least they’re blanketed to some degree.

After ten minutes of trying to go back to bed, you pointedly decide that yes, you really do need a pillow, and immediately. Your neck already aches with the uncomfortable position and your ears feel chilly without being pressed into the soft pillow you’d snatched from the bed Harry is currently sleeping on - the bastard. He’d practically suffocated you with his smug gazes before he fell asleep, curled on top of the bed that he’d (rightfully) claimed as his after an arm wrestle, rock paper scissors game, and a half-hearted second attempt at a wrestling match - you’d lost all three.

Whatever. You’d been determined not to sulk at your losses before returning to the couch, trying not to let Harry see you mope but now you wish you’d made a bigger show of your disappointment - perhaps he’d have caved and taken the couch, but you’re sure he’d have stayed firm no matter what.

You slowly push yourself off of the couch, creeping across the room towards where your pillow rests on the ground, and you pick it up, clutching it tight to your chest before returning to the couch. You press it against the cushion, punching it a few times to attempt to soften it before huffing softly, lying yourself back down and tugging your blankets tight back up against you.

The next ten minutes goes by much as the night had previously - you can’t find a good position, turning onto your side and your back and your stomach until you’re hardly sure which way you’re facing, at this point, face buried tight against your pillow. You long for not much more than a soft bed for your back to rest into and you’re sure you’ll be a sore, tired disaster tomorrow when you manage to find Vincent Carfield in the hotel.

You turn to your side, the couch squeaking beneath the shift in your weight, and your body tenses when you hear a soft groan from the lump wrapped in covers on top of the bed, his silhouette illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the window into the hotel room.

“How much longer are y’gonna move?” Harry grunts, voice low and raspy and you swallow when you hear it - if you close your eyes and listen to him speak, you could almost imagine him sounding like that in a very different scenario - “Keepin’ me up.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” you retort, voice soft and crackling with your yearning to sleep. “If you’d like to take the couch so I stop tossing and turning, I’d much appreciate it.”

He exhales softly, the noise sounding so deep and pornographic it makes your stomach flip. “In your dreams.”

You narrow your eyes as you stare at him, duvet pulled up to his chest and head turned to the side towards you - in the dark you can’t tell if his eyes are shut or if he’s looking at you. For a moment you decide not to say anything, hands crossed over your stomach, and then you shift loudly onto your back, couch creaking, and Harry sighs just as you’d anticipated.

“Please,” he begins, tone low and pleading, and you cut him off before he can continue.

“Not my fault the couch is loud, Har.”

“You’re doin’ it on purpose.”

“Of course I’m not,” you tell him, shifting again so another noise permeates the air of the hotel room. “The couch is just noisy - and uncomfortable.”

There’s a rather pregnant pause after that and you keep your eyes on Harry, watching the way he shifts onto his back, opening up a rather small sliver of space beside him and your heart practically leaps at the sight but you don’t say anything else - simply roll back onto your side, the couch creaking as you do, and he sighs again.

It seems like he sighs a lot.

“If I invite you into my bed,” Harry begins, and a small smile begins tugging your lips upwards even if you want to groan at his usage of the word my, “you’ll promise t’be quiet an’ go t’sleep?”

God, he sounds like your mother. “Yes,” you tell him, clutching the blankets wrapped around your torso. “I promise.”

Another pause. “Then - then y’can come. We can share.”

You try not to look too eager. Masking your emotions is, perhaps, the most important aspect of your job and yet you’re sure you look just as excited as you feel, pushing yourself to your feet with your blankets wrapped around your body, pillow stowed beneath your arm. Your feet pad across the carpet, toes sinking into the plushness of the floor before you make it to the bed, and Harry’s staring up at you, face contorted in a mixture of emotions you can’t decipher.

“Not gonna scooch over, then?” you question, resting your pillow against the bed and hitting it a few times. 

“Y’have room, don’t you?”

And the answer is that you don’t, of course. When you lie yourself down on the bed your legs knock into Harry’s, head so close to his you can feel his curls grazing your face, and the duvet you pull up your chin smells like him, distinctly. His elbow juts into your side - your cold foot rests against his warm one - you don’t think you’ve ever touched him this much outside of a mission.

You drape your clump of blankets over your body, partially resting on top of Harry, smoothing your palms over the fabric with a contented sigh. Your back is thanking you for the switch in sleeping spots and your neck sinks into the pillow and mattress, aches already beginning to alleviate themselves.

“Still need me t’move?” Harry asks, and you shut your eyes, nearly missing the way his eyes lingered on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he rests himself back against the bed.

“No,” you murmur, and there’s another moment of silence before he mumbles his affirmation. Tomorrow you’re sure you’ll regret this - sleeping beside him, even if that’s all you do - feeling him pressed against parts of your body you’d never expected to feel his touch on.

Well, you’d rather deal with the tinge of embarrassment (and pride) than an achy back and lack of sleep - you smile slightly.

 ~~

 The next morning comes entirely too soon for your liking - sunlight peeking through the windows permeates your eyelids until you’re groaning awake, palm pressed against your eyes to block the light and face burying itself back into your pillow.

Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. If your alarm doesn’t go off, then it’s not morning. Surely you have a few more hours of rest before you need to get up - even a couple more minutes will do -

Just as the thought crosses your mind your phone blares its alarm, the loud noise jolting you up like a bucket of ice water, and, from behind you, Harry grunts into his pillow.

Behind you.

You’re quick to silence your alarm - another nine full minutes of peaceful resting, if you’re lucky, before you’re disturbed again, though you’re sure you won’t get back to bed now that you’ve remembered the events of last night. 

Harry’s arm is heavy, draped over your midsection, the soft surface of his cheek buried intently into the crevice between your neck and shoulder - you can feel his soft breathing against your skin, the air a warm and gentle sensation. One of his legs has wedged itself between yours, thigh pressed entirely too high in the crevice between your thighs, and with every moment that passes you can feel the rise and fall of his bare chest as he snores behind you.

What a fucking sight, you think, sitting up slightly to look down at him. God, if he were awake, you’d tease him until he cries about what a position the pair of you had worked yourselves into but you have the foresight to see how that would backfire on you - technically, you’re just as to blame as he is, even if he’s the bigger spoon right now.

But you’re most decidedly not to blame for the hardness pressing into your lower back, tearing a sleepy groan from Harry’s throat when you shift in your position.

The bastard. He’s hard as a fucking rock from pressing against you while you slept, and a sleepy smirk spreads across your face as you glance down at him. In any other circumstance you think you’d poke him awake just to make him aware of it but there’s a certain air of desire you’re feeling as well that makes you feel - well, not as though you’re in the appropriate position to make fun of him for his boner.

Slowly, you disentangle yourself from his body. His leg drops to the mattress when you swing your own off the edge of the bed, his arm falling until it’s resting in your lap, palm pressed against a certain area that makes your breath hitch, furrowing your eyebrows as you glance down at his hand. There are still fading, pink indents from the rings he takes off every night and before every mission, save for the fake wedding band the two of you often have to don on missions, and you scrunch your nose as you admire it.

Married. You don’t think so. The only time you think of him with anything other than hatred is when he’s asleep, like this - or shirtless.

You stand up, shaking your head to wipe those thoughts from your mind. Harry’s hand drops onto the mattress and you can tell it’s the push he needed into consciousness - you glance back at him to see his eyes cracked open, and they shut when your gazes meet.

“‘Morning,” you tell him, voice louder than you’d intended, and he winces at the noise, shifting onto his back - it’s as though you can see the exact moment he realizes his little problem mixed with the realization that you would also know about it, pressed up against him during the night - his eyes widen ever so slightly, and he pushes himself to lean against the headboard, bundling his duvet onto his lap. 

“Um - g’morning,” Harry replies, voice raspy like it had been the night prior and your stomach turns - you shift on your feet. “Y’goin’ t’the bathroom?”

“You can go first,” you say, and he nods, bringing fists up to rub at his eyes. And then - because you just can’t help pissing him off when you have such a golden opportunity - you add, “Think you might need it a bit more than I do.”

His face reddens.

 ~~

 Earpiece. Knife. Boobs.

You go through the things you need on a mental checklist as you pick up your forkful of scrambled eggs, chewing thoughtfully on the bite. The hotel restaurant is nearly completely full, couples and families packed into the small tables as they feast on their complimentary breakfasts, chatter filling the section. You’ve been sitting eating (truthfully, delicious) breakfast for the better half of an hour, bringing your plate up to the buffet to refill your platter of eggs, fruit, and toast.

Realistically, you would have eaten and left had you not been waiting for a very specific somebody to walk in and catch your eye. You and Harry had plugged back into the bug in Vincent’s room to hear him planning to go down for complimentary breakfast - the only clue you had as to how he wanted to spend his day - and it was the only opportunity you had to find him. Get him out of his room - talking, if possible - so Harry can search it.

It’s such an easy plan, you could practically do it in your sleep.

“Is he there yet?” inquires a crackling voice from your earpiece, disguised as an earring dangling from your lobes.

“No,” you murmur, voice soft as a whisper, and you’re sure he can’t hear your response until he sighs.

“Takin’ his time, isn’t he?”

“Mhm.”

You pick up your glass of orange juice, raising the cup to rouge-stained lips as you take a sip. When you rest it back down on the table, there’s a light red stain on the glass - you wipe it away with a manicured thumb, leaning back in your seat, legs crossed. Your eyes scan the restaurant again, lingering on any newcomers leaning against the wall in case you can pinpoint the man you’re searching for - wide frame, untailored suits, bald head that shines in the artificial light.

(Complimentary breakfast ends at 10, and it’s 9:48. It’s safe to say that you’re getting nervous.)

Your nerves, however, are soothed just a bit when a familiar figure makes his way into the dining hall - tall and haughty, phone pressed to his sweaty head, Vincent Carfield is the image of a stressed businessman, recently divorced and searching for a young, married woman who’d given him eyes last night. His suit is baggy, buttons of the jacket undone and his white button up has sweat stains spreading from the armpits, visible with his arm lifted up to his ear. Instinctively your back straightens, tugging down the top of your lace top so that the top of your cleavage shows - it seems to be your greatest weapon, dealing with a man like Carfield.

You lower your gaze to your phone clutched in your hand but you can still sense exactly the moment his eyes land on you. In your peripheral vision you watch him straighten up, lips moving quickly before his phone is shoved into his pocket, weaving his way between circular tables until he’s standing beside you, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes never meet yours - his gaze stays on a point eerily similar to your chest.

“Is he there?” Harry questions, and you clear your throat - it’s the symbol you’d decided on to mean yes if you can’t speak.

“Vincent,” you begin, faux smile spreading across your face, and a similar one lands on his features. He reaches for your hand and you give it to him, watching him press chapped, dry lips to the back of your palm, and the urge to scrunch your nose at the feeling is almost overwhelming. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you,” he says, and you drop your hand back to the tablecloth resting on your table. “Can I sit?”

“Of course,” you reply, and he pulls out the empty seat across from you, resting with a soft grunt. “Breakfast ends in a few minutes, though - you’re welcome to have some of mine, if you’re hungry.”

He obliges, reaching to pull your plate to him, and you watch as he picks up your buttered toast, taking a large bite and smacking his lips as he chews. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward ever so slightly. “And why is that?”

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Vincent tells you, and in your earpiece, Harry snorts at his words - you hope you didn’t jump too hard at his sudden noises in your ear. “I hoped I wasn’t getting the wrong idea at dinner, last night -”

“What idea were you getting?”

“That you were interested in me,” and you tilt your head to the side, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth - if Harry could see the act you’re playing right now, you’d be humiliated. At least he can only hear it. “I saw the eyes you were giving me - not even worried ‘bout your husband seeing?”

“He’s too dense to notice,” you say, a smile tilting your lips up as Harry groans - from his side of the earpiece you can hear bustling mixed with the sound of a door opening, and you assume he’s just entered Vincent’s apartment. He needs at least a half hour, Mark had told you - breakfast ends in nearly five minutes, and you need somewhere else to take Carfield. “You know, Vince - is it okay if I call you Vince?”

“I don’t think he cares what you call him,” mumbles Harry, so quiet you’re sure he’s hardly even intending for you to hear it, “as long as you have your hand down his pants in the next ten minutes.”

Your cheeks flush as Vincent smiles, leaning back in his seat as he finishes off your toast. “Call me whatever you want to,” he tells you, and you can practically hear Harry rolling his eyes through your earpiece.

“Alright, Vince - breakfast is ending in a few minutes, and I desperately hope we can keep talking.” He nods along with your words, leaning in as he pushes his plate to the center of the table - all that’s left is the fruit and the remnants of your eggs. “Do you think we could go up to my room? My husband is off visiting some family members across London - he won’t be home for hours.”

“Hours?”

“Hours,” you confirm, nodding as you take another sip of your orange juice - this time you don’t wipe the lipstick stain off of your glass, and you watch his eyes follow the mark as you lower the glass back to the table. “Can we go, Vince?”

Clearly he isn’t thinking clearly enough to question how curious it is that you’d had similar feelings for him without much trouble at all - instead, he smiles like a boy on Christmas morning. He practically knocks the table in his rush to stand up - you watch a red blush creep up his neck to his ears as he grabs it, steadying the wobbling surface, and you pretend you hadn’t noticed when he holds his hand out for you. You allow him to take your hand in his and he pulls you to your feet, wrapping a secure arm around your waist, palm stretched across your hips so his fingertips creep up the hem of your lace shirt.

“Are you going to our room?” questions Harry in your ear, and there’s a few scuffling noises on the other end that makes you internally cringe as Vincent begins weaving the pair of you between tables that are now emptying as complimentary breakfast reaches its end. “____? ‘Y’goin’ t’our room?”

You clear your throat once, and Vincent glances over at you with an amused glance on his face as the two of you make your way out of the restaurant. “Are you okay, darling?”

The pet name makes you cringe internally and you give him a soft smile as you approach the hallway full of elevators, available to take you to any of the available thirteen residential floors of the hotel - Vincent presses the button to go up, and you wait for the doors to open. “I’m great.”

“Make sure he doesn’t want to stop in his room,” Harry mutters, and you swallow, your smile not faltering. You want to tell Harry to make sure he’s completely quiet in his endeavors in Vincent’s room but you’re sure he already knows - you can’t risk Vincent hearing a strange noise while you’re attempting to distract him.

The elevator doors open, and Vincent pulls you inside with a grip on your waist like a vise. He glances at the array of buttons available to press, and looks at you with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s floor 13,” you tell him, and he smiles, pressing the button until it glows.

“Floor 13? That’s where I’m staying, too,” he says, and you nod in mock-surprise -

“What a surprise,” Harry snorts in your ear, and you can’t stop the smirk from spreading across your face.

 ~~

 There’s a thick thigh pressed between both of yours, sweaty palms slid beneath your lace top, and you don’t think you’ve ever found a man’s touch less desirable in your  life - and, for whoever may be keeping a record, this job has required you to get up close and personal with more skeevy men that you’d expected when you’d applied.

The only thing keeping a blissed out look on your face is your focus on the soft noises coming from the other end of your earpiece as Vincent lands wet, open-mouthed kisses to your throat, tongue laving over your skin - hearing Harry’s occasional quiet breathing and muffled noises as he searches the hotel room next to yours makes this entirely worth it.

Against your throat, Vincent moans, and the noise is throaty and loud - you can hear Harry stifling a laugh directly into your ear, and the noise sends a chill rolling up your spine. Clearly, Vincent thinks your involuntary movement was for him - his hands grasp on your tits entirely too hard to be pleasurable and you bite back the urge to tell him so. “Such a dirty girl,” he tells you.

You rest your head back against the wall he has you pressed against with a moan that sounds entirely fake from your throat. You can almost imagine how Harry’s going to make fun of this when he sees you next, and your stomach turns when you think about it for a reason you can’t quite decipher. “Fuck,” you say, forcing your voice to a near whine, and you swear you can hear Harry’s voice hitch through your piece but you’re not sure. “Feels - so good.”

The lie sounds natural off of your lips as Vincent’s knee jabs into your clit - the pressure is a pain rather than a pleasure and your breath hitches as you try not to cry out. He chuckles against your skin, clearly taking your soft sign of pain as an emblem of pleasure, and you shut your eyes as his teeth graze the veins in your neck.

“No way,” breathes Harry, and your ears perk up - had he found something in Vincent’s room? “S’he actually good at that?”

You want to snort at that. Of course he isn’t good but the thought of Harry listening spurs you on more than it should - you roll your hips against Vincent’s thigh with a soft moan, higher pitched than your last one, and the man on the other end of your earpiece exhales.

“That sounded fake,” Harry says, voice soft and light, and you want to slam your head into the wall so he knows that he’s starting to piss you off from next door. “So he’s not makin’ y’feel good?”

You practically freeze. If Vincent wasn’t tugging your shirt up to expose your tits to the cold air of your hotel room, you’re sure you would have forgotten where you were completely. Those words from Harry’s mouth mixed with an edge of venom isn’t what you’d expected him to say at all - on the contrary, you’d think he was fucking with you, trying to work you up to embarrass you if you couldn’t hear his little moans that he’s clearly trying to silence.

Is he worked up? Because you can work with that.

You drop your head back to whack against the wall with a loud moan as Vincent’s clammy lips press to the fabric of your bra. Your hand goes up to press to the back of his bald head, fingernails scratching against his sweaty scalp and you wish - not for the first time - that you were feeling thick, chocolate-toned curls beneath your fingers instead, tugging on them as his tongue lavished you. Though, in your mind, it’s more teeth and grit and anger because you’re sure you’d find a way to be angry with Harry even if his mouth were on your tits - it’s one of your special skills - in every fantasy you’ve had of your partner it’s violent and harsh.

“Fuck,” grunts a voice from your earpiece, and hardly a moment later Vincent groans a similar noise as you rock your hips against his thigh. Thankfully he seems to be getting a decent amount of pleasure just making out with your boobs like a teenage boy and - maybe, if Harry is quick enough in his search of his hotel room - you won’t have to fuck him at all. It’ll be a Christmas miracle (a month early, but a miracle nonetheless.) “Are y’fuckin’ him?”

You whimper, Harry’s voice shooting from your ear directly down to your cunt and your clit and you feel wetness soaking your knickers, pressed against Vincent’s thigh though it may as well be the arm of a couch for how it affects you - the only pleasure you get from Vincent’s hard body against yours is the urge to close your eyes and imagine it’s Harry.

“No, you’re not,” says Harry, and there’s a soft clatter in your earpiece - surely he’s dropped something from the room next door and you tense. Surely Vincent hadn’t heard it, teeth still gnashing against your bra, and he seems too distracted to pay attention to it. “M’hard as a fuckin’ rock, ____ - thinkin’ of you, gettin’ off on my voice, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you exhale, and Vincent glances up at you, thick brows furrowed in confusion. You swallow, focusing on giving yourself a satisfied expression, and he turns back to your chest, seemingly convinced of your pleasure. “Yes - making me feel so good.”

Harry groans in your ear, and you wonder, suddenly, if he’s jerking off - if he’s leaning against Vincent Carfield’s bed, hand pumping up and down his cock as he listens to you. Maybe he’s in the bathroom, or leaning against the wall like you are, his breathing picking up as sweat drips down his forehead - 

“Gonna fuck you,” Vincent mumbles against your boobs, and you scrunch your nose. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Just -” you swallow, and Harry snickers in your ear, the soft laugh breathy and groaning. “Just wait, feels so good -”

“Don’t fuck him,” says Harry, and there’s a few more jostling noises on the other end mixed with another soft moan - you have a sudden image of him, digging through Vincent Carfield’s possessions with a firm hand around his cock and you feel the result of that imagery stricken straight down to your clit like a fucking lightning bolt until you’re crying out, and your orgasm is on you so embarrassingly fast you could sob in embarrassment. “I’m almost there -”

You’re not sure if he means he’s almost about to cum or if he’s almost found something to convict Vincent - you’re not entirely sure which interpretation you’d prefer. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you breathe, the words sour on your tongue as Vincent glances up at you with a wicked smile, jolting his thigh further up into your clit, and you furrow your eyebrows at the pain the motion brings. “Fuck, H - Vincent.”

“Y’were gonna say m’name,” Harry hisses, and you squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment coursing through your veins. You almost fucked everything up. “Cum. Let Vincent think he made y’cum - go ahead - do it.”

And - fuck. Who are you to disobey? You grind your core down on Vincent’s thigh with a throaty cry, and your orgasm rushes over you with an embarrassing waterfall of pleasure and shame. Never have you cum so easily and it wasn’t even Harry’s touch - simply his voice, his groans as he listens to you come undone - and, in the end, the only thing to pull you from your high is Vincent’s eyes boring into yours, eyebrows raised and lips parted as he pulls his face from your chest with a most satisfied expression on his face.

You want to smack it off of him - if you hadn’t already cum, that look would’ve stopped you in your tracks. As it is, it slows the aftershocks of your release into dull nothingness while Harry moans in your earpiece, his noises a mere backdrop to the sudden growing sounds of scuffling and jostling, and his sharp gasp is loud enough for Vincent’s head to snap up.

“Did you hear that?” Vincent questions - Harry curses into your earpiece.

“I found something,” Harry tells you, voice dropped to a low whisper. “I found - s’under his mattress - m’calling Mark!”

A small smile spreads across your face at his words. It’s done. He’s found something worthy enough to convict Vincent Carfield, and that’s enough for you to press your palms to his chest, pushing him away from you so forcefully that he stumbles over the carpet, back slamming into the edge of your bed as he falls to the ground. His expression is so confuddled as he stares up at you that, for a moment, you marvel at his lack of self awareness - in an instant you’re reaching up the hem of your skirt to the knife in its holder strapped to your thigh, and you pull the blade out to point at Vincent Carfield, in your ear a myriad of Harry’s delighted cheers of, “I’ve found it!”

 ~~

 Wrapping up a mission isn’t nearly as speedy as you’d like - there’s debriefs and paperwork to complete once Vincent is done and arrested, phone confiscated along with the drugs found in his hotel room by your partner, and physical evaluations to determine whether you’d been hurt, and a long phone call with Mark where he congratulated the pair of you.

Not only for taking down Vincent Carfield, your boss had said, his voice booming and cheerful, but for making it out without killing each other.

If only he knew.

Your plane is set to leave tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn, and if you were more reasonable perhaps you’d heade Mark’s advice to go straight to sleep and set an alarm for 3 AM but you’ve never been too bright in that regard. You finish your last debrief in the hotel restaurant, Harry working diligently beside you, and it’s at nearly 9 PM that the pair of you pack up your work and begin to head upstairs.

The elevator ride is silent when Harry reaches to press the button for your floor. Your room had been closed for you to visit for the better part of the afternoon until Vincent’s had been properly searched, though Harry had gladly given the authorities everything he’d found without a moment of hesitation. Tiredness creaks at your bones but here - standing beside Harry, feeling his gaze boring into the side of your face - you desire nothing less than to go to sleep.

“Good work, Mr. Robinson,” you tell him, and he raises his eyebrows when you turn your head to look at him. “Fairly easy mission, wasn’t it?”

“For you,” he says, and you arch your eyebrow, frown tugging your lips downwards as the elevator begins to move up. “Gettin’ off on Vincent’s thigh was the hardest part - I had t’search the room.”

For a moment you wonder if he’s kidding and certainly he’s only teasing you but you still roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest as heat creeps up your cheeks. “Didn’t seem too difficult, moaning and crying ‘bout how hard you were. I bet I could’ve found the drugs in half the time it took you -”

“You couldn’t have,” Harry says, and you exhale sharply. 

“‘Course I could -”

“Wasn’t hidden in plain sight like everything you find.”

��So where were they?”

He pauses, and you smile down at your shoes - surely you’ve got him now. “Hidden in his computer,” Harry says, then, and your smile is wiped away in an instant. Shit, you wouldn’t have found them. “Not so smart now, are you?”

“Oh, you dick -”

The elevator doors open to your floor and Harry pushes himself off the wall, stalking out of the elevator and you jump to follow him, picking up the pace to walk beside him as he begins down the hall towards your hotel room. It’s entirely too easy, falling back into an arrangement of bickering with him as though nothing had happened - as though you hadn’t cum with his voice alone, and you’re nearly positive that he had, too.

He stops in front of your hotel door, digging in the pockets of his pants for the room key, and you cross your arms over your chest. “I don’t know why you’re actin’ so high and mighty,” he tells you, voice biting as he shoves the key card into the door’s slot - it beeps red, and he tries again. “As f’you didn’t cream your fucking pants jus’ listenin’ t’my voice.”

“I’m not acting high and mighty,” you retort, praying the burning sensation in your face isn’t visible to him but you doubt you’re that lucky. “You don’t have to be such a douche all the time - and, by the way, you came in your pants, too, didn’t you.”

It’s not a question, and Harry flings the door open, letting you walk in before he follows. In an instant, before you can march into the bedroom area to huff at how pissed he’s getting you - it is what he’s best at - there’s a tight grip on your wrist, turning you around so fast your head spins, and before you can object, Harry has you pressed against the door, hands caging you in on either side of your head.

His face is so close to yours you can smell the alcohol on his breath that he’d had while you two worked, mixed with the scent of his mint toothpaste and his shampoo, curls dropping into your face as he wedges his leg between both of yours, thigh pressed against your cunt. It’s just as Vincent had done but so different, so much better, and it tears a whine out of your throat right off the bat.

Your urge is to lean in, clash your lips together in a fury of tongue and teeth but you don’t want to make the first move - Harry can take the lead and you’ll follow, and that’s more than enough for you. So you simply drop your head back, breathing heavy as you stare into his eyes, nearly cross-eyed to meet his gaze. 

“Fuck you,” you tell him, and the words lack the venom you’d yearned for. It’s filled with more desperation and neediness than you’d anticipated, and you feel your stomach flip-flop at the smirk that spreads across Harry’s face. “Fuck you.”

His hands drop from against your head and for a moment you fear he’s going to pull away, that he’s doing this just to fuck with you but then his hands are on your legs, fingertips dancing up and down your outer thighs, fingering the hem of your skirt, and you jolt under him. “You’re so responsive,” he tells you, and you roll your eyes, dropping your head back against the door. “I love getting y’worked up.”

“Shut up,” you groan, feeling his fingers working your skirt up your legs, and the fabric brushes over the edge of your knife, still fastened to your thigh. 

“Like makin’ y’angry.”

“Shut up,” and finally Harry leans in, mouth slamming against yours until your teeth grind against his and your lips part with a shocked gasp. His tongue slips between your lips, your hands reaching up to bury in his curls and hold his face to yours. His palm slides up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist and your cheeks burn as the cold hotel room air assaults your skin, goosebumps popping up in their wake. You whimper into Harry’s lips and he pulls away, palms smoothing up and down your thighs before you feel his fingers hook against the top of your knife, and he tugs the blade out of your holster.

You watch with wary eyes as Harry brings the blade up to his eyes, examining it with narrowed eyes, his other hand still resting on your thigh, fingertips rubbing circles into your skin harsh enough that you’re sure you’ll find bruises tomorrow in the shape of his hands. Your breath hitches in your throat as you watch him and his eyes turn to yours, smile tugging his lip up.

“Y’look a bit excited, there,” Harry says - an acute observation, because you’re practically creaming your fucking panties. “Like seein’ me with your knife?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and Harry flips the knife in his hands until the blade is just an inch from the spot between both of your eyes, your orbs crossing to see it. “What are you -”

Before you can finish the question Harry presses the knife forward, the sharp edge of the plate pressed to your cheek, and you inhale sharply, swallowing thickly as he increases pressure against your skin. Fuck, this shouldn’t excite you - he’s not half as good as you are with blades - and you’re sure if he keeps going he’s going to slice you either by accident or on purpose, and it disturbs you how much that thought turns you on.

The blade drags down your skin, tracing along your jawline with pressure light enough to feel like a breath and hard enough to catch yours in your throat - Harry’s watching it with darkened eyes, watching as he lowers it down your throat, tracing it along your neck and the veins.

You drop your head back against the door with a thud, feeling the cool metal on your skin, sweaty from being pressed against him and the heat that encompasses your body until it’s all you can feel, and Harry’s just watching, watching the knife run across your skin.

Your eyes, fluttered shut, shoot open when a sudden burning sensation overtakes the top of your chest - you glance down to see Harry pulling the knife away from you, the tip decorated with just a smudge of dark, red liquid that’s mirrored on your collarbone.

“Did you -?”

“Oops,” Harry says as you bring your fingers to the small nick he’d given you, wiping away the drops of blood that spread on your chest. You raise your narrowed eyes to glare at him and you’re trying - trying so hard - to be furious with him, to get angry, to push him away and yell at him - but, fuck, feeling his thumb rub across the cut on your chest only increases the ball of pressure in your lower abdnomen as you look at him.

Your lips clash once more, more intense than before as you whine into his mouth - Harry’s free hand hoists your thigh around his waist, and when his lips move down to bite at your throat, the hand still clutching your knife pulls back before he slams the blade into the door next to you, surely taking a few of your stray hairs. You yelp, jolting your head back as you whip your head to the side to stare at the knife stuck in the door barely an inch from the side of your head, and Harry lifts his head with a smirk.

“You assho -”

Before you can finish Harry’s hand is wrapped around your throat, cutting off your ability to speak and you can’t help but moan at the pressure even if the noise is choked and gasping - Harry grins, moving his other hand down to your hips until he’s helping you to roll against his thigh, clit rubbing against the fabric of his pants. You tighten your thigh’s hold around his waist, pressing his torso closer to yours, and he, in turn, tightens his grasp on your neck.

“Y’like m’hand on your throat, hmm?” Harry questions, voice low and raspy like how it had been in the middle of the night except more, better and intense, and you whimper in affirmation. “Can’t even talk - can’t even say anything.”

When he finally loosens his hold on you, you gasp for air and bring your arm up to wrap around his neck again, fingers scraping through his scalp to tug his lips back to yours. Your other hand drops to the front of his pants, palm smoothing over his bulging erection before your shaky fingers begin tugging his zipper down.

“Can I tell you something?” says Harry, then, as you fumble to undo the button of his pants until you can shove your hand into the fabric, fingernails dragging along his cock through his boxers - his hips jolt into your hands.

“Yes,” you murmur in response, hand jerking up and down his dick and, even through a layer of fabric, he grunts into your lips.

“I didn’t cum,” he says, and you move your head from his, furrowing your eyebrows. “Didn’t cum, even when I heard y’with Vincent -”

“You -?”

“Didn’t wanna cum when I wasn’t buried in your cunt,” and you gasp sharply as his hand on your throat slides down your body until it’s shoved into your panties, cold fingertips dragging along your soaking folds that drip your ambrosia into his grasp. “Even f’you sounded so good, moanin’ for me - almost pathetic -”

You tighten your grip on his hair until he’s crying out, fingertips pinching your clit in your panties and you jerk your hips into his grasp at the sharp punishment. “Don’t call me that -” you moan, trembling hand pulling his boxers down over his cock while he smirks.

“Pathetic -”

“Fuck you, Harry -”

“Whimperin’ like a baby -”

You move your hand from his hair to his face, grip bruising as you grab his chin in your palm. Your fingertips squeeze his cheek as you force his head to stare at you - the lazy, cocky smile that adorns his features makes you want to throttle him, and your fingers flex against his face.

“What?” Harry questions, tone mocking and it fuels the anger in every crevice of your body as you glare at him. “Gonna hit me?”

Yes, you want to say - before you can even open your mouth, though, Harry leans in, teeth nibbling on your earlobe as he exhales, his words low and breathy, “Do it.”

Who are you to disobey him?

You bring your hand back and smack it down on his cheek with a satisfying slap that reverberates through your hotel room. His head is slapped to the side, exposing his side profile to you, and you smooth your palm over the red mark already blooming on his cheek in the shape of your handprint.

“You like to be hit, do you?” you inquire - for a moment, just a second, you feel some semblance of control over the situation, wrapping your fist around his cock once you’ve pulled his boxers down over his length. He hisses, dropping his head back, lips parted in a silent cry when your thumb sweeps over the weeping tip of his cock, precum dripping down his member. “Never would’ve guessed.”

And you do it again, bringing your hand up to slap his face and it tugs a louder grunt from his mouth, pressing his body further into yours until all you can feel is him, chests pressed together and cock rubbing against your cunt through the fabric of your lace panties. You bring your hand back to give him another slap but then his fingers are pulling your drenched knickers to the side, bulbous tip of his cock nudging through your folds for only a split second before he pushes himself inside of you, sheathing the entirety of his length until he bottoms out, balls pressed tight against your skin.

You can’t help but sob out. It’s, really, not your fault - you can tell how it spurs him on, but before he can keep fucking you like how you’ve dreamt of he’s pulling out completely, taking a half a step away from you, cock tall and leaking. The emptiness you feel is overwhelming, even if you’d only had him in you for a few seconds at best, and objections immediately rise in your throat.

“What the fu -?”

Then he’s grabbing your throat, using his grip as leverage to force you around, cheek smushed against the wooden door frame and back pressed to his chest. His palms smooth up and down the globes of your ass, pulling the cheeks apart until the pressure burns and you throw your head back with a cry. Then he pulls his hand back - lands it back against your ass with a cracking slap that makes you jump against him - and he doesn’t give you a second to beg him to fucking do it again before he’s sliding his cock back into your folds.

“Fuck,” he practically shouts, the noise crackling and broken with arousal practically dripping from the syllable, and you drop your forehead against the door with a cry. “Fuck, so tight - knew y’would be -”

“Move, please,” you beg, tone sobbing and desperate, and Harry obliges without another second to spare - pulls out and thrusts back in, pace brutal and desperate right off the bat until you’re quivering, legs trembling when he’s only been going for a half a minute.

Oh my god. Holy fuck, it feels so good, better than you could’ve ever pictured it, his hand smoothing over your ass before landing periodic slaps to the plump skin - his hand landing on you hardly overpowers the sound of his hips smacking against your ass, filling you until you’re crying for it before leaving you empty and diving back in. You can’t do much else other than stand there on quivering legs that feel incapable of handling your weight and take it, pushing your hips back into his with every thrust until you’ve worked yourselves into a rhythm that makes your fucking head spin.

“Harry -” you gasp as he grabs hold of your hips, pulling them upwards until his cock is slamming into the sweet spot buried inside of your walls that makes you sob out, cheek slamming into the door over and over with the force of his pounding. “Harry - God -”

“What?” he practically hisses, the word full of desire and contempt in the most delicious way possible, and your knees would give out if not for his bruising grip on your hips, keeping you flush against him. 

“Har - choke me, please, want you to - to choke me -”

He stutters a groan at that, moving one of his hands from your hips - he delivers one hard smack to your ass before he’s trailing his hand up your back and around to the front of your throat, squeezing your neck once experimentally just to hear the way you moan at it before he tightens his grasp. Your resulting whimper is caught in your throat, pressing your palms to the door you’re leant up against as Harry just fucking laughs from behind you, thrusting himself into you like he was fucking born for it.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy,” Harry says, then, and he almost sounds in awe as he squeezes your throat tighter, tight enough that your vision goes fuzzy and your head feels light. “So filthy - knew y’would be - an’ so - so - fuckin’ - tight -”

With every word he punctuates his meaning with a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, and the hand on your hip slithers around your body until he’s pressing two fingertips to your clit, rubbing shaking, hard circles against the sensitive nub that has you jolting, arms shaking as you attempt to keep yourself up. “Oh my god,” you practically cry, and the voice sounds far away as he briefly releases his hold on your throat - a firm slap is delivered to the side of your face as you’d given him, the motion forcing your head to the side, and you sob out harder. “Fuck - do it again, please -”

He obeys you, bringing his palm back to slap your cheek again before he wraps his hand back around your throat. “M’gonna cum,” he tells you, words throaty and laced with neediness - you push your hips back against his, a loud, long whine bursting from your throat as his fingers never give up on their assault to your clit. “M’gonna fill y’up - y’want that?”

“Yes!”

“Want me t’fill you up?”

“Yes, Harry, please -!” You come undone around his cock just as his hips stutter to a close - there’s a ball of pleasure that bursts in your core, spreading warmth and euphoria through your body like a wildfire attacks a forest. Your forehead slams against the door with a moan that borders on a scream, nails scratching against the wood as though searching for something to hold onto, to ground yourself, because surely you’re far away - in fucking space - because there’s no way on Earth you could feel this good.

Behind you, Harry’s hand on your clit wraps around your waist, holding your body taut to his as you feel him spurt ribbons of cum inside of you, his release filling you up and it only prolongs yours, aftershocks rolling through you mixed with his warmth spreading through your body. His head drops against the back of yours, breath ruffling the hairs at the back of your neck, and when you finally regain the ability to breathe you’re fucking heaving, gasping for air, the once-simple process labored and desperate.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, and then he pulls out of you - you can feel his cum beginning to trickle down your inner thighs, and that mixed with the sudden emptiness in your cunt makes you exhale a low whine. Your pussy flutters around the sudden air invading it, the loss of a certain appendage filling you up glaringly obvious, and you slump against the door. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, and your knees are shaking when Harry unwraps his arm from around your waist, leaving you to fend for yourself as you try and steady your body. “Fuck.”

You hear, then, Harry walking away - surely stalking deeper into your room, perhaps lying on the bed, kicking off his shoes and beginning to tug off his shirt. You feel sudden embarrassment and heat coursing through your body as you tug the bottom of your skirt down over your ass and the tops of your thighs, walking on shaking legs into the bedroom area of your hotel room -

(Your knife can stay in the door until morning. It is, for all intents and purposes, the least of your priorities when you can’t even think straight.)

Harry’s eyes are on you when you make your way into the bedroom section, leaning up against the doorframe to hide the quivering in your legs, and you hope it looks decently natural but you’re sure it doesn’t, judging by the way his lips tremble upwards as he glances down at the shoe he’s focused on untying.

“I’m gonna shower first,” you tell him. Your throat burns with the energy of speaking after screaming your lungs out and your voice is crackling and raspy - you cough into your elbow, hoping it makes your voice sound a bit less fucked-out than it is, but you’re sure you’re not that lucky.

“Fine by me,” Harry says, kicking his sneakers off onto the ground, and he collapses onto his back onto the bed with a sigh. His pants are still undone and are pushed down his thighs, boxers pulled up over his cock, and you feel - decidedly strange, watching him post-coital, at the way his eyes shut, limbs spreading out over the mattress with a grunt. “M’takin’ the bed, though.”

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest. “What -?”

“Y’can hardly walk from how hard I fucked you. I think I deserve it.”

And - well - you can’t quite argue with that logic.

~~

TAGLIST (crossed out urls meant they didn’t show up)

@nineteenfiftyone​ @harryslilkat​ @galacticferns​ @ficrecrry​ @morethanamelodyy​ @hoeeforstyles​ @bunny-munchkin-luvs-music​ @mintchipstyles​ @sstarkme​ @thecitiesintheseas @harry-styles-l​

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 9

Chapter 9: The Hanged Man

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | eight

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: After some time apart, new conclusions are met.

Word count: 7.8k~

Rating: Explicit

Warnings/tags: SMUT, fingering, unprotected piv sex, emo emo emo (are we even surprised any more), mature themes, abandonment/family trauma, loss

Notes: Friends, wow. I'm honestly embarrassed by how long this took. Thank you for your patience. I hope you find the reward worth the wait. This chapter is nearly all in Din's POV until it switches and blends in the last chunk. If you’re new to KOC, you’re more than welcome to start at this chapter! Love you guys x (gif credit: @bestintheparsec)

“Din.”

Familiar fingers brush through his hair, a hand he knew once combing over his overgrown locks. He feels the drag of nails across his scalp, tucking a truant curl behind his ear, and the act feels like home— like hearth.

Somewhere beyond his open window a morning bird trills, perched in its roost nestled into the forked branch of the elm.

He breathes a sigh, the sound thick with sleep, and turns to his pillow, burying himself deeper into the linen.

“Din, honey.”

He blinks— lazily, molassesed— her shape clearing into focus.

Green eyes peer back at him, fine lines framing the corners of them, and crescents crease around her lips, pulled warm into a soft curve.

Small toys— wooden things, baubles and bits, dolls made from scraps of old fabric—litter the floor, spilling from the chest butted against the stone of the wall. A book, well-loved and dog-eared, rests on his nightstand—the one he insisted she read from each night, the story he couldn’t possibly fall asleep without hearing—the images written on the page, dancing in his small mind to the tune of her voice.

It’s all there now as it was then before.

“It’s time to wake up.”

She sits at the edge of the bed—his bed—the weight of her arm draped over his shoulder like a blanket— like shelter. Like never being fearful again. Like never dying. Like summer, forever.

“I am awake,” he murmurs, and it is with his own tongue that he speaks. Not that of a boy, but a man—unfiltered, unmodulated. Stripped of his helmet, he hardly recognizes the tenor of it, of its richness, but he feels the words reverberate against the hollow of his throat and he knows they belong to him.

Light casts through the window behind her—particles of dust, trapped in the tines. Floating there, suspended on strings.

She only smiles, and strokes a thumb across the sweep of his cheekbone, there in the room he last felt safe.

“No, not yet.”

It’s time to wake up. It’s time to wake up. Wake up wake up wake—

“Not yet.”

His eyes blur open with a flutter of his lashes, the lifeless durasteel ceiling coming into view—the jade of her gaze fading, fading. Blowing away.

He shifts a hand through his hair— through the long strands in dire need of trimming— lying on his bedroll, spine knobbing into the thin mattress. The cold metal overhead stares back at him.

His chest rises. Falls.

Din can still feel her, the warmth of her, there on his cheek.

///

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He knows what you’re thinking, he can see it in the guard you’ve encased yourself with— your glass walls, your glass house. Transparent but impenetrable, Din can only look. A spectator, watching as you go about your routines— a stranger on the outside.

And he sees how you look at him.

You think he’s fine.

You think he’s marble. Unbreakable. Impervious to time, to cold, and he does nothing to correct you; no, he allows the belief. He lets you believe the calloused veneer of his beskar— lets you assume he is more machine than man.

Din thought it would be simpler. Convenient. Din thought it would hurt less.

Because how can he tell you? How can he possibly communicate the imprint you’ve left on him— how his mind revolves around the imagery of that evening in vicious figure-eights. How he can’t unremember your heat curling around his fingers, how he can’t unbridle the pulse of his cock in your palm. How he can’t unspeak that which he called you, his virgin tongue flicking new and flighty around the word.

Cyare.

It tripped—in the midst of his pleasure, it sprang clumsy from him how the inevitable always seems to where you are concerned: transport to Coruscant, his past, his history, his identity— it just happens, reasonless, illogically. Some driving magic beckoning him to buckle, wishing him to give.

Your moans, your gasps, how you prayed his name— this is the white noise murmuring through the ship, harmonizing with the tinny mechanical beeps and settling groans of the bulkheads. You churn like smog through his helmet. Ever present, the memory of you is constant— invasive. It’s suffocating him.

He’s been dealt plenty of injuries and contusions— he has the scars enough to prove it— but it’s this. It’s this that’s killing him. It’s you.

All of these paintings, life-like and lurid, and yet it is this wound - untended, uncauterized - that scalds most: the moment Din, that beskar apparition, slipped away from you. You were there, hip under the weight of his glove, and he simply

went, like fog.

He watched your face crest and fall—felt your heart, skipping nervous like a stone over a morning pond, little waves rippling lightly, lightly out and out until it puttered quiet and

sank.

He abandoned you there. He left you before you had the opportunity to convince Din that you wouldn't do the same to him. Because Din has learned this, his suit of armor a trudging reminder of the inherent fact: good things leave.

You’ll be gone soon. You’ll leave him—he’s taking you home and you’ll leave him. His son will leave him.

He’ll be alone again. He’ll have the Crest, he’ll have the Guild—he’ll have the life he once cast in stone for himself, the life he’s worn as proudly as the Mudhorn emblem he boasts on his pauldron. But that was then - before - and he can never find his way back to that now; now that he knows what he knows—of breakfast and bitter caf and laughter like church bells and warmth and goodness and you.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

There in the galley, lamp-lit iridescence caressing your countenance, you asked him once if he was scared of anything and he told you he wasn’t sure— not yet.

Din lied.

As a rule, he doesn’t make a habit out of dishonesty; it doesn’t typically suit him, he is blunted to a fault— earning allies and enemies alike with the very attribute—but he lied to you then. Maybe his fears are the same as everyone else’s, maybe they’re simple. Human.

Maybe he’s scared that you’ll unchain him from his armor, of his shortcomings and tragic flaws and see the pulpy heart of him—that you’ll look and look and look, and you will like nothing that you find there. That he’s just a man.

And perhaps, he’d rather remain unknown than risk the chance of being unlovable.

For there is a certain hollow you befriend in the aftershock of loss—there is an aperture loss gores you with. There are some holes time can never fill; they remain trenched, dug from rusted trowels— left to fester, left to ill.

Sometimes, in the surly vacuum of space, in those dulled moments in which he has nothing but to count the seconds as they tick clocklessly away, Din attempts to conjure the last word his mother gave to him. He didn’t know it then—he didn’t know it was intended as a gift, boxed and ribboned and bowed. He didn’t realize—a child, wide-eyed with naivety, drenched in fright—that he should cherish it. Remember it. Keep it safe.

No matter how hard he tries, how hard he strains, he can’t recall it. He practices the nightmared memory of it, transports himself into that war zone, dodging shrapnel and brimstone just to catch sight of her face— and he can see her lips moving, can feel the fan of the flames as his world is reduced to cinders, but he cannot hear her.

Was it goodbye? Was it I love you? Was it be safe? Was it hide? Hide hide hide for me. Be good and hide, kind boy—

It dogs him. The nothinged mumble, his silent passenger.

There is no part of this that comes easy.

He heard you. There in Valentia, the city buzzing cacophonously like an orchestra tuning their instruments, he overheard the Twi’lek translate for the older woman.

Family, she said. You have a beautiful family.

Din has never in his life considered forsaking his Creed— forgoing the thing that saved him, made him, honed him to tungsten, sharp as a blade.

But he did then.

It was a flash, something fickle and brief— like the flicker of a candle before it diffused to smoke— but in that nanosecond he saw himself ripping off his helmet. He saw himself going to you, pulling you close to his plated chest. He saw the surprise wash over you—the shock that bubbled to elation. He saw you smile, that crippling gorgeous thing, with his own naked eyes and—

And then suddenly you were there before him, snapping Din from his reverie, blanket snug to your chest, the child — his child— slung beside you. He wished he had an explanation, but before he could process his actions his hand was drawing itself to your body, tugged by some unseen force—robbed of his autonomy— and rapturously, he touched you. He felt you.

His knuckles grazed your arm—your warmth, radiating past the aged leather of his glove—and the wisdom that woman uttered, the plain truth only the ancient could learn— only a mother could know— rattled around his mind, unanchored and barreling.

Yearn for the past. Reclaim time.

Hold onto them hold onto them hold on—

Never let them go.

Ready? he asked you, arm resigned to his side, feigning monotony beneath the cover of his visor.

You threaded an even smile to your lips, as if Din were none the wiser— as if he hadn’t catalogued every lick of your expressions, every curve and bow and wrinkle as your emotions sung across your face. As if he didn’t know when you were lying. As if he didn’t know when you were falling apart.

Ready, you replied, swallowing past the disappointment welled in your throat.

Both your hearts broke then. Perfectly—the same.

This is the Way.

///

Din is gone over a week. It’s the longest he’s ever been away for a hunt—it’s the longest nine days of your kriffing life.

The ship feels vacant without him; she’s cumbersome, too cavernous for the likes of only you and his foundling. Her durasteel sidings yawn morose against the wind beating restless against her—her metal stretching like a lothcat in a patch of sun. The doors and hatches complain ajar and gripe shut, as if she’s recalcitrant to go about her standard operating procedures without Din’s presence. The old gal misses him, down to her steely bones and dual ion turbines, and in truth — and despite yourself— you suppose a small part of you feels the same, shares an inkling of that same loneliness.

The rituals and dog-eared routines you’d drawn comfort from are now rinsed in a forlorn wash.

The single bowl of food you prepare looks wrong without its twin beside it.

You scroll a finger over your display screen, flicking through various articles, the faint light from the holopad basking the contours of your face in a lonesome shade of inanimate blue.

Anything good you hear him ask, there in your inner ear— the memory of his voice leaving a nick among the many wrinkles of your brain.

You sigh, quietly— alone. Never.

Even Munch misses him, although he expresses it differently. He’s been a downright terror with Din gone. At first it was a vacation, a luxury retreat; you and the child gorged yourself on crackers and grava berries and dried bantha meat—mindful of sweeping up the crumbs on whichever surface you snacked. You giggled and ran amok and shared secrets in code only the two of you could decipher.

But one day grew to two, and two to three and three to four and by the fifth you were out of treats and your patience too had dwindled to short supply.

The child is special— unquestionably unique. And as much as you adore him, would lay down your life for him if it came to it, Maker he is uniquely qualified to send you round the bend twice over. He’s baffling, infuriating— just like his father. Of all the things he could have inherited from the man, of course he decided to latch on to his vexing penchant for mystery.

You lost him for half a day. He was somewhere aboard the Crest, of that you knew that for certain, but he managed to enact a stunt that could’ve puzzled even the most illustrious of illusionists with how quickly and effectively he vanished, seemingly out of thin air.

He emerged eventually for dinner, babbling wickedly. There was that, at least: you could always count on Munch to — well, munch.

Over a week of this— nine days, sixteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, to be exact… But who’s counting.

The sky glitches with lightning, sparking like a bulb in dreadful need of changing, and veins of violet skitter along the horizon, chased by the clapping hammer of thunder. Fat drops of rain trace down the transparisteel, the metalled drum of their pattering against the Crest lullabying your eyelids to a slumbered close. You drift, weightless, waxing and waning in and out of a reoccurring dream that always blurs to mere suggestion - to shadow - as soon as you wake.

The harsh sound stirs you—the ramp’s gears springing to life, signaling the Mandalorian’s return. Rapidly, you blink clear the slog of sleep from your eye, re-emerging from the forgotten depths of your subconscious and half-roused, you bound from the copilot’s chair. You rally from your stupor, instinct urging you to meet the bounty hunter by the entrance—some tittering, foolish part of you still so glad and girlish just to see him.

Hobbling down the ladder with veteraned coordination - one leg one arm one foot one hand - you hop the last two rungs to land catlike on the balls of your feet, heading towards the stern of the ship and—

You don’t make it three steps.

He’s there. Din is there— nine days later and finally, like a hallucination, he’s here— ominous and backlit by the glow seeping in from the galley. An obelisk, undaunted.

Your gut somersaults, flipping until it dizzies.

Knee-jerked and reflexive, the basest part of you demands you go to him, to cross the threshold separating you— the time and space and uncertainty dredged like a moat between you two. But instead of greeting him as you wish— two arms thrown around him, welcoming him home—back to the Crest, to the child, to you—you stand there, dumbstruck and wanting.

The passage of the corridor is like a strait. It's so narrow you can smell him— his carbon musk, his petrichored sweat—and it furls thick into your sinuses, fogging up your vision, clotting the faulty wiring of your mind. He’s brought the wet in with him, drip dropping from his hulking frame to splat puddled onto the deck.

plop

plop

plop

A beat ferments, hanging ripe from its branch as the tempest rages outside the sheltered hull of the ship. Distantly, thunder booms from above.

“Din— hi.”

“You’re up.” He doesn’t move from the archway. Stiffened, composed from granite, the man hardly breathes. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you offer hastily—untruthfully.

Din scans you: your obviously tousled hair, the drowsy flush kissing your jaw, the tell-tale crinkle of your tunic. Your tongue darts out to skip over your lip and his lungs pull, aching beneath his ribs.

Maker, you’re pretty even when you lie.

“Go back to sleep,” he assures, but you hardly register it; it’s scarcely above a murmur by the time the words hum through his modulator.

“Can I make you some food? Can I—"

There’s a tarred shake of his helm, tiredly dissuading you. “No, you—you’ve done enough.”

“But you must be exhausted, Din. Let me help you,” you urge, sincerity shaping the lilt of your voice. “Please, I—” You falter. Vision finally adjusted in the dimmed hall, it is then that you spot it.

Your mouth runs dry.

He’s dappled in a violent scarlet, foreign red splatters contrasted against all that silvered grey, bleeding with the rainwater to roll sanguined down the rounded edges of his armor.

Blood. He’s covered in blood.

Something pitted—something vital— in you contracts; horror, prickling the fine hairs along your forearm. “Maker, what happened?”

Eyes gaping fearful, you skitter around his breastplate, his vambraces, the paneling of his flight suit, roving meticulously in search for the source of his injury. Thoughtless, consumed with only one concern - is he hurt? - your hand flies to his chest where it rests—solid. Fretting. “Stars, are you—”

He can see it—he can see you, always—how your gaze swells, laced with a surge of adrenaline, of care, and Din lays his broad palm flat over your knuckles, grabbing your frantic attention. “It’s not mine—hey, it’s not mine.”

Your shoulders deflate, relief visibly relaxing the rigidity in your spine, and for the first time in what feels like minutes you release the breath you’d fostered high behind your teeth.

He doesn’t know what overtakes him. Perhaps it’s your sleep swollen lips or the soft petal of your cheek— taunting Din, daring him to feel you again, as he did before— or perhaps it’s the all too apparent fact that you simply give a shit about him— despite everything he’s done, all of that which he has left unsaid. That you worry. That you care.

Puppeted, arm hoisted by some invisible strings of fate—those unseen threads of inevitability—he reaches for you. Din’s thumb roams the slope of your cheekbone, the buttered hide of his glove gliding over your skin. Something rattles flustered in your chest, and you must look pathetic— how your eyes bat at him and your mouth parts, breathy and demure.

“Dala.” He sounds pained when he says it, as if it’s poisoning him; the very syllables like hemlock dripping down his tongue—slowly gradually, ending his life— this life.

This life as he knows it.

You nuzzle into the cradle of his palm, encircling a hand around his wrist, urging him still. You both know he could break away from you without an ounce of strength squandered, but he doesn’t; he listens, he quiets for you. Enchanted, neither of you dare move— neither of you, willing to shatter the profound spell of intimacy you’ve stumbled onto.

He holds you like this, and you hold him to you. His hand on your cheek; yours over the birdcaged throb of his heart— burning - devouring - its entombed aril like the heart of a dying star.

“Where’d you go?” you whisper, heathered, into the heel of his hand. There is something broken in your cadence, like the chipped rim of a fragile cup, and it punctures him just there beneath his sternum.

Where’d you go?

Where’d you go before? When you left— where did you spirit away to?

Why didn’t you take me with you?

A sick wave rots his stomach. He couldn’t answer you then, not when you were wobbly and coltish beneath him—Din can barely answer you now. His digits twine into your hair, cupping the arc of your neck. The gesture is not unkind. It is delicate— urgent, too—and the following hush you share speaks tomes for the both of you, the sob of his leathered fist admitting what he cannot utter.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Maker, if you could see him. See how his face folds for you, grief lined into the shallow grooves that mark him. The cycles of it— how they bend him into something contorted. Something in need - I need you I need you I need - something ugly, he thinks. Leftover. Hidden. Hide hide hide hi—

You turn, pressing a kiss into the rough of his palm. It’s a soft thing— trepid and cautious—too worried you might frighten him away to offer anything more than a chaste brush of your lips—too worried you’ll send him scurrying back into the cratered unknown he crawled out from.

But he doesn’t.

Din doesn’t turn tail and run, he stands firm—weaving his hand further into your scalp, guiding you closer to him with a throaty sound. The forehead of his helm sinks to yours, and through its filter you discern the tremor of Din’s breathing, made fuzzy by the tinny modulator.

This is nothing like before. Din was hot blooded and vicious then, possessed by the infernal likes of some great beast, but he has since been tamed, if only momentarily—coaxed into a certain meekness by the frail ache of his heart—by the grace of your kind mouth, kissing his gun-worn glove.

He groans your name, mumbled and brassy. The two of you so close, so merged, that if it weren’t for his helmet, you’d feel the tickle of the syllables as they sweep over your face. Din repeats himself, repentant—praying for forgiveness on the cross of your name—your kiss, a benediction.

Again, he calls you. I’m sorry.

Again, you kiss him. There is nothing to forgive.

Again. Again.

With a flutter of bravado, you sling a lumbered arm over the span of his neck, notching yourself into his chest, an interlocking piece finding it’s match. Din’s forearm comes to coil around your waist, wide hand spanning the small of your back, and if possible, gathers you nearer— a growl emanating somewhere from under his beskar.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes, bullet riddled—grating—warring with the countless shards of himself he has yet to reconcile; but his body betrays his intentions as Din’s grasp finds itself lower, filling his fingers with the plush of your ass. “Tell me, please.”

Arousal rushes to pool in your depths—at the proximity of him, the hungered way at which he paws you—and it’s a reaction you feel mimicked by the iron rod straining against Din’s flight suit, pressing into your thigh. You shake your head, gaze colored earnest, and you shift, applying a grind of your hips against him in response.

Din lets out a defeated groan; weak to you, a fabled Mandalorian warrior brought to trembling knees by the guile of a good woman. And suddenly, like striking a match in a room swarmed with gas, you are incendiary.

He’s everywhere— groping and kneading your arms, your ass, your neck and waist. You are malleable beneath him, sculpted like wet clay under his eager touch—as if he is committing your form to memory; the fervor of his grip, reclaiming time.

He hooks a hand under the crease of your knee, yanking you to the column of his armor, sealing your bodies together. Gyrating your hips against him, your clit yearns against his thick outline as you dig into the cowl draped over his shoulders.

Sliding his hand down your backside, he presses his palm into your clothed heat from behind, pads of his fingers insistent as you saddle your spine into his touch, granting him better access. His cock brays, straining beneath his many layers, and a withered moan breaches past your lips.

“Gods, Din.”

Din. He can’t stand that—his name, lush in your wet mouth—and without ceremony, drops your leg from where he’d glued it to his hip. Like a beggar, impoverished and need-stricken, he begins to fight with your clothing, half tempted to rip the damn things off you, leaving you tattered; he’d happily buy you a new wardrobe if it meant having you as he’s wanted for these long months—naked and vulnerable and his.

Your tunic and pants come off in a flurry, your underwear too, discarded hastily in some forgotten corner—and with a hand on your chest, he walks you backwards until your bare ass connects with the durasteel, a jagged inhale tearing through you at the chill. A question knits your brows to meet as Din paces away from you, increasing his distance.

“What are you-”

He interrupts you with a groan. “Just - gedet’ye - just let me—”

His gaze drips like wax down your body—eyes dressing over your clavicle, the supple weight of your breasts, the gorgeous dusting of hair at your mound, the sweet press of your thighs as you clench them together, your pretty knees, your pretty ankles, your pretty feet, pigeoned inward nervously.

Pretty pretty pretty—fuck, all of you. So fucking pretty.

With the cock of his chin, his gaze returns to the heave of your breasts—tracing over your nipples pebbling in the everpresent draft of the Razor Crest— and you rile under him, heart stammering loud—so loud you’re convinced he can hear it with the aid of his helm. And Maker above, the way you’re fucking staring at him—all hooded lids and flushed cheeks. Din wants to fucking ravish you.

Dismantle you.

Pick you apart bit by bit until you’ve come undone completely.

And as if slogging through gravity itself, movements prowled, he steps to you. Din finds your hips, running the whisper of his gloves along the slopes of your sides; a master of patience, commanding time to his will, he crawls up your skin

slow

slow

deliberate.

You’re all but helpless to the shiver that traverses the planes of your body, zipping along your synapses like the fault lines of a quaking planet—cracking you open, exposing your molten core. You’re not proud of the noise you make when he cups your breasts. Starved, you whine as he takes you into his hands, pinching and groping until you’re pert and sore and you drive your pelvis into him, rutting yourself against his frame like some flea ridden slum-mutt in the prime of her heat.

Din seethes, mumbling in Mando’a—spitting curses you can’t pretend to comprehend, but that blot warmth along your cheekbones at the oaky depravity of which he utters them.

He seals over your mound, blood pumping at your seam, bundle of nerves pulsing steady against the heel of his hand. Immobile, he waits, hovering stagnant and teasing before his lust to feel you outweighs his desire to make you be good and wait—and parting through your curls, he kisses the tips of his orange gloves into your honeyed cunt.

It’s dirty. He’s dirty, he’s fucking filthy—covered in foreign blood and alien soil—and you feel depraved, unclean. Powerful. You feel, perhaps, as the Maker intended—wild and without shame, to roam his gateless garden and sully the soles of your feet.

You feel raw. Din Djarin sands you raw.

The pump of his wrist is merciless, pistoning in and out in shallow thrusts, knuckles angled to prod at that spot— that piece of primordial heaven sequestered at the channel of your cunt—and he keeps discovering it over and over again with a sharp shooter’s precision—zeroing in on his mark and releasing the trigger. Dead eyed.

You grab greedily at his bulge, at his cock begging for regard beneath the protective fabric covering him, and you squeeze the best you can. The angle is awkward and unweildy and it’s not nearly enough for either of you, but it conveys your intention well enough.

Can I have this? Will you give this to me?

Din growls his reply, leaving your pussy to fumble with the waist of his trousers, fidgeting over the pesky buttons—the final of the flimsy holdouts separating you and the tempered steel hanging solid between his legs. It bobs free from his pants, ruddied tip straining and pining for you, and without spending another moment idle, he rediscovers the warmth of your naked body— molding himself to your form, his grip once more finding the pit of your knee and bracing it to his side.

He ruts the underside of his shaft through your slick folds, his blunt head nudging at the swollen cleft of your center—each pitch of Din’s hips sending bolts of pleasure crackling through your core. He’s stifling a string of moans while he does it, while he undulates against you, the sighs and gasps digitized to near silence as he coats his cock in your gloss—and not for the first time do you find yourself considering how fucking colossal Din is. How fucking virile and engulfing, like blaster smoke and tabacco and cedar. Like coaled smog from a cremulator. Like giving life, like taking it away— like mercy. Vengeance.

Din swipes your standing leg up to match the other in a fluid motion, effectively levitating you off the ground with only his palms secured beneath your hamstrings and your strangled hold around his neck to suspend you.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” He’s practically begging you now, anguish wrecking through the timber of his voice—grasping blindly for an excuse not to lose himself in you completely, not to bury his primal drives and fears into the chasm of your sex.

You’ll leave him you’ll leave him he’s terrified you’ll leave him

“I-I don’t want you to stop— I want this. Din, I want you, I missed you. I miss you.” You miss him. He’s right here, cock streaking through your middle and still, you miss him. You’ll never stop missing him—wanting him. An unscratchable itch at the median of your back, burning for his affection, for his touch.

He releases a husked sound at that, as if hearing it from you hurts— your words, purpling a bruise into the bloody beat of his heart—and like a dipping sun sinking below the crust of a darkening planet, the last of Din’s resolve fades to utter black as he finally - finally - buries himself into where you weep for him.

Oh Maker. Fuck, fuck—

You muffle a relieved cry, forehead collapsing to the slope of his shoulder. Your walls shutter, blinking and gasping around his cock as he rolls up into you, lips pulling taut around his girth with each drag through your cunt. Din fucks you slurred and languid—his pace, sweltering like a summer fever—heavy, punitive. Smothering and thick. You can feel every vein, every silken ridge, as he notches himself inch by inch— the cant of his hips meditated, aiming to melt you open with each wave.

Stuffed to the hilt inside you, he rakes in a ragged breath, calming the race of his bloodstream drumming percussive in his ears.

It occurs to you then that he might be trying to be careful with you, curled around him like this, crushed up against the bulkhead. You think he might be treating you as a jeweler would handle a rarified gem— gentle and tip-toed, afraid of letting you clatter to the counter, of scuffing your facets— devaluing you.

But you don’t want that. You don’t want cautious or considerate or any of those awfully pious things. You want to be owned. Devoured. You don’t want to feel anything else but him. You want him to need you so terribly, so primally, he bleeds. You want to forget your own damn name and replace the memory of it with his—just his, to sit besot like liquor on your tongue. Din Din Din.

“Fuck me— please - please - fuck me harder Din.” Fuck me like you need to. Fuck me like you want me— please just tell me you want me. Tell me I’m wanted. Tell me I’m worth this.

You can see the deliberation span over his mask, the light glinting off the steel there hesitant, wary. Are you sure?

“Fuck me.” I want this. I want you.

He wants to give this to you somewhere soft— somewhere you deserve. With a feathered mattress and molted down pillows and gauzy curtains billowing in a sea breeze as light dapples prismed patterns on your dewy skin. He wants to give this to you somewhere beautiful—perhaps on that planet you once probed him about - Adega - with its red trees and warm nights and friendly natives you’d cherish and keep aloft in your breast.

He wants you to feel safe. Adored.

But what he wants and what he needs are two vastly different things—two opposing extremes at odds with the other. Because he needs to fuck you here— it has to be here. Needs to score your backside with metaled bites from the Crest’s unforgiving interior; needs you crumpled and sloppy, panting out his name to echo shamelessly into the deviled bowels of his gunship.

He needs you charred for him. Scorched earth.

And with your panted pleas, lilting addictive and irresistible, he is all but helpless to deny you— to deny himself. Relenting, resolved, his voice bottoms out.

“I-I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”

He fucks you frenzied. The snap of his hips drives you into the wall; he lifts you off his cock just to spear you on it once more, fucking up up up into you, unleashing all his strength— his neglected need—into the grail of your womb. The salted slaps of skin are loud enough to make a lecher blush. It’s a chorus of beskar rattling, wet and ugly and Maker, he’s splitting you open and all you can do is mewl.

You screw your eyes shut, lost to oblivion—crown of your head shoved back, jugular bared for him like prey before the slaughter.

“No.” Leveraging his mass against you, Din clasps at the nape of your neck to command your focus, forcing your chin. “No, look at me,” he orders, brutal and sinewed and there’s desperation there. Din needs you looking at him — seeing him— the embrace of your gaze like a life raft, tethering him here, grounding him to this plane of existence, the one where he has found salvation—if only fleeting, if only like hourglassed sand sifting through his fingers—within the temple of your body. Struggling and led-lidded, you pry your lashes apart, shivering as you drink in the punishing expression leering across his visor; and as you always do, you peer past the murky T there, meeting his eyes camouflaged in their sockets behind it.

“There you are. There you are, my pretty thing - hnng—” He silences himself with a hoarse moan, the sensation of you clenching firm around him, gripping Din like a man would a rope, dangling some feet above the ground, hiccuping him to stutter. “T-That’s it, dala—fuck, y-your pussy is so godsdamn tight.”

You go boneless at the praise—at how he tongues out those fond epithets, vehement and covetous and brined in sincerity—and your breathing quickens as you soak the coarse weave of Din’s flight suit, chafing your clit to shambles with each bow of his starved sex.

You’re close. Stars, you’re so kriffing close—reach out and touch it and you’re there, a promise fulfilled dancing at your fingertips—and you almost tell him; you wish you could - don’t stop don’t stop please right there Din - but you’ve lost your voice, vocal chords stricken with tension. More than that, you’ve lost the wedge of your brain that recognizes articulation all together. Speech itself. You’re wasted. You’re shattered. You’re being fucked within an inch of your sorry life.

Nimbled, without a word of warning, Din relocates— grappling under the plats of your thighs and bracing you featherlight to his chest—negligible in comparison to the ton of armor he dons cycle after cycle, weightless when compared to that of his Creed, hanging like a yoke around his gullet. You yip in surprise and scramble around him, calves digging into his back, forearms clamped around his shoulders—his cock remaining delved within your pussy with each footfall.

Four long strides and he’s reached his destination: a large crate, stranded just outside the hallway leading to the galley. Stooping at the waist, he lowers you down with astonishing ease until you’re flush on your back, knees flanking his frame. You heave a sigh, petulant and wanting, when he slips from you mid-adjustment, a lewd squelch accompanying the movement. It is to the fervor of your clawing, desperate nails scratching down metal - please please please - that he glides back into you with one deft sweep, a satisfied gasp tumbling loose from him.

He looms over you now— Din, a tower unyielding—thrusting into you rough and hard and perfect. He’s filling you in undiscovered places long gone unrealized, nooks you didn’t know you had—the length of him completing you, making you whole.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, orange pads of his gloves dimpling your hips.

With a tremor of your chin, you moan—broken and chirping. “Don’t - please - please don’t - shit - don't stop—” Your prayers convulse, dying in your throat, sentence cut short as he circles his thumb over your clit, catching at your slippery bud. Ever the marksman, he’s debilitatingly attentive to you, the hide of his glove snagging against your cleft, and combined with the steady rock of his dick shredding you open, you’re all but defenseless to the dawning of your release, crawling closer and closer and—

“Din,” you pant, ”Din Din Din, I think I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna, oh Maker—”

The muscles in your stomach seize, a twisted expression cramping your brow. You scamper to his arms, reaching out for something - anything - a parcel of real estate to clutch onto while you unravel. You’re grappling with his pauldrons, the pulsepoint at your wrist humming over the symbol welded to his shoulder, and you mage into starlight. You’re fizzing. You’re blind. You’re atomic and phasing in and out of realities and you burn— a meteor hurtling through the upper atmosphere crashing crashing crashing and—

Language exhausted, all there is left for you to do is cry, the evidence of your orgasm ricocheting like a hail of gunfire against the Razor Crest walls.

“That’s a good girl, that’s a good girl for me—f-fuck." It’s like taking a jab to his solar plexus, how you cinch around him— the corset of your walls milking his cock until he’s shaking, stumbling. The drive of his pelvis has gone erratic, the throbbing bloom gnashing its teeth in his gut—that rabid thing desperate to be released, uncaged—teeters on the identical ledge you’d just leapt from.

“Tell me to stop - please - tell me to, tell me to stop—” You’re all eyes. Your whole face, swallowed by the sweet, glassy orbs notched below the quiver of your forehead, and you’re looking at him like he could hang the damn moon and it’s too much— it’s too much too much he can’t levee this raging need— and with a hurried gasp he pulls out of your heat to tug at his slicked cock— panting ragged as he gushes onto your stomach, your legs, your pretty pussy made pink and puffy with abuse.

His breathing is labored; you can see it in the mountainous rise and fall of his chest plate as his strokes slow, his other hand digging into your flesh, indenting you. He exhales, scraping clean the fissure between his lungs, and Din tips his head, angling it backwards— granting you a rare sliver of the stubbled swath along his neck. The sightly patch, treasured behind his silvered grotto, shouldn’t be the thing that plays upon your heartstrings like one would pluck a harp— not after he’s burrowed himself inside you, not after he’s carved you to his likeness— but it does. You’re butterflied and cherry blossomed and you grin— not so much on your lips but in your soul, and there is a purring warmth that’s radiating like candle flame from the anima alive beneath your breasts and—

And then, suddenly — like time, like memory— he is gone.

He leaves you. Mirrored, he does as he did that night—laying a squeeze into the meat of your hip, he transpires to atoms, dissipating round the unknown bend of a corner and you’re alone again—alone, with only the citric bile steeping in your insides to accompany you, threatening to rise up your windpipe.

No. No no nonono—

Din’s presence, a beacon in the moonless night, disappears— leaving you orphaned and moored and mortified. He’s done it again— he’s left you, he keeps leaving you— and it renders you sick; viscerally, you’re angered and ill and green-washed with naivety.

Fool you once, shame on them. Fool you twice, and what in Maker’s name did you expect? A declaration? An about-face? As if a Mandalorian could let the beskar from his blood. As if Din could reanimate the cadaver of his past—could slip into that old snakeskin he’d shed cycles before.

It paralyzes you. Immobile, you are chambered flat on your back in the resin of your embarrassment, bereft of your vision as you stare sightless into the steel. You’ve separated—your mind and your body disjointed like oil and water, and you don’t hear it. You don’t hear the tread of Din’s feet, you don’t register his aura, Illuminous in the archway; you don’t see the stray towel fisted in his grip, you don’t feel the clench of a frozen hand around your heart as he does his. For he sees you there—a tick in your jaw; eyes distanced, fogged—and he knows he’s done this to you. The scarring of how he derelicted you then tarnishing the new-leaf flesh of the present.

He steps towards you, closer now, and your alerted gaze pins to him. A surprised expression makes a home there, astoundment freckling your face— and although he hasn’t earned the right, it strikes him bullseyed between his plated ribs because it hurts— the obvious shock of him returning for you hurts. Din is not a good man— not all of him. Sometimes, you and all your heaven-lit gleam, you make him forget that.

But sometimes, you make him remember.

And Maker, if you don’t look good like this. Streaked with his seed, creamy white pearling the maps of your body, the shine of it catching in the cannistered shafts of filtered light.

There’s a word for this—for you, for how you look, splayed and painted with his cum—with him. It puffs up like petals would, there in the square of his center. He’s never said it. His mouth doesn’t know the feel of it, his lips don’t know its shape. It’s scribed in Mando’a, and as native as the language is to him—as fundamental as Basic, if not more so—the word itself is foreign. Gawky. The thought of it alone hobbles through his mind on foaled legs. Din keeps this word barred, its essence clinging to the iron partitions of his skull, its perfume clouding his senses, his better judgement, his confounded rationality dangling precarious by a string.

Beautiful. Mesh’la.

You shift under his watchful eye, knees steepling mousy, and gingerly, he prizes the two apart and you let him.

You let him you let him of course you let him.

Din runs a damp cloth up your seam, up those hypersensitive folds, towards the expanse of flesh leading to your belly, and you hiss—a startled chill icing through your body.

“It’s cold,” he informs you, well after the fact, and you chortle a note in response. He continues to lave you clean, the drag of the material smoothing over your stippled planes and it’s intimate—how he takes you under his care, how he unmakes his mess.

Your heart, silly flustered thing it is, it tells you the act feels worshipful—reverent, maybe—but your head convinces you to look away, to cower, to do anything but address the blaze left in the wake of the rag he’s swiping over you. It’s too much. You feel vase-like— fragile and dainty, for the bounty hunter to either fill with wildflowers or crush under the heel of his boot— and it’s too unbearable. Bringing a hand to your sweat-sheened face, you shadow your eyes, ostriching shyly— if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.

A clipped tone escapes his helmet and it’s a sound you can’t place— it’s short, a blip—and you presume he’ll remain mum until he speaks. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

You don’t have to hide from me. I don’t want you to hide from me.

You nearly whimper at that. There’s something endearing and bronzed about how he says it, something torn, too—and you peak through the curtain of your fingers to watch him perform his ministrations. Almost begrudginly, you remove your hand from it’s shelf, resting it on the swell of your breast while he passes the cloth along your inner thighs, erasing the sticky traces of himself. There’s a quiet pause, a moment of distilled nothing before—

“I didn’t think you were coming back,” you admit, small.

He soothes his thumb into the crook of your hip, voice blunt with guilt. “I know.”

Sighing, you nod a little thing, a half-gesture, practically creeping under the Mandalorian's radar undetectable. Thunder shouts, lightning cracks— the bombastic storm outside apathetic to the lull within. Din clears his throat, rasping. “Was that okay?”

You resist the temptation to snort. Din is such a juxtaposition—one you don’t imagine you’ll tire from any time soon. He’s dangerous and protective and clever and strong and kind, despite his best efforts to snuff his compassion to ash like the butt of a dead cigarette. Lifting your palm from its perch, you extend to him, measuredly sliding your fingers against the crate— stretching stretching until he meets you, dubious and toddling like a child’s first steps, orange-dipped digits touching nude flesh. Your everbright grin brightens all the more— bewitching, back-breaking—as you entwine your hands to mesh.

“More than okay,” you say coyly. “Was that-was that good for you?”

Din huffs out an airy chuckle rich with disbelief, like he can’t fathom you’re even asking him—like you’d even have to ask at all. “That was—that was good. Very good,” he confesses gruffly, never a man for poetry, breathlessness still apparent in the bleed of his vocoder. “Even better than I imagined.”

A feline grin unfurls your lips, boldly quirking the droll corners of your mouth. “You imagine this often, Mando?”

Smirking wry and devastating, Din ushers you up by your woven hands, your body pliable and easy to his will; uprighted, his hips slot between your pretty knees, and he expertly twists your arm behind your back, snaring it there. Spine swooped, breasts brushing against his beskar, your nipples pebble cold. “Don’t let it go to your head, dala,” he gravels, visor tilted down at your dwarfed form, tenting you.

“Well," you tease lightly, "I’ll try my best.��

And you look at each other with all the tender awkwardness of two people standing on the edge of a brave new unknown.

Nervous, girlish, you smile.

Fluttering, pussy-drunk, he smiles back.

///

Nested in the pronged branch of a tall tree spindling up from the graveled soil, Din— a man, a boy too— reclines supine against the bark. His feet dangle like they did then, back when he wasn’t so afraid, and the air is dusted with a rosy haze as dusk settles upon the tired day.

The sun sets. The world twinkles a midnight blue, winking starshine as she spins.

Somewhere, behind him, his mother calls him home for supper.

/

tags: @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled @bookishofalder @helmet-comes-off @grumpymuffinmama @niiight-dreamerrrr @spideysimpossiblegirl @janebby @greatcircle79 @gracie7209 @thatonedindjarinfan @altered-delta @email2ash @stevie75 @shegatsby @onebrownoneblue @uniquebiscuitmongerdonkey @severinsnape @kirsteng42 @justanothersadperson93 @mrsbentalmadge @radiowallet @librariantothejedi @whataperfectwasteoftime @babydarkstar @punkremus @mandobloggin @alma-rt1 @not-the-droids @pedrostories @kylieann0716 @jk7789

[tossawary]

wait can we hear more about da ge mbj au I'm very interested

MBJ getting abandoned as a child makes me enjoy imagining him being soft for babies, especially demon babies. Which made me want to see SQH put into a situation with a lost demon child and MBJ getting to see that. 

Which ended in 3,000 words of canon divergence fic.

-

The situation was bad. 

 Airplane’s fellow An Ding disciples were dead. 

 There was a young demon lord unconscious in front of him, probably dying, and Airplane couldn’t bring himself to bring down the rock in his hand. 

 His hand was shaking. He couldn’t make it stop. 

 This System really didn’t give a fuck about the author’s wishes, huh? Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky had been shoved into one of the worst character roles in Proud Immortal Demon Way and left to take the long way around to the plot. Now he was being told that his favorite character was expendable? Irrelevant? Talk about insult to injury! Nothing was sacred here, was it? 

 Airplane put down the rock. 

 Then he picked up the rock again. 

 He looked at it. 

 Then he hurled the rock away and put his head in his hands instead. 

 He came to a decision - a shitty decision for a shitty situation - and got to work saving his future murderer’s life. At least he would know some of what to expect if he kept the storyline mostly the same! Besides, his life wasn’t good enough to be that concerned about it! Maybe the System would put him into a decent role next time! 

 Maybe it was empathy at seeing someone being fucked over by the System! 

 Airplane did his best to slow down Mobei-Jun’s bleeding and loaded the man into the cart. He also did his best to ignore all the dead bodies around them. Gross. 

 That should have been that! He should have then been on his way to continue making a really bad decision in a really bad situation. But as Airplane moved to leave the scene of a massacre behind him, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He startled, snapping around, prepared to defend himself physically or verbally! 

 Instead, he saw a baby. 

 Ah, well, not a baby baby! But a child somewhere between the ages of three and four years old! A chubby one too! The chubby child was crouched halfway behind a tree, looking at Airplane with wide eyes, little hands clawing anxiously into the grass. It was impossible to miss their little pointed ears and the blue mark in the middle of their forehead. How could anyone miss that kind of family resemblance? 

 The demon child froze upon being noticed. 

 Airplane looked between the demon child and the young demon lord in the card, but the similarities only got stronger the longer he looked! 

 Holy shit! 

 HOLY FUCKING SHIT! 

 But he didn’t remember Mobei-Jun having a child! He remembered Mobei-Jun having siblings, sure, but he was pretty sure that... he’d alluded to Mobei-Jun’s uncle doing away with most of them. Did that mean that this child was supposed to… die? 

 This situation had gotten even worse. 

 Leaving a child here to die was… pretty bad. Airplane had done some not very good things to make it in this world and in his sect without losing any sleep over it at all, but the idea of leaving this child to die made Airplane want to be sick! At least, as soon as he realized that if Mobei-Jun had been protecting this demon child and woke up to find this demon child missing, then Airplane would be really, truly, totally fucked no matter how tightly he hugged the man’s thighs! 

 It looked like the demon child had to come too. 

 How the fuck did a person go about catching a demon child?! 

 “Is… this your gege?” Airplane tried carefully. “Is this your gege here?” 

 The demon child didn’t respond. 

 Airplane gestured at Mobei-Jun repeatedly, unsure how to get the message across. “Is this your gege?” he said, louder. “Baba? ...No? Not Baba? Da-Ge? Are you his didi?” 

 That got a blink. 

 “Didi?” Airplane repeated, desperately. “Come here, Didi.” 

 Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky hadn’t handled children since his last life. He’d been one of the younger siblings in Shang Qinghua’s family, so he hadn’t been involved in any of the child-rearing before leaving. But Airplane’s experience wasn’t very good! Some forced babysitting of his father’s do-over children and his mother’s stepchildren’s children didn’t make him an expert! And this was a demon baby! 

 “Didi, your gege needs you,” Airplane wheedled. “Come here! Come on!” 

 Slowly, the demon child began to crawl over towards the cart. 

 “Your gege is hurt and needs help,” Airplane said, in most most soothing and also urgent voice. It was a weird balance! “Come on! Come along! Didi, your gege needs help. He’s hurt. Come here, please, that’s it! That’s right! Good job! You’re doing such a good job coming up here for your gege! We need to get your gege somewhere safe!” 

 The demon child made it to the cart, trying to stay on the far side of it and away from Airplane. Airplane tried not to make himself look too threatening. He also tried not to contemplate his apparent natural talent for kidnapping children, which probably wasn’t something to make a person feel proud. 

 “Didi, can I pick you up? Didi, can I lift you up next to your gege?” 

 Reluctantly, the demon child lifted his chubby arms and let Airplane slowly approach him. Airplane carefully put his hands under their armpits and then hefted them into the cart beside Mobei-Jun. The demon child nearly kicked him in the gut, struggling to get to the unconscious and injured ice demon! 

 “Ah, be careful of the injury-!” Airplane said, trying to move the child back. “OW!” 

 The demon child bit him. 

 Airplane yanked his poor hand back. “You little fucker! Ah, fine! Curl up in your gege’s blood and see if I care,” he muttered. “Let’s just get out of here already.” 

 The demon child curled up against Mobei-Jun’s side and Shang Qinghua got back into the driver’s seat of the cart. Trying to channel his spiritual energy for healing purposes while focusing on driving was hard. Even if he could have managed it properly, he still would have been stuck with an aching hand as it healed, which didn’t make him feel very charitable towards the demons in the back seat. 

 Ungrateful! The both of them! 

 When they finally got to a decent hiding place, unloading Mobei-Jun was nothing less than a pain in the ass. Airplane was forced to negotiate with a two-foot tyrant with needle-sharp teeth who didn’t want to move and didn’t want Airplane to touch his gege. Airplane was forced to wheedle like never before. 

 “Your gege is hurt, but I can help him,” Airplane insisted soothingly. “See that place? It’s safe in there! Don’t you want your gege to be somewhere nice and safe, where no one can see him and I can heal him? Look at that hiding spot! It’s a good hiding spot. We all need to go into the hiding spot now. We’re all going into the hiding spot. Come on, Didi, help me get your gege into the nice, safe hiding spot. Come on now. Be good.” 

 The demon child bared his teeth as Airplane helped him down from the cart, but thankfully didn’t bite again. The demon child then hugged Airplane’s shins very unhelpfully as Airplane hefted Mobei-Jun into his arms. 

 Airplane was forced to shuffle. 

 He never thought he’d be so grateful for all the carrying that An Ding Peak forced its disciples to do! Sometimes, carrying things around was all Airplane did all day long and now it was paying off! Airplane wasn’t as strong as some of his peers, sure, but he still managed to carry a giant ice demon into the “hiding spot” with a little ice demon attached to his leg. He counted himself grateful there was only one Mobei-Jun to deliver inside, because he couldn’t have handled more. 

 Once inside, the demon child curled up against Mobei-Jun’s side again. Airplane took the opportunity to look after the cart’s beast of burden and unload the supplies from the cart, searching desperately for the medical supplies their mission had been allotted. When he finally found the medicine, returning triumphantly, the demon child was ungratefully unenthusiastic about Airplane’s careful approach. 

 “Ah, Didi, don’t growl at me! See, look! Look! It’s medicine! Medicine for your gege to stop the bleeding and... make sure his organs go back on the inside. Eugh. Ah, anyway, I’m helping. It’s okay because I’m helping. See, look, I’m helping. It’s okay.” 

 Airplane managed to get pretty far before the demon child couldn’t take it anymore and tried to bite him again. Airplane shrieked, but managed to wrestle the demon child off him, and ended up grabbing some of the food supplies as a desperate distraction. 

 “Bite this! Bite this! Didi, look, it’s food! Food for Didi!” 

 The demon child growled, but putting the food directly in front of his face caught his attention. The demon child’s eyes narrowed in on the food in a super predatory way that was unseen in human babies. Airplane gladly made the sacrifice. He threw the food to the demon child, who scrambled to catch it, gave it a sniff, and then started to hesitantly nibble on it before taking bigger bites. 

 “See? Don’t bite your Shang-Gege and he’ll give you food instead,” Airplane muttered, quickly turning his attention to the bigger demon. “You stay there and chew that and let me help your gege. I’m helping. I’m helping. I’m helping. Shang-Gege is helping Didi’s gege. Everything is good. Everything is okay. There’s no need for biting.” 

 Airplane didn’t really know how much the demon child understood of what he was saying. The demon child looked more than old enough to understand basic speech. He at least understood “stay”, Airplane decided, by sitting off to the side and anxiously chewing through dried food supplies while Airplane worked rearranging Mobei-Jun’s guts and then bandaging up the blood mess. 

 Maybe it helped to see that Airplane had no intention of eating the unconscious and vulnerable Mobei-Jun or something. He was pretty sure that was a demon thing. 

 He couldn’t bring himself to think about what he was doing! 

 If he thought about his actions here, he was going to throw up or something! 

 So long as he kept his hands moving here, he didn’t have to think about anything. He was just an An Ding Peak disciples hard at work betraying the sect. Yeah. 

 Eventually, Mobei-Jun was in as good a shape as Airplane could get him. The demon child - Didi, Airplane decided to call him - was curled up into a ball beside where Mobei-Jun was lying. Didi looked like he was forcing himself to stay alert. 

 “It’s all okay now,” Airplane said. “See? I helped. Shang-Gege helped your gege. Your Gege needs to sleep to get better and now you can sleep beside him.” 

 Airplane washed himself as best he could and tried to wash Didi a little, but the demon child was resistant and snapped at him. Airplane, expecting this now, successfully dodged the snap and wiped at Didi’s face. Trying to be nice was too much work! Airplane’s clean-up job ended up being pretty shitty. There was no doing anything about Mobei-Jun’s blood staining Didi’s clothes around the knee and elbow. 

 “Ah, fine, curl up in blood again, you little brat,” Airplane sighed. 

 Didi curled up against Mobei-Jun’s side again and, apparently, immediately fell asleep. 

 Airplane secured their hiding place as best he could, took stock of their pitiful amount of resources, and tried not to panic about what the fuck he was was going to do now. He was exhausted. Saving two ungrateful demons was hard work. He had no idea what was going to happen next. He was pretty sure he had just made the worst mistake of his life, but it was a little late to change things now. 

 Airplane found a good patch of floor to watch over the demons and let himself collapse. He was too tired to think anymore. There were too many things to think about. 

 He hoped that Mobei-Jun didn’t die. Demons were hardy and demon lords were even hardier, but the real world that had been made out of his shitty web-novel was really unpredictable sometimes. For all Airplane knew, Mobei-Jun was going to develop an infection and a fever. Maybe Mobei-Jun would die anyway and Airplane was going to be stuck with a bitey demon brat who hated him. 

 Airplane yawned. Keeping his eyes open was becoming really hard. Fuck. 

 Watching Didi’s back go up and down with his unconscious breaths was pretty mesmerizing. It was really tempting to sneak over there and pinch one of those chubby, chubby cheeks. Or those cute demon ears. But the demon child looked almost as tired as Airplane felt and probably bit in his sleep. 

 Airplane really didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he’d just taken off with Mobei-Jun, not knowing the demon child had been hiding nearby. That might have been the worst possible situation. Didi was dirty and exhausted now, sure, but he looked like one of those babies who should have been spoiled and happy all the time, and not mercilessly abandoned to the human world.  

-

 Airplane woke up with a hand around his throat, squeezing. 

 There was a dark shadow above him and an even darker feeling in the air. The hand at his throat felt freezing cold. The air was burning with hateful demonic energy that felt like acid on his skin. Airplane struggled, but it was all immoveable. 

 “Where is he?” the shadow snarled. 

 Airplane choked. 

 His shadowy attacker belatedly seemed to realize that Airplane couldn’t talk when he was being choked to death! The squeezing let up enough for Airplane to breathe again. His lungs felt like they were burning hot and cold! His throat felt crushed and ruined. 

 “What did you do with him?” the attacker demanded. 

 “...W-wh…?” 

 “The child! Where is the child?!” 

 Airplane realized here that he was looking into the face of his future murderer. It was hard to make out in the darkness when he was being choked! 

 Mobei-Jun looked wild. His eyes looked like lightning. 

 “The ch-child… ch- chi- is-” 

 Mobei-Jun snarled again with impatience. 

 Even though it definitely wasn’t Airplane’s fault he couldn’t talk coherently! 

 “H-here,” Airplane choked out. 

 Mobei-Jun’s grip tightened, but then the man froze. His head snapped to the side. 

 Airplane followed the demon lord’s gaze. 

 Through the darkness, if Airplane squinted, he could see a small figure crouched by the supplies. Didi was frozen, watching them, chubby cheeks stuffed with stolen food. 

 Oh, there weren’t words for what Airplane wanted to say to the brat! Sneaking around like this in the middle of the night! Nearly getting Airplane strangled for no reason! 

 Mobei-Jun released Airplane immediately and flew across the room to the demon child, who threw up his arms immediately. Mobei-Jun took his younger brother into his arms and then collapsed heavily to the floor. By the sound of it, he crushed some of their precious food supplies as he fell! But the man was too busy wrapping his arms around the demon child to care about things like that, letting Didi sob into his chest, glaring at Airplane over the demon child’s head. 

 Airplane kept his distance! He knew better than to get anywhere near that! 

 The silence was very heavy. 

 He was certain that Mobei-Jun had reopened his wounds, if they had managed to close at all! As time trickled by them, he could see red seeping down the man’s side. 

 “...There are more bandages,” Airplane said finally, hoarsely. 

 Mobei-Jun’s scowl deepened, his lip curling. 

 “Ah… if- if you want them.” 

 What an asshole! 

 Airplane stayed put and didn’t make any sudden moves. 

 His throat felt like shit, so he tried to heal it with his spiritual energy. It was hard to focus with the demon lord glaring at him like that, on the other side of the room, but he didn’t really have anything better to do. There were only so many names he could silently call this ungrateful young demon who’d attacked the bro who’d saved his life! 

 At least Mobei-Jun hadn’t bitten him too. 

 Time trickled by and by. Eventually, Mobei-Jun’s eyelids began to droop close. The man’s injury appeared to be pulling him back under, whether he liked it or not. 

 After Mobei-Jun’s eyes had closed without opening for a long time, Airplane finally risked moving again. Mobei-Jun didn’t wake up, but Didi’s eyes fixed on Airplane, which made Airplane fear being bitten as he carefully came closer. 

 “Ahhh, see? Your gege is fine. I’m just… just going to put him back to bed, alright? You- don’t get up… just stay there and don’t bite me. We’re putting gege back to bed.” 

 Airplane dragged Mobei-Jun back to where the man had been before, with Didi staying put on his elder brother’s chest. Airplane was sure that this couldn’t be good for the demon lord’s wounds! But clearly Mobei-Jun didn’t give a shit about his own health! 

 “Didi, can you get off gege’s chest? Keep hugging him, just slide off, please? Gege is hurt, remember? Gege is hurt and we need to help him. See, he’s bleeding. Please let your Shang-Gege help again and don’t bite me. Everyone is fine. Everyone is happy. Everyone is getting along just fine and helping and healing. There’s no need to bite your Shang-Gege who is only helping, okay?” 

 Didi was more cooperative this time, sliding off Mobei-Jun chest to hug his less-injured side, while Airplane poked at the demon lord’s bleeding. The injuries looked… a lot better than Airplane would have expected them to. This healing rate was nothing short of astounding. Was this the power of an OP demon lord? How unfair! 

 Airplane did his best fixing the man up again. 

 He should have just let the man rot! 

 Mobei-Jun had just tried to kill him again! He would totally deserve it! 

 But there was a demon child carefully watching and Airplane didn’t want to end up with custody if his future murderer died here after all. What would he do with a demon child? Take them back to the sect?! His master would love that, he’s sure! 

 “Ah, looks like he’s getting lots better,” Airplane told Didi hoarsely, rubbing at his poor throat. “You’re doing a good job looking after him. Good job helping your gege. Keep helping his sleep, okay? Stay right there and don’t go sneaking off again, okay? Please don’t go sneaking off again, your Shang-Gege won’t be able to take it.” 

 Didi just blinked at him. 

 “Good job,” Airplane said. “Good job. Shang-Gege is… going to make sure that everything is okay outside. You stay here and protect your gege. Good job.” 

 That said, Airplane crept backwards, got up, and went outside. 

 Once outside, he promptly fell to his knees and curled in on himself. 

 “Holy fucking shit,” he said. 

[imkylotrash]

The Noble Kind

Pairing: Sir Gwaine x reader 

Request: She's the queen, married to uther but is just a year or 2 older than Arthur. She has magic. They had an arranged marriage cause her kingdom which is extremely powerful didn't want to go to war with uther as they were taking in refugees to protect and didn't want to inforce the idea that magic is evil. She has an affair with gawain and they run away when she's pregnant. Anonymous

Tagging: @bitchwhytho​ @music-of-melody​ @shadowhuntyi​ 

“It’s for the greater good,” you mother tells you right before you marry the King of Camelot in an attempt to prevent a war. Uther is a great king for the most part but he is frightened by what he doesn’t understand. Magic is one of the things he knows nothing of - leaving it up to your kingdom to take in the refugees running for their lives. 

“To a strong alliance,” he toasts at the wedding party and you keep a smile plastered on your face through the entire evening even though you hate every second. You’ve always said you’d marry for love but there’s no lost love between you and Uther. He agreed for the alliance and nothing more. You agreed because it was the right thing to do for your people. None of you could afford to go to war with each other. 

“A strong alliance,” you echo lifting the glass of wine placed in front of you. In the crowd, you spot Gwaine looking at you with sorrow in his eyes. He didn’t want to believe it until he saw it with his own eyes. But then something changes, you see the flip switch as he raises his glass to you before downing the whole thing. You should’ve known he wouldn’t take this well. 

“Have I lost your interest already?” Uther asks with a sparkle in his eyes of something you can’t quite figure out. 

“Of course not, dear. I was simply amused by the people dancing.” You’re quick to recover having been taught etiquette and manners your entire life. You know the game well enough and you’ve only gotten better after your mother abdicated and handed the crown over to you. The loss of her king, your father, had been too much. You stepped in knowing you’d had to give up what little life you had acquired. Gwaine was the only thing you refused to let go of. 

“You should join them. Show them they can trust their new queen.” You wonder where Arthur but that question doesn’t go unanswered very long. He comes in by a back entrance quietly sitting down next to Uther.

“As you wish, my king.” You join the common people dancing and they’re quick to welcome you and show you the steps. It’s the most fun you’ve had all night. You don’t see Gwaine in the crowd though which worries you. It won’t do anyone any good if he gets drunk enough to make a scene. 

“He’s in your chamber,” Merlin whispers using his magic to carry the sound to you and only you. He must’ve figured out who you were looking for. 

“Thank you,” you whisper back. Merlin is the only one who knows about you and Gwaine but he’s promised to keep quiet. He doesn’t want to cause problems for neither of you. It’s another hour before you feel it’s appropriate to retreat for the night. Uther doesn’t object when you inform him that you’ll be spending the night in your private chambers and you don’t feel guilty for doing so. The marriage is strategic and you both know it. Besides, there’s something about only being one summer older than Uther’s own son. 

You finally reach your chambers having sent your servants to bed with the promise that you’ll be able to take care of yourself. It’s an excuse to keep them from seeing Gwaine. He’s drunk when you enter, he’s very drunk. 

“Do you ever stay away from trouble?” you ask noticing the split lip and the bruise on his cheekbone. He’s been fighting again. 

“You know, I had the strangest dream,” he starts but you’re too tired to make sense of his metaphors. You want him cleaned up and ready to sleep. 

“Let me,” you whisper carefully wetting a cloth and rinsing the worst of the blood from the cut. 

“You could always do the witchy woo,” he says wiggling his eyebrows and puckering his lips. 

“It’d do you some good to heal naturally. Perhaps you wouldn’t worry me so much,” you reply but the second he mentions the pain you’ve lost all resolve to let him heal on his own. You can’t let him be in pain when you can take it away. 

“Fine,” you whisper placing your hand right about the cut and closing your eyes. In mere seconds, the wound has closed as if he’s been waiting for you here the whole time and not been out looking for trouble. 

“Thank you,” he says this time a little more serious. You feel as though you can finally exhale as you crawl into bed with him. These are your moments of peace, the moments where you can avoid the pressure of your title and the expectations that come with the crown. 

“You know, you did just get married. Normally, there’s something you’d consummate the marriage as well.” He’s drunk and out of his mind, but he’s your crazy drunk and looking into his eyes you feel nothing but love. 

“Sober up and I’ll think about it.” You don’t consummate anything that night but you do the following nights. You get careless and before you know it, you’re late. Gaius confirms your suspicions and congratulates you thinking it belongs to Uther. But Merlin knows the truth though which means he’ll be the only person who can help you. 

“We must leave tonight,” you confide in him. If Uther finds out that you’ve disrespected him in these manners, he’ll have you hung and declare war on your kingdom. If you flee, you’ll be able to have the baby and come up with some sort of plan for your return. It’s the safest option.

“Meet me down here tonight. I’ll get you out of Camelot but then you’re on your own,” Merlin murmurs already concocting a plan for how to distract Gaius as he helps you escape. There’s no time for excitement when you tell Gwaine what has happened but you can tell he’s over the moon. 

“And it’s mine?” he whispers eyes full of affection. He never thought he’d want to become a father but learning the news of your pregnancy has proven him wrong. 

“Of course it’s yours,” you say with as much dignity as you can muster. How could he ever think it wasn’t his? You stop dead in your tracks when Arthur appears around the corner. 

“Sir Gwaine. My Lady.” He kisses your hand from obligation rather than willingness. 

“Could I have a moment with her Highness?” Gwaine knows he can’t say no but the hesitation is enough to raise suspicion. He continues down the hallway as you remain with Arthur. 

“He’s good with a sword but that brainless head of his is going to get him killed one day.” You chuckle having said the exact same thing to Gwaine many times. 

“Perhaps his sword skills will be the thing to save him from the troubles his brainless head creates?” you suggest hoping the talk of Gwaine will distract you from the real question; why are you down here? But it doesn’t and you mention the only thing that will make him run the other way. 

“I have terrible cramps. Gaius promised he had a potion that could help.” The mentions of menstrual cramps is enough to send him running and you hurry on laughing at how easy men can be distracted. Sound travels through these tunnels and you’re close enough to hear both Gwaine and Merlin. 

“I used to think you hated nobles,” Merlin laughs enjoying the company of his best friend one last time. 

“Yeah, well... maybe that one’s worth dying for, eh?” You don’t mention their conversation as you enter but your heart is beating a little faster after hearing his declaration. That night you and Gwaine escape Camelot with help from Merlin. You seek refuge in your own kingdom using magic to distort your features and remain hidden. By the time, Uther realises what has happened, you’ve taken in too many sorcerers for him to launch an attack that will ultimately lead to a war he will lose. Not too long after the birth of your child, you return to the throne with Gwaine by your side and a little heir running around the throne room. 

“Is it wrong for me to miss being on the run?” Gwaine asks you as you walk in the garden surrounding the castle. 

“I miss it too sometimes. But I couldn’t abandon my people.” 

“You just might be the first noble to care for their people,” he smiles. He takes your hand in his and the topic is never brought up again. Gwaine settles into his role with grace leaving behind the tavern fighting instead focusing on little Merlin and you. 

“I’m pretty proud of our little family.” 

“Me too.” 

[along-came-atsushi]

Akutagawa – Dazai – Atsushi: An analysis about their relationship

And why Dazai treats them so differently.

.

The symbolism of Atsushi and Akutagawa:

From their outward appearance and their design alone, Atsushi and Akutagawa are meant as opposites, but they’re also a duality:

Both wear black and white clothes, but whereas Atsushi is mostly white with a streak of black, Akutagawa wears mostly black with a streak of white. It’s even represented in their hair colours.

Besides this, there are many other things that mark their oppositeness and their duality to each other:

Atsushi is a member of the ADA, while Akutagawa is a member of the PM. Atsushi’s ability colour is blue, Akutagawa’s ability colour is red. Being a member of the ADA makes Atsushi someone who works for the “light and day”, Akutagawa is someone who works for the “darkness and night.” Atsushi loves cats, Akutagawa hates dogs. Atsushi’s ability takes the form of a tiger, Akutagawa’s ability represents a dragon, both creatures are important elements in Asian mythology. Ultimately, Atsushi symbolizes life or is associated with life, while Akutagawa symbolizes death or is associated with death.

Considering this, the title Shin Soukoku (Double Black) isn’t even a fitting name for them, since they both aren’t simply a double, as both Mori and Fukuzawa or Dazai and Chuuya were.

[Beware: Spoilers starting from chapter 83]

.

Dazai’s mindset and his relationship with Akutagawa:

1.) One of the reasons why Dazai’s treatment towards Akutagawa as a mentor was so cruel and brutal, firstly lies in his overall negative mental state during his PM time. He was visibly unhappy, constantly surrounded by death and violence, and more than now struggled with his suicidal thoughts.

Is it an explanation for his treatment of Akutagawa? −Yes, it is.

Is it an excuse for his treatment of Akutagawa? −No, it isn’t.

2.) Another reason is that this is just how things are done in the Mafia. There is no sense in handling someone with kid gloves in the PM, a place where you get killed for disobeying orders, where you shouldn’t see your peers as friends or get to intimate with anyone:

“It’s an unwritten rule in the Mafia to not stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. One must never open the door to another’s heart and try to judge them for the darkness tucked within.” – Odasaku

If it wouldn’t have been Dazai who taught Akutagawa in such a cruel way, with high probability, it would’ve been someone else. Or as Dazai explained, a sign of weakness will get you killed in the PM:

And Dazai had the absolute chance to kill Akutagawa after he disobeyed orders and killed a person captured for interrogation. His ability can nullify all other abilities by mere touch. He could’ve simply touched Akutagawa, so that he wouldn’t have been able to use his ability to protect himself, and then shot him on the spot. But he didn’t do that, because:

“Akutagawa – he’s like a sword without a sheath.” Dazai grinned from ear to ear. “He’ll surely become the Mafia’s strongest skill user in the not-so-distant future. But for now he needs someone who can teach him how to put that sword away.”  [...]

“When I first saw him over in the slums, I was horrified. His talents are extraordinary, and his skill is extremely destructive. Plus, he’s stubborn. If I’d left him to his own devices, he would’ve ended up a slave to his own powers until he destroyed himself.” – Dazai to Odasaku

He already valued Akutagawa’s skill and saw the huge potential in him:

I was surprised. I had never heard Dazai openly speak so highly of one of his men like that before. [...]

Dazai didn’t freely make people work under him, period; much less a boy on the verge of starvation in the slums. But Dazai seemed to have his own reasons for doing it. – Odasaku about Dazai

.

Something which is also later confirmed by Atsushi:

“I believe Dazai-san has acknowledged you long ago.”

Why is it then that Dazai still treats Akutagawa so badly and doesn’t tell his approval right to his face? Something that becomes Akutagawa’s main purpose for a long time, even after Dazai left PM.

.

Dazai’s relationship with Odasaku and Ango:

Dazai’s behaviour and actions when he’s with Ango and Odasaku clearly shows that he can be different and doesn’t treat everyone with cruelty and coldness, if he wants to.

But what’s the difference between the two people he considers his friends and the people who are his subordinates?

-> Ango and Odasaku value and respect life.

.

The reason Dazai becomes and is attached to Odasaku and Ango is their viewpoint about death and life:

“I would become a novelist and write a story about why the man stopped killing. But to become a novelist, I needed to sincerely know what it meant to live. – Odasaku

.

“You’re quite the interesting fellow, Ango. Doing that isn’t going to make the boss happy. […]” “You’re making records of the lives of the deceased. Am I right?” […] “The line between human losses and those of money and equipment begin to blur. There is no individual, no soul, and no dignity to death. But you’re fighting back against that.” – Dazai to Ango

This is the reason why he values them so much that he considers them his friends. He’s not friends with them because he gains something from it, or because they have interesting abilities, or because they are on the same intellectual level as him (which they aren’t). Something that gets emphasized by Odasaku’s rank. He descended from an assassin (a high reputation in the PM) to a maid-of-all-work and an errand boy (a low reputation in the PM).

Dazai is attracted to and fascinated by people who value life – something you don’t find in the PM, and something he himself struggles to understand. Probably because there never was a person who taught him this. Like a curious child, he turns to people who he knows have a better understanding in this than him.

He even becomes very irritated when one of his subordinates questions his friendship with Odasaku:

“Dazai, sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but… I saw him [Odasaku] sweeping behind the office the other day. A man of his status isn’t qualified to be your friend, let alone with an enemy like this.” Dazai stared, flabbergasted, at his underling.

“Are you joking? Odasaku’s not qualified?” Dazai asked, thoroughly surprised. […] “You fools!” Dazai’s lips curled into a sneer in genuine disgust.

This respect doesn’t solely concern Odasaku and Ango. Hirotsu is also one of the very few people he respects for this reason. Even though Hirotsu may not value life in the same terms as Odasaku and Ango do, but he also doesn’t lightly throw away his subordinates lives either:

“…Ha-ha! Just kidding!” Dazai abruptly added in a cheery tone. Hirotsu stared back at him, confused. “The reason you have so many people following you is that you don’t turn your back on them. I’ll leave things in your hands. I won’t tell the boss.”

It’s only when Odasaku dies in Dazai’s arms and tells him to go protect the living, that he starts to change his behaviour and viewpoint.

.

Dazai and his many failed suicide attempts:

Why is it that Dazai − a genius, a manipulator, someone who exactly knows how the human psyche works, someone who’s predictions always come true and who has plans within plans – then always fails when he tries to kill himself?

Dazai has read the book “The Complete Suicide” so often that he can cite it in his sleep. He has engaged in torture and killed many people. He knew exactly how to involve Ango and himself in a car crash without them dying.

If he really wanted to, he could’ve already killed himself many times ago. He claims that “he doesn’t like pain and suffering”, which according to him is the reason why his suicide attempts fail. But there are ways how he could kill himself without just that. It’s just that he doesn’t WANT to die.

„I thought if all went well, I could die a heroic death on the battlefield. But the dozen or so armed guys who showed up were a real scrappy bunch. […] Thus, I unfortunately avoided death once again.”

He always tells that something inconvenient happened that kept him from dying. But sometimes people around him notice that there’s something wrong in his attempts:

“I was walking and reading a book called ‘How To Not Get Hurt Out Of The Blue’ and fell into a drainage ditch.” A surprisingly absurd reason. – Odasaku and Dazai

.

“I glance at his desk and see the blasphemous book he bought the other day, ‘The Complete Suicide’, opened to a page titled ‘Death by Poisoning Mushrooms.’ Next to the book lies a plate with a half-eaten mushroom on it. However, upon further inspection, it appears to be a slightly different color from the one in the book. – Kunikida about Dazai

.

“I thought you [Gide] were similar to Dazai at first, rushing into battle and wishing for death without even considering the value of your own life. But he’s different. […] And he’s just a child−a sobbing child abandoned in the darkness of a world far emptier than the one we’re seeing.” – Odasaku to Gide about Dazai.

Dazai is a person who actively seeks life and wants to be freed from his own philosophy. He’s struggling between seeking death, which he thinks is the only way to free him from his loneliness and suffering, and seeking life for the simple reason that he doesn’t want to die.

.

Dazai’s relationship with Atsushi:

Atsushi saved Dazai from drowning despite the fact that he himself was on the brink of starvation. The first thing Dazai got attached to Atsushi is his view on life. Despite the abuse he suffered, Atsushi seeks life and wants to live, makes it even his reason to fight and his life motto.

“The lives of those who can’t save anyone have no value”. In that moment an idea suddenly popped into my mind. […] If by any chance I can let the passengers return home save and sound does that prove that it’s okay for me to live?”

Throughout the story, Atsushi transfers his viewpoint and determination to characters who have a connection to death, darkness and/or suffering (e.g. Kyouka, Lucy).

The reason Atsushi values life, being the symbolical personification of it, is the reason why Dazai is able to treat him much better than Akutagawa.

.

Forming Shin Soukoku:

Dazai says that Akutagawa is a highly skilled student, but he needs someone to sharpen him. He instantly decides and plans to team him up with Atsushi, the moment he meets him. He knows that Atsushi, due to his view on life, is the only one who can teach Akutagawa to value life himself and to change as a person. In other words “the one who can teach him how to put that sword away”.

This is something Dazai in the past couldn’t and still can’t teach Akutagawa (or anyone at all for that matter). Because he himself needs and wants to be taught that, so he seeks people who are able to give him a different understanding in this (see Ango and Odasaku). Vice versa Akutagawa isn’t able to teach Dazai how to value life, because he himself represents death and has a strong connection to it. It’s one of the very first things he says when he gets introduced in the story:

“Fear death. Fear slaughter. Those who desire death have an equal desire to die.”

Even though Atsushi’s words may seem very harsh, but it IS one of the reasons why Dazai so abruptly abandoned Akutagawa. Is it an explanation? −Yes, it is. Is it an excuse? −No, it isn’t.

Another reason is that Dazai tries to flee from his responsibilities, his past and the terrible things he has done (including Akutagawa’s abuse), because he is not able to face them. Not now that is. He is still in need of guidance and of change, in order to be able to do this.

[Side note: Dazai and guilt is something that can be analysed in its very own meta. I’m not expanding on it further here].

Akutagawa’s connection to death gets emphasized by him even disobeying orders to not kill, for the sole reason that in his mind, killing is much simpler and more effective. He lashes out and tries to kill the people who are respected by Dazai and/or considered friends, even though he should know that an action like this will definitely not get him the approval he so wants.

He was willing to kill Atsushi, even though his mission was to capture him alive, ignoring the possible consequences this would have had for him.

But throughout the story Akutagawa changes his viewpoint. He thinks that the reason why Dazai acknowledges Atsushi and puts him above him, is because he is a better (better in the sense of physical and ability strength) subordinate than him. But he realizes that this can’t be the case and questions it more than once:

His former pure jealousy and grudge towards Atsushi (something which he also felt for Odasaku) slowly turns into questioning, trying to understand what differs them from each other. Dazai knows very well that Akutagawa is still obsessed with him and his approval. Therefore if necessary, he uses this to manipulate him, if it’s to either protect/help Atsushi or to get them both to work together:

Akutagawa starts to constantly challenge Atsushi, questioning him, and demanding him for an answer. It’s only when Akutagawa saves Yokohoma from the Moby Dick crash, that Dazai openly tells him “you did well”.

The reason why Dazai does this so hesitantly, shows that he is still in his own metamorphosis. He’s slowly changing as is Akutagawa. He is still afraid to face his responsibilities, but doesn’t treat his former subordinate cruel anymore.

This change in Akutagawa goes so far that Atsushi is able to ask him to not to kill anyone until they meet again. When told about, Dazai is visibly happy, as it is something that he as a mentor wasn’t able to do. He is reminded of Odasaku, comparing Akutagawa now to him:

Due to this, Dazai now has this much faith in Akutagawa that he puts the task to keep an eye on Atsushi and to protect him in his hands:

Mind the difference of his expressions when he talks with Akutagawa then and now:

Dazai doesn’t team Atsushi and Akutagawa up only for strength and fighting reasons. Or because their abilities are compatible in battle. But because Dazai knows that Akutagawa won’t unnecessarily kill anymore, because he is seeking answers through Atsushi and is changing through their interactions:

He keeps his promise, much to Atsushi’s surprise, but it’s out of the question that he is happy about this:

Akutagawa promising not to kill anyone, keeping his promise in the end and even going so far as to protect someone, in other words valuing life, is something which Dazai could’ve never taught him. And again, he still can’t. Dazai is not solely the teacher, but the student himself. And although Atsushi may be a teacher for both of them in his philosophy, he is a student of Akutagawa and Dazai in other things.

Because what Atsushi lacks is self-confidence and his own worth, faith in his own abilities and the mental strength to overcome his past abuse and trauma. Those are things he learns through Dazai and especially, through Akutagawa.

[dreaminpetals]

Yoooo can I get some norton sfw and nsfw headcanons 😳 your writing is top tier btw !!!!!

⛏ norton hcs ー sfw & nsfw . . .

art credit

SFW ;;

♡ norton deals with frequent mood swings, hallucinations, and intense survivor's guilt, so he had cold feet about relationships for a long time. he views himself as a burden and stain on society, he doesn't want to put anyone through the misery of dating him.

♡ if he had a partner all he'd do was hurt them, norton thought. he'd try to rescue them during a game but accidentally maim them, or lash out at them during a fit of uncontrollable rage and scar them forever.

♡ when he began to develop a crush on you, he was even more gloomy than usual. he cancelled plans with you, walked away the moment you sat down beside him, and refused to heal you even if you were standing in front of him and the hunter was far away.

♡ it was your compassion that made him fall. hard. although you didn't speak much, you always went out of your way to help norton and offered an ear if he needed to vent rather than being scared and fleeing.

♡ he thought that if he made you hate him then his feelings would go away, but it only made you more determined to support the crumbling man who had your heart.

♡ every time he thought about holding you, he would be plagued with visions of him hurting you right after. sometimes he would burst into tears when he met your gaze because he couldn't stop thinking about you dying like his coworkers.

♡ it took weeks of nonstop affection to convince him that you'd be safe with him and that you'd love him no matter what.

♡ he wanted to be as close to you as possible to keep you out of harm's reach, but he also didn't want to be near you in case he hurt you.

♡ your love was like magnets. he pushed you away, pulled you closer, pushed you away, pulled you closer.

♡ the best s/o he could ask for would he a levelheaded and understanding one, if you were calm and nurturing (but not overbearing) then he could have someone to pull him out of his fits of catatonia AND calm him down when he was blazing with fury.

♡ norton's rage would never be directed at you, it was always himself or anyone who posed a threat to you.

♡ he'd give hunters tons of shit for even daring to lay a finger on you. he didn't care if hastur was a god and norton was a man, he was going to calamari that bastard for letting you bleed out.

♡ huge fear of abandonment. he needs constant reassurance that you aren't complaining about him behind his back or planning to pack your bags and leave.

♡ when norton is in a good mood, he can't keep his hands to himself and acts so smug.

♡ you want to keep him in his sleazy money hungry moods for as long as you can, you insist on gifting him with stunning gems or interestingly shaped rocks just to see his face light up.

♡ he gets frustrated and genuinely upset when you tease him or don't give him what he wants but when it comes to teasing you? norton is the most mischievous man you've had the experience of meeting.

♡ he uses the height difference between you to his advantage, if you have a hat he can and will hold it above your head and chuckle as you try to reach for it.

♡ give him sweet food!!! he may not look like it, but pastries and candy remind norton of his childhood and have a calming effect on him. for every donut you donate to him, he'll kiss you in any spot of your choice.

♡ if he has a game on golden cave you'll volunteer to play it for him, he can't handle the claustrophobia and flashbacks he gets when he has games there. he appreciates it so much.

♡ favourite cuddling position is laying on his back with you resting on his stomach or under his arm with your hair splayed on his chest.

♡ burns everything he touches but will still cook and bake for you!!! maybe you should give him lessons?

♡ never knows how to ask to vent. he lets you know by talking to himself, saying "i killed them", that's when you drop what you're doing and console him.

♡ he wishes that he embraced love earlier, nightmares and hallucinations are easier to handle when he has someone clenching his hand and running their palm along his hair to calm him down and remind him it's not real. the voices that asked norton "why did you kill me?" are replaced by his lover cooing "norton baby, it's not real, you're safe in your bed, i love you so much dear" in his ear. he feels like he can handle anything with you by his side.

NSFW ;;

♡ like his moods, norton's behaviour in bed changes like the weather.

♡ norton is a fan of slow, intimate sex where nothing exists except you two. when you can mumble that you're hopelessly in love with him as you give light strokes to his cock, each lick worth a thousand words.

♡ other times, norton is brutally rough and you have to use a safeword with him.

♡ on bad days he'll enjoy humiliation or degradation, by having you beg for him or be called filthy names it reassures him that you aren't plotting to abandon him if you're doing all this embarrassing stuff.

♡ when he tops, he prefers to fuck you from behind and grip your hips until his nails like talons leave a mark, drawing blood. he can't control himself when he sees you submitting yourself to him and spanks you.

♡ holds you no matter what, when he wraps his arms around your belly as his hips snap into yours from behind he feels like he's protecting you.

♡ likely has a breeding kink as well, he wants to cum inside of you as deep as he possibly can and never pull out.

♡ he has such a thing for your hands ー their softness, their size, how your nails feel when they scratch his back, how you play with his hair... he wants those same hands to turn his cock into a red, leaking mess.

♡ candles. norton would use candles to set the mood and lighten the room so he could look at you better, but he would also enjoy watching (safe) wax trickle onto your skin.

♡ especially if you already have cum on you, he'd rub it in with his hands until they stuck to your body.

♡ something about the smell and the mess of it all drives him wild. the fact you're willingly letting him corrupt you like this is enough to make him cream in his pants.

♡ obsessed with claiming you, he would mark you up from head to toe and have you promise you wouldn't leave him while his teeth sunk into your skin.

♡ pulls your hair so hard that some chunks have accidentally come out... in the moment norton growls and fucks you harder when it happens, but once he cools down, he feels awful and wants to give you a massage.

♡ the heavy breathing and strings of curses that fall from his lips make your legs weak, his voice sounds huskier and more primal during sex.

♡ when he eats you out or blows you he digs his nails into your thighs and doesn't let go until you've cum at least twice, the unmistakable scratch marks left on your thighs leave him ravenous.

♡ norton doesn't like when you make references to past sex when he's in one of his happy moods, it's so embarrassing for him. but when he's in a teasing, possessive mood? the same room you mentioned it in would be the same room he jackhammers you in. even if there's other people, he'll find something to stand behind and act like he's fixing your outfit for you... don't try to tease norton when he's horny because he does Not show mercy.

[generalobi]

Hi!! I love your writing so much! If you don't mind id like more of the Obi Melida/Daan and Jango one, maybe with reactions from obi wan side of things?

Obi-Wan is beginning to think he should’ve thought this through more. At the time, it had seemed like a great idea. Mandalore was a warrior culture, yes, but they were also rich, diverse and in need of allies. He’d neglected to take into account the Mandalorian view on children. More specifically, the fact that they frowned upon child soldiers.

He remembers this pivotal detail as he shows them Cerasi’s monument (how she would hate it). More specifically, he remembers the moment Prince Fett asks how old Cerasi was.

“She was fourteen,” Daria answers, unconcerned by the many things she has just revealed to their ally.

Obi-Wan winces, wishing it was socially acceptable to face-palm in front of visiting diplomats. Not only is this going to cause problems in an official capacity, Obi-Wan was really starting to like Prince Fett and Ser Myles. 

Neither of them react outwardly, but Obi-Wan can feel a strange mixture of outrage, resignation and sadness in the Force.

“She was very brave,” Prince Fett remarks, studying the monument closely.

“She was,” Obi-Wan inclines his head, “She fought for what she believed in. She fought for peace, there is nothing braver than that and no nobler fight.”

Daria gives him a look that he doesn’t acknowledge. He’d been very strict when instructing them all not to talk about fighting with the Mandalorions. Mandalore might no longer be at war, but her people are still warriors. MelidaDaan is done with fighting. But Obi-Wan will not let anything diminish what Cerasi sacrificed, or what she sacrificed it for.

“On Mandalore, the most noble fight is the fight for family,” Ser Myles says, “And she did that too.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t mention that Cerasi fought against her birth family, because in the end it doesn’t really matter.

¬

The Manda’lor is coming. 

Obi-Wan had been hoping that Prince Fett and Ser Myles had been happy to brush over Cerasi’s age, but clearly he was wrong. The Manda’lor is coming to MelidaDaan, and that can only mean that this allyship has gotten much more complicated. The trade deal has already been signed, but if Mandalore withdraws there’s nothing they can do. MelidaDaan has very little political power and they lack the resources to fight.

Daria is unimpressed, “They’re sending their leader because we have child soldiers? Obi, we’re literally all child soldiers. You were thirteen. Barely thirteen actually. I was eleven. We were the child soldiers. All the Elders are dead or dying. Or so fucked they’d rather seclude themselves on farms than engage with our government. We did nothing wrong.”

“I know that,” Obi-Wan says, “But the Manda’lor doesn’t. He probably thinks we force our children to fight.”

“Well then, we just have to set him straight.”

“You don’t just set the Manda’lor straight, Daria! He’s the chosen leader of a culture of vicious warriors who spend centuries fighting over which faction had the right to call themselves Mando’ade. Mandalorians are warriors who have a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later, especially when children are involved.”

Daria rolls her eyes, “I think you’re putting too much thought into this, Obi. If we tell him about the Elders and the war, he’ll be sympathetic! If they truly value children as much as you say they do then he’ll have to help us.”

Obi-Wan groans, knocking his head against his desk. He doesn’t know how to explain exactly what explaining everything that happened here will entail. He doesn’t know how to tell them that most of the galaxy would demand proof of their story, and that the Manda’lor will surely be no different.”

Daria gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, “Come on, idiot, let’s visit the babies. They always make you feel better.”

¬

None of the babies are actually babies anymore. As the planet has been rebuilt the number of orphaned and abandoned children has decreased rapidly. The youngest baby will be two soon.

The moment they see him, the babies swarm around his legs.

“I missed you brother Obi!”

“You’ve been gone so long!”

“Come play with us!”

“Will you tell us a story!”

Obi-Wan laughs, answering every question thrown at him until the clamour dies down. Mifa is on caring duty today, and they duck out gratefully as Obi-Wan and Daria settle in with the babies.

As always, they want a story about the wider galaxy. Obi-Wan tells them about Coruscant, the shining buildings and trillions of people. He doesn’t notice Jango lurking in the hallway beyond the room.

[fablecore]

I hope this isn’t overstepping but I was hoping for some advice since you’re one of the loveliest people on here with such kind and thoughtful words to everyone that passes by your corner but feel free not to answer if it is. In less than two months, I will be leaving for university and go abroad for four years, and only that time left with my dog. He’s been by my side since I was so young and is turning sixteen this year, so it’s almost certain I’ll never get to see him again.

Just the thought of it has me crying everyday since I won’t be able to come back until I finish my program because of expenses and so forth and what worries me even more is everyone else is too busy to really care for him because of their own work and school and even though I try to cherish the time we have left, in my mind, matter how hard I try to control it, I am already grieving him and it makes it so that I can’t even sit still without bursting into tears. More than that, it’s knowing that he will never understand that I’m leaving, why I am gone and if I will return, that he might wait but also that he will never see me again and the thought of him dying alone has me in tears because he has health issues that acts up and he has had fits when no one is home and it was pitiful even when we were there since there’s nothing we can do for him but wait it out while he’s crying. His health issues have gotten worse this past year and so it had already been a constant cycle of worrying about his death but it’s worse now because now I won’t even be able to sit by his side and comfort him when he needs it or take care of him, nor can I mourn him and he won’t know that I do love him and don’t have a choice, and he might keep wondering where I am. With so little time left, it’s gotten to the point I can’t go out to the bank or even to buy food because I’m worried even leaving him alone for a few hours. I had a trip recently and spent everyday worrying about him alone with no one else doing anything except feeding him and leaving him alone all day since they had work and didn’t come in until night and we can’t even leave toys for him to play with since he’s never been the type. What’s worse is he can’t walk now and it’s pitiful because all he can do is lie there all day.

All this just makes me feel even sadder for leaving him and the fact he won’t understand and won’t get it and thinks I’ve abandoned him the way I did before when I went to school a few years back and had to be gone for a year or two and when I did get back, he wouldn’t trust me. It’s so hard constantly imagining the pain he’ll he in when I’m gone because I know I’m the only fixture in his life right now that’s really fully there for him since no one else can be, and I can’t even enjoy this time left being conscious of our deadline together and watching him get sick makes me more than aware that this will be his reality soon and I just find everything so hard right now. I know I don’t have a choice and it’s not really my fault, but it doesn’t mean I can’t stop feeling guilty and being sad all the time

hi there, let me first wish you luck for uni. it seems to me a tremendous and scary endeavor to study abroad for four years without the option of coming back home. i think during these sort of turbulent, anxiety-inducing times in our lives, we often become blinded to ourselves, as in we see only our failures and shortcomings. you're a very brave person with an enormous heart, which is good because that's where we carry our loved ones for the rest of our lives. what ought you do now? i'm sorry, but... i don't know. it's the nature of the living to struggle with death, but i think it is far more painful to resist the inevitable than it is to embrace it. yes he'll be gone one day but today he's still here, and so are you, and there's joy in the simple act of just breathing together. love him as best you can. that's all you can do. when you leave for uni, cry as hard as you can. that is also all you can do. the years you had together still exists and will always exist, nothing can erase that. time will pass. you'll grow older. when you visit home again in four years, your heart will be so full carrying all the ones you love. if there is any advice i can offer you, it's this: let your love grow and grow, spreading outward, until it touches everything around you, and radiates with light.