#ill write something after i unpack my kitchen

[viktoriaashleyyx]

I got a new keyboard 😌

[party-hearses]

i am a nightmare, you are a miracle // 2

not a saint, but do I have to be?

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Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader, ex!Tommy Miller x f!reader (NO USE OF Y/N)

Summary: After your two year relationship with Tommy Miller ends, Joel takes you in — and it’s home like you’ve never quite known before.

Series Warnings/Tags: 18+ MDNI, language, infidelity, eventual smut, age difference, soft!joel, AU - no cordyceps outbreak, Sarah doesn’t exist (sorry), Tommy stans don’t come for me, some mention of mental illness (nothing named, but it’s hinted at), competency kink, praise kink, alcohol, some recollections of verbal abuse, I guess? mutual forbidden pining for suuure. Let me know if I’m missing anything!

Wordcount: 8.7 k

A/N: I feel like this took me FOREVER. Life uh, uh, got in the way — or, my summer classes started and I’ve been reading Tennyson instead of writing. But gimme feedback! Unless it will make me cry.

You stand, shifting your weight from foot to foot, in front of the bed in Joel’s guest room.

You’d been in the room plenty of times before — when you and Tommy had had too much to drink at a barbecue, when you’d used the ensuite bathroom during parties, when Tommy had needed to borrow something stashed away in the closet. But this time is different, and that difference is palpable.

The room itself is comfortable, with a tidy dresser opposite the bed, and a small nightstand next to it. It’s plenty spacious for you, and simply standing inside those four walls makes you feel so grateful you could burst. It’s more than you need — more than you deserve.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you survey the boxes on the ground around you. Unpacking them feels…too familiar; like this is still a dream that you could snap out of any second. Like Joel could return from wherever he is and tell you that this isn’t right. The idea overwhelms you, and you have to bite your tongue to vanquish the thought.

The boxes can wait. The unpacking can wait. You want to be — need to be — sure that it’s okay; that this is real. You bend at the waist, rummaging through the box nearest you, fingers grasping to find a sleep shirt near the bottom. It’s soft to the touch from years of washing and wearing and the threads being pulled at in desperate attempts to get it off of your body and be discarded on the floor. You crumple it in your fist.

Stepping into the ensuite bathroom, you switch the shower on the hottest setting. As the steam curls around the room, you’re overcome again with Joel’s generosity. Even if he, for whatever reason, does ask you to leave in the morning, or the minute he gets home, or in two weeks — just getting out of Tommy’s place will have been enough. Rescued from your doom of playing and replaying and doing and redoing. A perpetual cycle of never leaving because you’ve only ever been left. The spell broken.

As you wash your hair, you assure yourself that whatever amount of time spent in this house, in this room, as little as it may be, you will carve out this tiny corner of peace for yourself.

The scalding water washes over you, conditioner cascading down the ends of your hair to circle the drain, and you feel baptized. Cleansed. The spell broken, if only for a night.

You wake, hours later, to the muted thud of Joel’s boots on the hardwood of the entryway. Eyelids heavy, you keep them closed, stirring only slightly — readjusting beneath the thin sheets that entangle your limbs. He’s quiet in taking his boots off, but you listen fixedly as he enters the kitchen and turns on the faucet. Watching him from the inside of your eyelids like a movie, tracing the steps you know he’s taking, your blood hums in recognition of something — something you can’t name, but something that tugs at your lungs in the most pleasant way.

He moves around the kitchen, quietly opening and closing cabinets, moving and shifting and existing naturally in the space he’s created for himself. The sounds soothe you — balm to a burn you didn’t know was there — and you feel the languid lure of sleep again.

Just before it takes you completely, he’s there, on the other side of the door, pausing before continuing down the hallway to his own room. The pleasant hum of your blood turns to a resounding symphony, and your breath catches in your chest. You stay completely still, ears attuned to any movement he makes — but he moves on, padding almost silently to his door.

And like you had imagined it all, slumber claims you.

For the first time in weeks, you sleep deeply enough to dream.

The alarm you set for the morning never has the chance to go off, your eyes flicking open naturally moments before the soft vibrations would have roused you.

It should feel strange — waking up here, in Joel’s guest room, alone. But as you brush your teeth, throw your hair up in a ponytail, and dress quietly, you sit with how normal it feels.

At least, you remind yourself, for the time being.

Joel isn’t awake yet, the sun barely beginning to soak through the curtains in the kitchen. You inhale the silence of the house, glancing at the spot where he had stopped outside of your room the previous night. Had he? Had you dreamt it? Had you so blurred the seam between fantasy and reality in the same way you had pictured — nearly felt — his hands across your collarbones—

You bite your tongue so hard you taste the rich iron of blood, the cold metal of pennies.

Guilt burns crimson across your cheeks as the room closes in on you. Stumbling to the front door, you pull it open, gasping for air as you cross the threshold.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

You drop your elbows to your knees, head down, panting for breath.

Forbidden. Wicked girl. Forbidden. Obscene. Forbidden.

Head low, you trace the words on your palm as you say them to yourself, repeating the ritual until your chest slowly opens back up. There’s a light sheen of sweat covering your forehead, though you know it’s not from the early-morning, late-summer sun, still climbing the horizon.

Straightening your body, you subtly shake the tension from your limbs, rolling your shoulders back and unfolding your coiled muscles. Your last run had been nearly six months ago, but you ache for the rush of endorphins and reprieve of a clear head.

Especially now, you think, with a subtle glance back at the house.

How shameful it is, to hunger for something which you cannot taste.

The sun fully up when you return, you let yourself in the still-unlocked front door. Bending down to untie the laces of your running shoes, you are assured to hear movement in the kitchen. A vision of Joel standing outside your door flashes again in your brain, and you shake your head to scramble the thought.

When you enter the kitchen, he’s at the table, coffee mug in one hand, newspaper in the other. His eyes are trained on the text, and you stop in the doorframe to steady your nerves. Your hands find each other, subconsciously kneading one inside the other.

Sensing you, Joel folds the newspaper just enough to meet your eye line. He doesn’t immediately say anything, so you don’t, either. You can’t read his face, but you can feel a heated flush creeping up yours.

“Coffee?”

“Please,” your voice is quiet, and you pray it doesn’t betray you.

He sets the newspaper down, moving to get up, but you quickly stride further into the room.

“No! I can get it. Please, let me.”

With an arch of his eyebrows, he sinks back into his chair with his hands up in surrender.

“Mugs are there,” he nods to a cabinet behind you, and you quickly turn your back to him and hold your breath while your hands move mechanically to open the cabinet door. Get your shit together. It’s just Joel.

Breathing out slowly, you grab the first mug you see, turning to delicately cross the kitchen toward the drip coffee machine. With trembling hands, you raise the pot, filling the mug, and set it back down with a silent expression of gratitude to whatever god that you hadn’t shattered it with your shaking.

You lean back against the counter and bring the mug to your lips, eyeing Joel’s broad back and shoulders. His hair is tousled, just out of bed, dark curls threaded with silver — more than the last time you had seen him.

He twists to face you, a quizzical look splayed across his features, brows furrowed.

“You can, ya know, sit down at the table. Like a normal person.”

A breathless laugh escapes your lips, but you acquiesce, rounding the table and sliding into the seat opposite him.

Seemingly satisfied, he brings the newspaper back up to cover his face. The silence settles between you comfortably, but your skin buzzes with the proximity to him. You can’t help but glance again and again at his large hands, holding the newspaper — eyes sliding over the way his fingers curve around the edges gently.

The coffee is a welcome distraction, though you’d have to remember to pick up some creamer for yourself. Dropping your eyes to the table, a thought strikes you, and you shift uncomfortably in the seat. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Joel.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Peach?”

He sets the newspaper flat on the table, folding it back into itself. You feel his gaze on you, but you can’t bring yourself to meet it.

Neither of you says anything for a moment, the seconds ticking by slowly enough that you begin to count them. You instead study the woodgrain of the table, the single crack in the handle of the coffee mug before you.

“You’re actin’ like a skittish cat.”

His assertion surprises, and for some reason, amuses you.

“A…skittish…cat?” A small smile plays across your lips as you raise your head.

He shrugs. “I know we’re not like, the best a’ friends, but this,” he waves his hand in the air toward you, “isn’t the Peach I know. You’re jumpin’ at every move I make.”

You laugh gently before sighing. “It’s been a really strange couple of weeks. I’m… really trying to find my footing as a ‘single person’ again.”

He nods thoughtfully, mouth fixed in a frown, waiting for you to go on.

“And…and I just don’t know how to do this.”

“This?”

You shift in your chair again, fingers oh so gently tracing the sides of the coffee mug. “Like, just now, I thought about needing to buy myself cream for my coffee. But then, I thought about how I don’t know if I can just…start putting things in the fridge? And then that made me think about how meals will look. Like, dinner in shifts, or…something? Do I avoid you? I just don’t…know how to navigate this. Living here,” you drop your voice to barely a whisper, “or you regretting allowing me to stay here at all.”

Joel leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes are drawn to the way the sleeves of his white t-shirt strain against his biceps, but you look away quickly, instead focusing your gaze on the clock above the stove behind him.

“I’m not allowin’ you to stay here, I’m askin’ you to stay here.”

His voice is smooth, his words wrapping around your rib cage and squeezing gently.

“But why, Joel? Tommy is your brother,” you mumble, “I’m just some girl. You don’t owe me anything.”

His eyes darken as he shakes his head. “You are not some girl. A smart girl, with a good head on her shoulders, a career? Tommy hit the jackpot,” his tone softens even further, though you didn’t think it possible. “I saw what you did for him. Showed up for him, every time. Kept his head on straight. Kept him on his toes. Challenged him, bettered him. And he…repaid you by fuckin’ it all up extraordinarily. You’re owed better ‘n that, and if he won’t do it… ” he trails off.

You swallow hard. “He’s impulsive. I’ve always known that about him.”

Joel laughs, but it’s devoid of humor. “You don’t need to keep defendin’ him. You’re allowed to be mad. You should be mad.”

“‘Sides,” he says, picking his coffee mug up and taking a sip, “He fucked me over, too. Makin’ an ass of himself just to get in bed with a client. Givin’ a bad name, a bad reputation, to the company I’ve worked my ass off for. So I guess you could say that havin’ you be the one to stay here was logical.” He emphasizes the final word of his sentence, jutting his plush bottom lip out in a mock pout.

You pull your own bottom lip into your mouth, chewing gently.

He’d hurt you both. You and Joel Miller, parallel cracks in concrete facades - show me yours, and I’ll show you mine. The guilt of being too consumed by your own sadness builds in your chest again.

Wicked girl.

“I- I’m sorry. That it affected you, too,” you say slowly, your words measured. “You shouldn’t have had to let him stay here.”

Joel lowers his head, rubbing a large palm over his mouth thoughtfully. “I did, t’be honest. I couldn’t handle the thought of him bein’ around you…convincin’ you that he could make it up to you. I felt like…like it was my job to protect you from that, and it felt easier to have him here to do it. I know how persuasive he can be.”

Without your permission, white heat gathers between your thighs. Your tongue is thick in your mouth, and you’re confident — entirely sure — that you are not correctly processing what he’s saying to you. It makes you feel off balance, and you wrap your fingers tightly around the edge of the table for a grasp of something solid.

It doesn’t help, and the words escape your mouth before you can stop them.

“Did you know?”

He looks dismayed, immediately leaning forward, molten eyes penetrating yours. “Absolutely fuckin’ not.”

A ball of emotion lodges in your throat. You hadn’t anticipated getting into the thick of it with Joel so quickly, laying it all on the table in front of you the first morning. Wading through the shrapnel of your previous life.

You nod one two three times, blinking back tears.

He leans back again, studying you for a moment. Letting you swallow what he’s handed you - letting you digest it.

“As for the fridge…you can put anythin’ you damn well please in there.”

Unwrapping your fingers from the table and pressing the backs of your hands to your eyes, you laugh shakily.

He pauses. Then,

“I’m serious, darlin’. I want you to be comfortable. Not like, hotel comfortable, but home comfortable,” he leans across the table, gently taking your jaw between his thumb and index finger. Making sure you’re focused on him. That you’re hearing him. Your skin sparks — damn near sizzles — where it meets his, and your lips part every so slightly in marvel at his grip. “I don’t know what this will look like, either. But I want to figure it out together. Me ‘n you. Okay?” His voice is husky, as if he’s sharing a secret with you. Entering into a covenant together. Sacred.

His eyes are aflame - searching yours intently.

“Me and you,” you repeat, soft and supplicant. Obedient.

“Good girl.”

In the blink of an eye, he’s dropped his hand from your face and angled his body away from you. You dig your fingernails into your palm beneath the table, desperate for a distraction from the ache growing in your core.

Casually, he brings his coffee to his lips again, softly murmuring, “Told me you found his emails.”

It’s followed by a scoff, and you detect the condescension, the disgust. His nostrils flair just slightly. “I don’t even know anyone who uses email like that anymore.”

The image of Tommy’s emails, those words, douses the growing wildfire in the pit of your stomach. Distraction granted.

Bringing your own coffee up to your mouth, you reply, “Probably the same people who still read newspapers at the breakfast table.”

The cursor of your mouse blinks tauntingly in the empty cell of your spreadsheet. Your fingers are poised over the keyboard, the machinations of your brain refusing to cooperate. Every number is just a stupid fucking number and none of them matter when Joel’s hands were on you mere hours ago.

Good girl.

You press your thighs together in your pencil skirt as the words flash in front of your eyes. The pull you feel transcends surface-level attraction; it feels primal. Necessary. Inescapable and relentless. And so, so wrong.

Wicked girl.

Like an old nemesis, those words echo in your ears, contrition nudging desire out of the frame of your mind.

Being distracted at work isn’t a feeling you’re familiar with.

Even back in grade school, you’d possessed laser focus when it came to completing a task. Neatly, efficiently, perfectly. Now, long hours spent in your cubicle for a shot at the corner office; then, spending all night at the kitchen table buried in math notes to prepare for a quiz. It makes you feel complete, in a way that nothing else does, to accomplish.

Your mother’s cold words drowned out by teacher’s praises, by Kit’s warm hands rubbing your back under the cover of darkness. Your sister’s motherly instincts developed young, raising you — you, the perfect amalgamation of quiet and wild. Never in trouble at school, always in trouble at home.

“I know. I’m so sorry. Jackson asked me to stay, to get this account tied up by tonight. We can get drinks tomorrow instead?”

A telling pause.

“You gonna be home at all?” Tommy’s choked response.

Silence. He knew that meant that he’d be drinking beers in front of the television by himself all night.

“Might go out, then.”

You should have seen it coming. You should have seen it coming.

Never leaving because you’ve only ever been left. Kit marrying so very young and starting a family as soon as she could; your mom dying from the illness that made her vapid and unhappy; your friends going off to college states away from home; your dad a shadow by the time you turned five.

Tommy, checking out emotionally without you even noticing.

Finding respite in numbers and equations and your boss smiling, “pulled us out of a tough spot, kid.” Letting work swallow you in order to avoid, avoid, avoid.

Keeping the world at a distance. Keeping Tommy at a distance.

But Tommy had been exciting; his stupidwarm grin unshackling your steadfast demeanor, pulling you by the hand through the crowd vibrating with drinks and music and abandoned delight the night you met.

“You’re so cerebral,” his breath in your ear, praise igniting you.

The world tilting just so — the things he thought he loved about you becoming the things that drove you apart.

And here you find yourself again, in front of a stupid fucking spreadsheet.

It’s not even that you find your work terribly important — you’re but a loose bolt in a complete machine — but everything, every number, has a home and a purpose, and that notion has always settled your nerves. Everything fitting neatly into boxes in a way that eludes you — in a way that you’ve never experienced.

But now, it’s less than important — it’s not even remotely intriguing. The contentment you’re accustomed to feeling has shifted into disdain for daring to turn your thoughts away from the events of the morning.

It’s all very confusing, if you’re being honest with yourself. Taking a step back to examine the situation twists your stomach into knots. You barely know Joel, and the little you do know is in the context of him being your ex-boyfriend’s older brother. A quiet mystery, always tucked in the corner of the room, nursing a beer or glass half-full of whiskey. Existing on the same plane had only ever happened because of Tommy, so his kindness, his offering, makes your head spin. You don’t know how long it will last.

“Everyone knows what a selfish girl you are.” Your mother’s snarl in the chill of the morning, her breath soft white puffs against the dark. An emotional grim reaper. “And if they don’t know now, it won’t take long.”

Joel’s smart. He’ll see it in time, that malignant streak inside of you. The one that had killed your mother, that had pushed everyone else away. That will eventually push Joel away.

You don’t know when Tommy had caught on, but you had always known it was inevitable —knew that it was just a matter of time between the way he looked at you the night you met, the sincerity in his voice the afternoon he had asked you to move in, and the lust you imagined in his blown-out pupils when he looked at someone else’s naked form beneath him.

And now Joel. Showing you an openness, a softness, that you didn’t think he possessed. Your guilt wrapping like vines around the butterflies in your belly, suffocating them. The guilt of taking Joel up on his offer. Of letting him be kind to you. Of returning that kindness with a distinct hunger.

You pick the bulky office phone up out of the cradle, dialing the only extension you know by heart. Ava picks up on the second ring, her tone bored and distracted as she goes through the motions, “Accounts Payable, this is Ava.”

“Av, it’s me.”

You can’t help but chuckle lightly at her brazen disinterest in answering her phone.

“Oh thank god. I couldn’t handle another call about actually paying accounts.”

You imagine her rolling her eyes, and it fills you with the strangest sense of gratitude.

“Do you have plans tonight?”

“Nothing I can’t blow off. Why? What’s up?”

You close your eyes, a smile across your mouth. Dependable Ava — always down for a party.

“I was thinking…that it’s been a while since we went out. Maybe drinks? Dancing? Something to…help me think less?”

You smile to yourself, hoping she can hear it in your voice.

She doesn’t even try to suppress her squeal of delight, before a muffled, “Shut up, Belinda! Can’t you see I’m on the phone?”

You laugh out loud this time. Ava’s mortal enemy being a sixty-two year old secretary in the cubicle next to her never fails to amuse you.

“Silas and I will pick you up around 9? He can DD tonight.”

“Sound perfect, Av. I’ll be ready.”

Her voice, closer to the mouthpiece of the phone now. A whisper for only you. It sends warmth through the synapses of your brain. “If this isn’t a return to form, doll, I don’t know what is.”

True to her word, Ava and Silas show up in his car at 9 o’clock on the dot.

Joel hadn’t been home yet when you arrived, and you couldn’t decide if you were disappointed or eased by his absence. You’d heard the door open and close from your place in the bathroom a little over an hour later, but neither of you moved to greet the other.

Donning a silky black slip dress that hugs your curves just right, your breasts all but spilling out over the top, and chunky black platforms, you feel invincible. Sexy. Wicked.

Leaning forward in the mirror to apply your dark currant-colored lipstick, there’s a light knock at the door.

Without moving your lips, lest you ruin your lipstick, you manage a mangled come in just loud enough for Joel to hear and open the door.

“He-“ His eyes widen as they land on your form, and you clock the way his breath catches in his throat. Something akin to pride swells in you, desire following it. You shove the feeling down, as deep as possible.

Turning just enough, hand still raised to your lips, you meet his eyes.

He blinks a few times. Struggles to put words together. “Goin’ out?” He finally spits.

You hum in affirmation. Then, dropping your hand to your waist, “Is that okay? I won’t be out crazy late. And I’ll be quiet when I get back.”

His brows knit together as he leans against the doorframe. You can’t help but take in how big he is, arm crooked with one thumb through his belt loop — and for a brief second, you hesitate to leave the house at all.

He must catch the reluctance transcribed across your face, because he damn near smirks. “Not worried about you bein’ loud or late.”

Turning back to the mirror, you softly respond, “Just wanna make sure I’m being considerate.”

“Never seen you be anythin’ but, Peach.”

His praise coats you from the inside out, warm as sunshine. You bask in it.

Then, Silas honks the horn from the driveway, and the real world comes crashing down around the two of you.

Grabbing your bag from the floor, you stride towards Joel, still in the doorway. He shifts to let you pass, but gently catches your wrist in his large hand.

You stop, turning back to look up at him through your eyelashes, heart beating rapidly in your chest. You’re sure he can feel it at the pulse point in your wrist. He’s close enough that his heady scent makes your thoughts hazy. Dark, moody — just like him. He swipes his thumb back and forth across your flesh, absentmindedly.

“Be safe, okay, darlin’? Call me if you need to.”

His voice is silk. You want to wrap yourself up in it, lean into him.

Instead, you nod, swallowing hard. “Will do.”

He mirrors your expression, pulling his fingers back from your skin.

You walk to the door, heart still racing from his touch, him awkwardly trailing you. Stopping just short of it, you rifle through your bag to make sure you have everything. He opens the door for you, wrapping his fist around the bulk of it as he pauses. He clears his throat, drawing your attention to him.

“You, uh, deserve this. A night out. To not think about it.”

He’s awkward in a way you’ve never seen before, usually so sure of himself.

Your cheeks burn, but you can’t help but give him a small smile.

“Thank you. For everything. Seriously. I don’t think I’ve had the chance to say that, yet.”

He nods, not meeting your eyes.

As you step through the doorway, not wanting to keep Ava and Silas waiting any longer, you almost miss what he says next. But it stops you, and you look back at him for confirmation. Just to be sure. His eyes, finally meeting yours again, reiterate it.

“You look great, Peach.”

It feels like you float to Silas’ car. You slide in the backseat, watching Joel close the door through the windshield.

“So glad you could finally join us!” Ava coos, twisting in the passenger seat to look at you. “What took so long?”

She’s teasing, but you know she’s dying to know; that she watched your entire interaction from the car.

You sigh, long and laborious. “Trying really, really hard not to want to fuck my ex’s brother.”

Forbidden burns across the tender flesh of your belly.

The dance floor is packed. Bodies writhing against each other, the music vibrating any lingering thoughts out of your head.

“Let’s get drinks, first.”

Ava’s voice in your ear, her hands on your arms. Steering you towards the bar. She’s lit up multi-colored by the lights bouncing around the room, perfect mouth forming words you can’t hear as the bartender leans in closer and closer to her. Silas, off to her other side, scanning the room. His hand on her lower back.

You do the same, taking in your surroundings. Ava is half-draped over the bar, giggling at the bartender while he mixes shots. You feel amazing in your dress, catching the eyes of different men as they pass. One wolf-whistles at you, and you drop your head to cover the intense blush covering your cheeks.

As hot as you feel, you also feel out of practice. Clubs had never been Tommy’s scene, his preference being dive bars with pool tables and cheap beer. You’d still gone out with Ava occasionally, all too pleased to utter I have a boyfriend to any man who got a little too comfortable. Those encounters feel like entire lifetimes away, now.

Ava turns to you, two blue concoctions in her hands. She quirks her brow, handing you one. “Bottoms up!” she encourages, clinking her glass to yours.

The liquor, too-sweet and nearly syrupy, slides down your throat and settles in your stomach. Silas grins at you from behind Ava, his hands migrating to clasp around her hips.

“D’you wanna dance?” her voice is loud over the music. You nod intently, matching Silas’ grin.

“One more shot?”

Ava pokes her tongue between her teeth in affirmation, and your heart leaps. Joel was right. You do deserve this.

It’s your turn to slide up to the bar, and you curl your fingers around the edge and thrust your top half over, bouncing on the toes of your platforms. It doesn’t take much to catch the bartender’s eye, and he makes his way back to you.

“What’ll ya have, darlin’?” he leans into you, but you’re not sure if it’s to hear you better or to get closer.

“Two more of whatever she just ordered!”

You hook your thumb backwards at Ava, and the bartender nods. He pulls a handful of different liquor bottles from the well up to the top of the bar, and begins measuring the contents of each one out into a shaker.

He looks up at you, asking a question, but you don’t catch it.

“What?” you lean further in, trying to hear him.

“You from around here?” he asks again, his eyes flickering between you and the bottles in his hands. He has a half-smile on his face, playful and charming.

Pressing your lips together in the slightest of pouts, you consider your next move. The bartender is lanky, but cute, and you watch the way his hands move while he pours your drinks into glasses. You can’t help but compare them to Joel’s hands, big and calloused and holding your jaw just firmly enough.

The corners up your mouth quirk up in a sultry smile at the memory, and you snake the glasses from the bartop just as the bartender finishes pouring and pushes them forward.

You lean in a final time, clocking the way his eyes fall to your chest. Voice low, you finally respond to his question.

“Nah, just visiting.”

He chuckles, nodding graciously, accepting defeat, while he steps back from the bar. “Have fun tonight, darlin’,” he shouts over the music, and with a wink, you turn back to Ava and Silas.

Silas, who has caught the whole interaction, gives you a geeky thumbs up. Ava takes one of the drinks from your hands, nudging it against the glass in your other.

“Cheers to finally being the baddest bitch in the room, again.”

The shot goes down easy, and you’re led onto the dance floor as soon as you’ve swallowed it.

Ava spins and dips you, and you laugh so hard you can’t breathe. It doesn’t matter that her silly dance moves don’t match the heavy bass of the music, because Ava is Ava and it’s impossible not to get caught up in her aura.

Silas is off to the side of the dance floor, chatting with some friends from work that he’s run into. He’s been in charge of refilling your drinks, per Ava, and you haven’t had an empty hand all night.

The booze licks against your skin, flushed and sweat damp, and all you’re focused on is how good everything feels. So you don’t hesitate when one of Silas’ friends cuts in on your dance with Ava, extending his hand to you. You giggle and grin, nearly feverish with happiness. It’s a foreign feeling, but one that seems to satisfy the whispers normally residing in your brain.

Silas’s friend drags your body close to him, pressing his chest into yours. His hands find your waist, and you transition easily from dancing with Ava to swaying your body with his. He’s taller than you, even with your platforms on, and you shiver when he leans down to whisper into the shell of your ear.

“I’m Peter.”

He’s handsome, in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way. The kind of boy you would have brought home just to piss your mother off. Sharp angles and a piercing tongue.

He’ll do, for the night.

“Hi, Peter.”

You raise your chin to his shoulder, your speech lilted. “I’m celebrating a break up.”

“Celebrating, huh?”

He raises an eyebrow, face bathed in blue light. His smile is coy - dangerous.

“Celebrating. Silas’s been buying my drinks all night in honor of what a party it is.”

You gesture with your head in the direction of your friends, now dancing with each other across the floor.

“Maybe I could join the party, buy you a drink? In honor of the celebration, of course.”

Peter’s hands are warm on your hips, his lips just brushing the wild strands of hair framing your face. You relax into his touch, relishing in the way his fingers splay across the space between your waist and back.

Tilting your head to the side, a smirk plays lightly across your lips. “S’that what brought you over here?”

“That, and the way you look in that dress.”

His fingers tighten around you sharply, and the delicious sting of it makes your breathing quicken.

You slowly place the very tip of your tongue on the pillow of your top lip. His gaze traces the movement, and you watch as his eyes darken.

“Would’ve kicked myself later if I didn’t shoot my shot,” he continues, eyes still fixed to your mouth.

“So you’re out here, taking advantage of poor girls who just dumped their cheating boyfriends?” your voice drips with sardonic teasing. Eyes wide as orbs, doe-like and innocent, looking up at Peter’s height through your lashes.

“Figured your defenses would be down, might have a chance,” he smirks. “Know I wouldn’t, otherwise.”

Your cheeks heat under his intense gaze, and you’re unsure what to say. There’s viscous penitence on the flat of your tongue, knowing, in the deepest part of you, that it’s not Peter you want to undo you.

But you want - need - to get out of your own head, and he touches you like he can feel the painful ache inside of you.

It occurs to you that you’ve both stopped moving to the music, though his hands are still on you. They feel heavy in a bittersweet way — desired but detested, all at the same time. His face remains inches away from yours.

“Can’t promise that it’s your lucky night,” you mumble.

“It doesn’t have to be anything you don’t want it to be,” he whispers back, lifting your chin with his fingers to rake his eyes over you. His stare is fiery, ravenous.

The thrill of it - all of it - rushes down the knobs of your spine, straight to your cunt.

You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you that way, like they wanted to devour you. And god, how you want to be devoured. To be consumed. All gnashing teeth and licking tongues and searching, bruising hands.

You’re only half aware of who the hands on you don’t belong to.

Obscene.

Your mother’s words spur you on, this time, as you thread your fingers through Peter’s hair at the back of his head, urging it towards you. He’s quick to respond, meeting your lips with his in a collision. You wish she could see you, now.

As he licks into your mouth, his hands slide down to the curve of your ass, and you shiver. The enormity of your need to be wanted by anyone clouds your vision; your focus acutely tuned to the way Peter’s body feels against yours.

That selfish, cruel streak inside of you lights up iridescent, and you let yourself take and take and take until you’re breathless.

Peter swallows your soft moans into his mouth as he inches one hand up to the length of your hair, wrapping it in his palm and tugging gently.

You’re past thinking, allowing yourself to just do, to just feel. There are stars in your eyes as he leads you away from the dance floor, through the door to the patio, and presses you against the brick wall of the building, vibrating from the music pounding inside. The night air is tepid, smoke from the few people sucking down cigarettes hanging thick above you. You inhale deeply, anyway — a glutton for punishment.

His lips are hot on the column of your neck, hips pressed flush to yours. You feel his tongue lave over your flesh, frenzied and desperate.

Be careful, okay, darlin’?

Joel’s words hit you like a slap in the face. It’s sobering, the molecules of your brain suddenly realigning — dragging you back from the precipice of your indulgence. Your mother’s voice nagging at the back of your brain is a relic — old hat, to be expected, always. But Joel’s deep baritone in its place surprises you, makes you reflexively set your hands against the barrel of Peter’s chest and push.

He either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t understand. You need to make him understand.

“Peter,” His name leaves your lips weakly, nearly panic-stricken and icy. The tone is impossible to misunderstand.

Breaking his mouth from your mottled skin, you feel his warm breath across the plane of your chest.

“You good?”

He’s panting, aching, raising one hand to the solid wall behind your head to bear his weight.

“Fuck. Fuck. I- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t…be here.”

You shake your head, squeeze your eyes shut — wishing you were anywhere else. Wishing you were home, whatever that means.

There’s a whoosh of air as you feel Peter pull his body back. When you open your eyes, his thumb is pressed to his lips, four fingers curled beneath his jawline. His eyes are set, hard as stone, and you know he’s contemplating what happens next.

The silence between you is thick. Bringing your hands together at your stomach, you trace the word safe across your forearm with featherlight movements.

“It’s shitty. What your boyfriend did to you,” he finally sighs, tone clipped.

Your brows knit together in bemusement, and you slowly exhale the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

“Silas told me. I mean, you told me, too, but Silas…warned me,” A crooked smile appears on his face. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Said you’d had a pretty rough few weeks. Advised that I ‘tread lightly’.”

You laugh mirthlessly. “I feel like that’s the understatement of the century.”

A beat, a realization.

“It’s not you, though. Oh god, please don’t think you’re the problem, here,” you groan.

“Ha. No, no,” he answers reflectively. “I should have…heeded his warning, I guess, before kissing the prettiest girl in the club.”

He shoves his hands in pockets, shoulders bunched up around his ears. You notice the barest sprinkle of a blush across his cheeks, and it fills you with something you can’t name, but feels a lot like embarrassment.

Neither of you says anything for a few more moments, and you study the ground beneath your feet. The letters s-a-f-e burn under the weight of your index finger, traced again and again and again. A ritual.

“I should get back to my friends,” you blurt awkwardly, “make sure they know I’m…”

“Safe?” he cuts.

“Safe,” you whisper, true humiliation creeping up your neck. Why the fuck had you insinuated that he wasn’t safe?

When he doesn’t respond, you take three steps back, unsure how to make the most graceful exit.

Right before you turn your back to him, you squeak, “I’m sorry…again. I’m just…a mess, honestly.”

Not meeting your eyes, he raises one hand to shoulder height, palm open, fingers extending from it lazily. “Maybe next time.”

But you’ve already slipped back in the door, your brain on the verge of a total shutdown. Chest rising and falling in cracked, ragged breaths.

wickedwickedwickedwickedwickedwicked.

“Fuck, Joel,” you mumble to yourself as you pass the bathrooms, couples crammed into dark corners, clusters of girls giggling and cooing over each other, “couldn’t even let me lose myself in stupidity for one night.”

You enter the doors leading back to the main dance floor, and spy Ava with her head thrown all the way back, laughing open-mouthed. It fills you with awe to see her so light, carefree — deserving. Capable of love. If it wasn’t Ava you were watching you would be red with envy.

But because it is her, you make your way over to where she is, and when she notices you, she grins so wide it cracks your heart in two. Throwing her arms around you, nuzzling into your hair, she sings the song that’s pulsing over the speakers into your ear. Her cotton candy halo washes over you, and you feel steady on your feet again.

Then, the softest, most content sigh you’ve ever heard. “Babe, I am so happy you wanted to come out tonight. It kills me to see you so down — I could have fucked Tommy up myself, if you’d have let me. And I know it might feel weird now, but I have the best feeling about you staying with Joel for a bit.”

She pulls away to look you in the eyes, her hands clasping your shoulders.

“You’re both the loneliest-“

Wounded, you open your mouth to protest, but she shushes you.

“The loneliest, weirdest people in this city. And I don’t mean lonely like you had Tommy and you have me. I mean lonely like no one has any idea what goes on behind those pretty eyes, doll. You’re so closed off — even with your people. The people who love you. Who adore you.”

She moves one hand to poke into your chest. “It’s like you never actually let your guard down for anyone.”

You scoff lightheartedly. “You think Joel Miller is the person who’s gonna help me figure that out?”

Ava’s gorgeous grin is mischievous, as if she knows every secret you’ve ever kept.

“You never know, babe. You never know.”

For some reason, Joel can’t sleep. His eyes are fixed on the small digital clock next to his bed, and he’s helpless as he watches the minutes, then hours, crawl by.

He keeps waiting to hear the sound of the front door opening, of you stumbling back inside. It’s not coming fast enough for his liking, and he has to remind himself multiple times that you’re young, nearly half his age, and this is normal behavior for 28 year olds.

“She’s an entire fuckin’ adult,” he mumbles to himself in the darkness, frustrated. He doesn’t understand why he’s so concerned; why it’s keeping him up all night.

Around 1:30 (1:26, to be exact, as he can’t take his eyes off the neon numbers), he throws the quilt and sheets off of his body, stretching his coiled, over-anxious muscles. Running his hands through his tousled curls, his jaw ticks, and he makes his way out of his bedroom to the bottle of whiskey that he’d left open on the kitchen counter.

He pours himself two fingers and wanders over to the couch. Clicking on the tv, he attempts to get comfortable, dropping his head back to rest on the top of the cushion, and settling the tumbler of whiskey on his stomach.

The television drones on in the background, some late night news program that Joel couldn’t be less interested in. He stares up at the ceiling.

“Why’re you here? What’s goin’ on?”

Tommy’s stubborn growl over his bottle of beer. Not saying anything, but saying everything at the same time.

“Fucked up, Joel.”

“What else is new, Tommy?”

“Havin’ an affair.”

His voice wrought with guilt, with shame. Joel’s eyes pinning him to where he stood, as cold as he’d ever seen them. Tommy unable to bring himself to meet them.

Joel laughs — fucking laughs — dryly. “Wow. You really are an asshole. Didn’t think you actually had somethin’ like that in you.”

Tommy raking his fingers through his hair, pounding his bottle on the counter just a little too hard. Not denying it.

“What in the fuck possessed you to do that? With who?”

Joel crowds Tommy, anger shooting through his arms to his balled fists. Gritting his teeth so hard he’s afraid they’ll shatter.

Tommy looking up, away from Joel, blowing the air out of his cheeks.

“Donovan. Uh, Tracy. Tracy Donovan. In Tyler. The one with the, uh, kitchen remodel.”

Hot, scorching red blankets Joel’s vision.

“Look, I’m sor-“

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” Joel spits. “You’re not sorry. Compromised the business? Fucked around behind your girlfriend’s back? That girlfriend bein’ the only thing keepin’ you out of jail for what, two years, now? Fuck, Tommy. Don’t know how you come back from that.”

Tommy looking like he wants to cry.

It throws gasoline on Joel’s already raging fire. “And you’re, what? Here lookin’ at me pathetically? Askin’ me to fix it?”

Joel placing his hands palm down on the cool countertop to center himself. He breathes in through his mouth, out through his nose three times. Attempting to calm himself before he entirely wrecks Tommy’s shit.

“Should kick you out,” he finally says nonchalantly. “Should beat some sense into you.”

Hands steady, he reaches into the fridge to pull out another beer. The chill of the bottle in his hands brings him some clarity.

“Won’t, though. Only because I know Peach doesn’t have anywhere to go, and I’m not sendin’ you back for her to deal with.”

An evident wave of relief washes over Tommy, but as Joel gets closer to him and pokes a finger into his chest angrily, he swallows hard.

“She deserves better’n that, and we both know it. Won’t blame her a single bit for kickin’ your ass to the curb.”

Lost in his thoughts, Joel doesn’t realize his eyes have slipped closed. It’s only when he finally hears the door that they snap back open. In his haste to sit up, he spills a tiny dribble of whiskey over his undershirt, and curses as he leans forward to set the tumbler on the coffee table in front of him.

“You’re up?”

Your voice is scratchy, a consequence of the shots and smoke from the club. Arm still stretched toward the table, Joel turns his head towards you, his breath hitching as his gaze lands on your form before him.

Your hair is a wild halo around your head, skin flushed, the straps of your tall platform shoes hanging from your fingers. Eyes hazy, lips kiss-swollen and soft. No trace of your lipstick left.

The living room is dark except for the light of the tv, and the way it hits you makes you look damn near holy.

Joel’s mouth goes dry, and he has to pick that tumbler of whiskey right back up and drain it.

Setting it back down, now empty, he measures his words.

“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

You toss your shoes on the floor of the entryway as you make your way towards him, and they land right next to his boots. It makes his chest clench. The realization that they should have always been there — should always be there.

Situating yourself on the couch, you tuck your legs underneath your body and lean back. Joel mirrors you, leaning back into the cushions, but your eyes drop to the way he subconsciously parts his muscular legs.

He’s careful to keep his eyes on the tv, though he’s not the least bit invested in what’s playing, and not on the soft swell of your breasts peeking over the top of your dress.

It’s a comfortable silence, but your blood buzzes with the leftover alcohol and distinct heat still smoldering between your thighs.

“Have fun?”

He doesn’t look at you, and you don’t look at him, but you’re both so aware of each other.

You hum in agreement. “S’always a good time with Ava. Needed it.”

“Meet anyone?”

The air stills between you, and you both know what he’s really asking.

“No,” you reply in a low voice, “didn’t want to meet anyone.”

Your answer makes his fingers ache to reach out and touch you, feel you, but he knows better. Knows he can’t.

“What’re you watching?” Your words are slurred so slightly that he barely catches it, but when he does, it makes him feel warm all over.

“Dunno. Some news bullshit, I guess. Didn’t really matter what was on.”

Your head falls back onto the cushions as you melt further into the couch, sudden exhaustion overtaking you, eyes half-lidded and sluggish.

“Y’know, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir loved each other so much that they were buried next to each other. But they were never married — never even lived together. Had other lovers that they threw right in each other’s faces.”

Joel furrows his brow. He doesn’t know who the fuck those people are, or why you’re saying this. But you’re talking, saying the most you’ve said to him in days, and he’s listening, so all he says is, “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. It makes me feel like you can fail at love in so many different ways, and still have it deep inside you — even if it’s buried far, far down.”

He’s quiet, never having seen you with your defenses down like this, and he’s grateful for the glimpse into you. He’s afraid to ruin it.

“I feel like that, too, you know? Like I loved someone, and failed at it,” you continue, your eyes opening more and more slowly with each passing second. Eventually, you stop trying to fight it all together. “I have so much love inside me and no way to get it out.”

He hums in consideration. Your words bury themselves deep in his chest, strangle his heart. Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.

“You didn’t fail, Peach. Tommy made a shitty decision all on his own,” he whispers after a few moments of silence, finally allowing himself to look over at you.

But you’re already asleep, chest rising and falling rhythmically.

You had tried to get it out, before sleep took you, to tell him that no, it wasn’t Tommy. It was your mother. That she’d broken you and broken you and broken you. But you weren’t fast enough, couldn’t get your mouth to form the words.

Joel marvels, for just a second, at your small frame next to him on the couch. At the way your brain works, at the things that matter to you. Soaking in how you look while you sleep, the usual worry on your face smoothed out. He may never see it again, he knows.

Hoisting himself up off the cushions, ignoring the pain in his knees, he slides his hands under you — one arm beneath your legs, the other under your arms. As he straightens, pulling you close to his chest, you automatically curl around him. Melt into him.

He revels in the weight of you in his arms, so tiny compared to his broad frame, his large hands. It takes his breath away.

Slowly, he walks toward your room, nudging the door open with his hip. He’s careful not to bump your limbs, careful not to jostle and wake you. Your head is nestled against his chest, and he’s displeased to lay you down on your bed. He does anyway, gently untangling his body from yours, palm open as it passes under your thighs.

He ignores the fact that he’s half-hard in his sweatpants, just from touching you. Like a teenage fucking boy. As soon as his hands are off you, he readjusts himself quickly before striding silently to the door.

Right before he closes it, he hears your soft, sleep-soaked voice.

“Joel?”

“Hmm?” He pokes his head back in the room, letting you know he’s there.

“I don’t deserve this.”

[kamaluhkhan]

maybe it's my fault

pairing: shuri x fem!reader

summary: lately, you've been feeling a ton of pressure, you're way too busy, and you're barely sleeping. life is taking its toll on you, but you drop everything to be with shuri when she needs you most.

warnings: angst! mention of illness and death (t'challa's, mostly). reader has a bit of a saviour complex. lots of plot w/ a little smut ;)

author's note: hi hi it's been too long since i've written a fic, but i just rewatched black panther so i decided to finish one of my drafts. this could be read as a part 3 to my other shuri fics, but it's wayyy more angsty than i usually write. also happy endings.....we don't know her! you've been warned.

you were in the kitchen, chopping up fruit for a smoothie, while sam and bucky were watching the news in the living room. you could only hear muffled sounds from the tv thanks to the lecture you were rewatching through your earphones, hyperfocused on absorbing as much information about genetic coding — the topic of your last exam before spring break — so it was easy to miss sam calling your name until he was practically shouting. you finally removed one earbud.

"yeah?"

“when's the last time you heard from your girlfriend?" 

"i don't know," you answered, still mostly focused on your professor droning on about complex protein structures while you kept cutting up strawberries — and tried to keep your eyes open. you probably hadn't slept in 36 hours. "we've both been busy. why?"

there was no immediate answer, which you didn’t think much of until you looked up and saw what they were watching. in shock, you accidently let the knife slip, and it nicked your thumb instead of the fruit.

"fuck."

blood dripped from your hand, but your eyes stayed glued to the screen.

KING T’CHALLA, RULER OF WAKANDA, DEAD FROM UNKNOWN ILLNESS. COUNTRY IN PERIOD OF MOURNING. 

you could tell from the way bucky and sam were silent that they were also overwhelmed with the news. t’challa was an avenger, a teammate — but he was also a friend. he was compassionate and wise and always made you feel welcomed, even when some of the elders disapproved of shuri dating an outsider. this hurt you, deeply, especially after losing so much of the team in the battle with thanos. but none of that mattered — all you could think about now was shuri….

you instantly pulled out your phone, and tried to call her. 

it’s shuri. i’m probably designing better technology, so i’ll call you back with that. 

you then tried the kimoyo beads on your wrist, but still no answer. 

“i have to go.”

sam nodded. “just let me look after your hand first —”

“i’ll deal with it on the quinjet.” you ran to your room down the hall, and grabbed your overnight bag (thank Gods you hadn’t unpacked yet, even though you’d decided to stay over at Avengers tower this week). “i just finished fixing up the old one, so i’ll take that and you guys can still use the new one for your mission tomorrow. if i leave now, i’ll get to wakanda by morning.” or maybe midnight. or afternoon? there was also a time difference that you couldn’t quite remember. “i’ll call peter on the way, let him know what happened. can you tell the others?” whoever is left, you thought to yourself.

again, sam nodded. bucky mumbled a simple take care as you start to leave for the quinjet.

sam called your name, so you turned around before a few tears could escape. he brought you into a hug. you couldn’t help but stiffen, a reflex because of so many i’m sorry for your loss hugs you’d gotten used to. when sam pulled away, he put his hand on her shoulder, eyes sincere but sad. “it’s gonna be alright, kid.”

you really wanted to believe him.

shuri’s lab was all too familiar to you. there was something perpetually alive about the space: always people talking, inventions being brought to life, loud music blasting. 

but, right now, it was silent. only shuri was there, designing something on the holograms and taking notes. 

you hear her A.I. griot announce that someone had arrived, but shuri doesn't seem to care.

“i told you i did not want to be disturbed,” shuri grumbled.

“he made an exception,” you replied, trying to keep your tone playful.

shuri didn’t say anything and kept working. “did my mother call you?” she finally asked. “i told her not to.”

you moved closer to shuri’s workspace until you were right next to her, leaning backwards against the desk but keeping your eyes on shuri and trying to pull her attention away from whatever she was working on — a suit, you guessed.

“she didn't call me. i came as soon as i heard,” you answered, crossing you arms. “but i did talk to her and she seemed…worried.”

“there’s no need to be,” shuri said. “i’m fine. we had the funeral — it happened, it’s over.”

you uncrossed your arms, sighing deeply. “you know, your brother once told me that in wakandan culture, death isn’t the end. it’s a stepping off point. then, he told me that he believed, even if they’re gone from the physical world, the people we love never leave us. their lives aren’t over if we honor them, keep loving them.”

t'challa's thoughtfulness helped you after losing tony and steve, and it was something you wished you had heard earlier in life. something that gave you hope, made you feel a bit lighter when it felt like the weight of the world was crushing you.

but, hearing this prompted shuri to freeze momentarily, though she couldn’t bring herself to look you in the eye.

"i am not my brother.” she went back to working after that.

for a moment, you simply watched your girlfriend work. shuri’s hair was different — braids gone and shorter than the last time you had seen her. her jawline was also sharper and her eyes a bit more sunken, like she hadn’t slept or eaten in days.

when it became clear that shuri wasn’t going to stop, you turned around and focused your attention to the holograms she was juggling. it wasn’t a panther suit, but what looked like a deconstructed dora milaje armor that shuri was redesigning.

“you want this to fly?” you noted the thrusters placed on the feet of the suit.

shuri glanced at you briefly before enlarging the section in question. “yes.”

you hummed, reaching over to zoom out to a full view of the suit. “if you add small repulsors, the wearer will have more control over how and where they fly.”

 “i was going to add something like that to the back.”

“i’d suggest the shoulders,” you said, tilting your head. “small, triangle shaped — kind of like angel wings. also, if you add reinforced plating to the shoulders and arms, you can redistribute the extra vibranium through the repulsor energy so the wearer can materialize a blade or a laser.”

“brilliant,” shuri mumbled under her breath.

you nudged shuri with your shoulder. “you would have figured it out eventually.”

“i know.” shuri leaned into you, a sign that she was softening. “that’s why it’s brilliant. i wish it'd thought of it sooner." she whispered the last part. there was a faraway sadness to her tone that made your heart ache.

you turned to face shuri, and gently put your hand on her cheek so she met your gaze.

"i think it's a sign that your beautiful brain needs some rest, baby." you knew what shuri was like, and based on your conversation with queen ramonda, shuri had locked herself in the lab for days.

shuri sighed, moving to kiss your palm before realizing the state it was in — freshly wrapped in a thin layer of gauze that you had bled through.

“what happened to your hand?” she questioned urgently.

“oh. nothing serious. just a slip of the knife.”

wordlessly, shuri brought you over to the medical bay and gestured for you to sit down on the table. you did, and shuri settled between your legs, using vibranium to heal your cut.

"shuri," you called after a few moments of silence, leaning your head down slightly to try and catch her eye. "you know i'm here for you, right?"

"i know." she finished cleaning the wound and wrapped your hand in a fresh vibranium-woven bandage. you wanted so badly to do the same — to wrap up shuri's grief, to protect her from pain, to help her heal.

"i mean that you don't have to, i don't know, act like everything is fine. we can talk about what happened — we can talk about t'challa."

"i know," she repeated, eyes finally meeting yours as she rested her hand on your knee. "i just....i can't. it's either i shut myself in the lab for hours or i think about my brother and want to burn the world down. and i can't...." shuri choked back a sob and her grip on your knee tightened.

you brought your hand up to her cheek, gently tracing the dark circles under her eyes with your thumb.

"well, what if we try another option?"

you spent the next few days in wakanda with shuri, ignoring your responsibilities in new york. most of the time was spent lazing around the royal palace, but with you shuri at least got enough sleep and food, even if you barely left her room at first. eventually, the two of you actually ate in the formal dining room. you could have sworn queen ramonda teared up when her daughter showed up again to share a meal since t'challa's passing. queen ramonda gave you a warm smile before the feast was served.

as you were walking back to shuri's room, stomachs full from a delicious dinner, your phone vibrated. you checked to see who it was: peter, texting to remind you of a lab assignment you had slipped your mind.

"oh shit," you groaned.

"what is it?"

"an assignment for my genetics class that i completely forgot about," you explained, rushing to open your laptop, which you'd left on shuri's nightstand after the two of you binged a few episodes of star trek (the original series). "one of our lab partners fucked up the results, so pete and i had to sort things out, but we've both been so busy...."

your phone vibrated once more, this time displaying an incoming call from jimmy neutron, your affectionate contact name for peter parker.

"i should take this."

shuri nodded. "let me help, yeah?"

considering how brilliant shuri was, you offered her your laptop without question. you paced back and forth, talking with peter over whether or not failing this assignment would mean you both failed the class, until shuri's voice cut through your conversation.

"why do you have a file with my brother's dna?"

you know exactly the file she was talking about, and it made you stop in your tracks to face shuri. you thought you were being too careful when you didn't attach his name to the file — but, apparently, you weren't careful enough.

shuri was sitting upright on the bed now, practically glaring at you as she waited for your answer. you tried to ignore your increasing heart-rate.

"pete, i have to go." you could hear him start to protest on the other end of the line, but you quickly ended the call. "well, we keep blood samples from every team member in case something happens."

hopefully your answer satisfied shuri.

it didn't.

"this isn't with your avengers files, though," shuri pointed out. you tried to grab the laptop back from her, but she moved it out of your reach. "and even if it was, you would have noticed something wrong."

"shuri," you warned, finding it harder to not let your voice waver.

"did you know my brother was sick?" her tone was harsher than before.

"shuri —"

"the samples show abnormal cell growth at an earlier stage than when i was working on a cure for him," shuri noted, turning the laptop screen towards you. like you, she must have spent hours looking at t'challa's dna to the point of memorizing its sequence. "so either you didn't notice that something was wrong, and we both know you're too smart enough to miss something that obvious, or — "

"shuri." this time, when you said her name, it was less of a warning and more of a plea. you did not want to go down this road. frankly, you were hoping you never had to.

"you knew my brother was sick and didn't tell me," she finished. shuri handed you the laptop and you closed it slowly, watching as she walked to the other side of the room before facing you again. "tell me that isn't true."

all you could do was bite back tears and hope the floor swallowed you whole. when it didn't, you took a deep breath and stood up.

"i can explain." you approached her, but she took a step away from you and scoffed.

"what's there to explain?"

"just....please." you walked back to the bed and took a seat. "let me explain."

t'challa intercepted you at your favourite coffee shop about four weeks ago.

it was march in new york, so hints of spring were starting to peak through the winter snow. you had back to back classes, but you always had time for a coffee in between.

the cold air hit you as you exited the shop, a drink warming your hand. you noticed him standing there: no dora milaje, no fancy suit, just t'challa. he wore sunglasses and a sleek black trench coat with a purple scarf, his silver necklace peaking out from the collar.

"t'challa?" you called, almost doing a double take. the two of you were friends, sure, and probably future in-laws, but the image of him waiting for you outside a student-run cafe felt too out of the ordinary. "is everything okay?"

he smiled softly, taking off his sunglasses. "of course," he said. then, t'challa did something that surprised you even more: he greeted you with a hug. as he pulled away, he added: "just in town and thought we could catch up. shuri said this was your favourite place for cinnamon lattes."

you shrugged. "my girl knows me well. could we catch up later, though? i have a class in...." you glanced at your phone. "right now, actually." you looked back up at t'challa, and something about how his smile faded away made you feel like this was more important. "you know what, i can get notes later. come on."

t'challa followed you to a bench nearby, scanning the area as you made the short walk. the two of you sat in silence for a few moments before you broke it.

"so, is everything okay?" you asked again, taking a sip of your drink.

"actually, no." he paused, voice low. you waited for him to continue, your heart beating fast as you tried not to expect the worst. "i'm sick, y/n."

"you're sick," you repeated slowly, letting the words sink in. "i'm....i'm sorry." you reached over and squeezed t'challa's hand. he gave you a sad smile in return. that was the thing about t'challa: he was always trying to put on a brave face.

"i need you to help me find a cure."

"of course," you answered instantly. you loved t'challa like he was family; you would do anything for him. but, something felt a bit strange about his request. "why not go to wakanda, though? i mean, i'd be happy to help, but the technology there is way more advanced than anything i could do in new york. shuri's lab has all the resources we would need."

t'challa shifted in his seat, breaking eye contact.

then, it hit you. the impromptu meeting, the uneasiness of t'challa's demeanor, the whispers as he explained the situation.

"she doesn't know, does she?"

t'challa shook his head. "she doesn't even know i'm in new york."

suddenly, you throat tightened and it felt difficult to swallow your coffee.

"am i the only one that knows?"

"you and nakia," he said. "i'd like for it to stay that way."

"but — but it's shuri. you're her brother and — and she can help us find a cure."

"so can you," t'challa countered. compared to your nervous stuttering, he kept his voice clear, measured. "you're studying biochemistry and cellular biology, correct? top of your class? my sister says you are almost as brilliant as her."

"almost," you laughed, allowing yourself a moment of reprieve before returning to your conversation. "t'challa, why not just tell her?"

t'challa reflected before responding, his eyes following a couple holding hand as they walked past you.

"my sister is happy," he finally said, turning to you. "i wish for her to stay like that for as long as possible. i believe this is the only way."

it broke your heart to know that, even as he was suffering, t'challa would do anything to protect shuri. you both knew what shuri was like: she would drop everything, go back to wakanda, spend many sleepless nights trying to solve this problem, to save her brother.

"are you sure?" you practically whispered the question.

"yes. i trust you can take care of this. in fact, i know you can. please, y/n."

his urgent tone, the sincerity in his eyes; t'challa was desperate, you could tell. this wasn't a decision he made lightly, to keep such information from everyone, including shuri. if you were the one he came to for help, help you would.

so, you promised keep his secret, to handle it yourself and carry on as normal. t'challa would return to his normal duties as king for as long as he could hide his illness. but, you set a term as well: if you couldn't find a cure within two weeks, when shuri went back to visit wakanda at the end of the month, t'challa would tell her and let her work to find a cure.

"one more thing," t'challa said after you had discussed your agreement. you were about to part ways, but you turned around when you heard him speak again. "shuri can never know that i came to you first. she's proud, my sister. if she finds out, she'd never forgive either of us."

you nodded firmly, but as t'challa turned to walk away, you called his name once more. you ran towards him and hugged him, tight. it startled him at first, just as you were when he greeted you, but he hugged back.

if you knew that was the last time you'd see him, you'd have held on longer.

over the next week or so, you worked relentlessly. you would've worked at the lab in avengers tower, but you knew you had more privacy at oscorp. occasionally, you went to class or had avengers business to take care of, but otherwise this was your life: rearranging dna sequences, examining blood samples, and mixing chemicals to try and find a cure for t'challa.

you came home one night, after hours in the lab. your only break was a brief stint stopping doc ock from robbing a bank. she'd managed to throw you around pretty hard — sleep deprivation made you an easier target, apparently — leaving you with a nasty bruise on your side. peter arrived to the scene just in time, and suggested the two of you celebrate with sandwiches as delmar's (where spider-man got a discount), but you made up an excuse so that you could return to the lab.

the apartment was dark when you entered, with only the kitchen light on, so you figured you were the only one home. you dragged yourself over to the sink to get a cup of water. you drank it in three gulps, and were reaching for another when you felt someone grab your side.

"fuck!" the cup fell from your grasp as you winced in pain. you turned around, too tired to even wonder if there was an intruder in your home, but met shuri's gaze instead. she was wearing boxer shorts and an oversized i ♡ wakanda shirt she'd gotten for you as a joke.

"shit. sorry." she knelt down to pick up the broken glass. you tried to follow, but winced again at the sharp pain in your side that prevented you from bending over. "don't worry. i've got it," she reassured, standing back up. "you've been busy lately. and pete told me about the fight with doc ock. you should rest."

you ignored her last comment. "i thought you were coming home late tonight."

shuri raised an eyebrow. "i'd say it's well past late." she gestured towards the clock on the stove. it read 2:27 am.

"right." between hours in the lab, with no cure in sight, and being thrown around by a scientist with metal tentacles, you were exhausted. it was the kind of exhaustion that settled into your bones, made everything feel heavier. not to mention the weight of the very big, life changing secret you were keeping from shuri....yeah, you weren't particularly in the mood to chat with your girlfriend in a dimly lit kitchen with broken glass at your feet.

before shuri could ask more about your day, you excused yourself to take a shower. you closed the bathroom door behind you, stripped yourself of your clothes, and hopped in the shower. you stood there for a few seconds, letting the warm water wash over you, until you were startled by the shower curtain opening.

"sithandwa, are you okay?"

"other than the minor heart attack you just gave me, yeah," you huffed.

shuri tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. "are you sure?"

"i'm fine," you snapped. noticing how shuri's eyes widened slightly at your outburst, you tried again, your voice softer. "i'm fine."

you lifted your arm to close the shower curtain, but let out a strangled moan when the sharp pain in your side returned. shuri furrowed her brow at your reaction, until her eyes landed on the dark bruise forming under your left ribs. instantly, shuri joined you in the shower, fully clothed.

"you're not fine," shuri decided, placing her hand gently on your skin. "why didn't you go back to the med bay to have this taken care of?"

peter asked you the same thing when you parted ways earlier, but it was easier then to shrug off the severity of your injury. besides, you had to finish up some work at the lab. but here you were in front of shuri, completely exposed, no where to run.

"i...didn't have time. you can scold me later, okay? right now, i just want to relax."

you exhaled as shuri's fingers grazed your skin. with how preoccupied you had been — along with the guilt at hiding t'challa's illness from her — you and shuri hadn't been intimate in what felt like forever. it felt good to be close to her, for her to touch you again.

by then, shuri's clothes were soaked through, the white fabric of her shirt clinging to her skin, transparent enough to reveal her dark nipples underneath. you couldn't help but stare.

"like what you see?" shuri smirked. her fingers started trailing south, reaching your hips.

this made you roll your eyes, and you just had to smile at how cheeky your girlfriend was being.

"you know i do, pretty girl."

"hm. you said you wanted to relax?"

you nodded, and not even a second later shuri had her body pressed against yours. it sent a shiver through you, despite the warm water from the shower. she brought a tattoed hand up to your face, craddling your jaw.

"then relax," shuri whispered. she started placing kisses up your neck, and when she reached just below your ear, she added: "let me take care of you."

shuri gently pushed you against the wall, the ceramic tiles cool on your back. to your annoyance, she took her sweet time leaving kisses down your body.

"shuri," you whined when you felt her teeth graze one nipple while she pinched the other between her fingers.

"what is it, my love?" shuri pulled away from your chest. you knew she loved teasing you - something you mostly loved to hate. sex with shuri sometimes took hours: it was slow, deliberate, accompanied by an orchestra of laughter and moans and pleading (lots of pleading).

this time, though, she didn't even give you time to beg. shuri simply got on her knees in front of you. she briefly ran her tongue through your folds before tilting her head back to meet your gaze. "is this what you wanted?" shuri smirked when you moaned as she slid a finger into your cunt.

the shower went cold by the time you two were done.

you started drying off, carefully as to not further your injury. shuri left to put on fresh, dry clothes, leaving the ones she had soaked through in a wet heap on the floor. you were just slipping on your underwear when shuri returned, catching your eye in the mirror.

"what?" you chuckled at how coy she was being, hands behind her back as she rocked back and forth on her heels.

"i have a surprise for you," shuri sang. she moved from the doorway to standing behind you, the two of you looking at the mirror. "close your eyes." you complied and felt a coolness surround your neck. shuri placed a kiss on your jaw, which made you smile. "open them."

you were met with the sight of yourself, top half completely bare except for a deep purple pendant around your neck.

"do you like it?" shuri gently wrapped her arms around your waist, eyes never leaving your body in the mirror, and you allowed yourself to melt into her. "it reminded me of the sky on our first date, and how beautiful you looked." she reached a hand up to trace the silver chain. "i was thinking i'd remake this with vibranium, maybe make it so the necklace holds your suit like t'challa's. you'll have to wait until i get back to wakanda to make the upgrade, of course."

at the mention of her brother and her home country, you stiffened.

"shuri." you exhaled and you turned to face her. "are you sure that you don't want to go back to wakanda sooner?"

shuri tilted her head. "why would i do that?"

"i don't know. more time with your family...."

"i've spent my whole life with them," shuri countered. "i'm moving to new york so that we can start our life together."

"i didn't ask you to do that — "

"don't push me away, okay?" she interrupted, wrapping her arms around your waist once more as though they would keep you in place forever. "you've been doing that lately, and i know you're busy, we both are. but, life is crazy and scary and unpredictable, and all i know for sure is that i love you. and i need you."

you wished you could return her words, as you have many times before, but the sentiment now felt empty.

it felt wrong for you to let shuri love you passionately, when you were being so careless with her heart.

you tried to shake away that feeling, telling yourself that keeping t'challa's secret was the best situation to keep him healthy and shuri happy - to protect both of them from any pain or suffering.

you told yourself that enough times, you almost believed it was true.

shuri looked at you now, and for the first time, you felt the heat of her anger targeted towards you.

"how long? how long did you know my brother was dying and let me believe everything was okay? how long did you lie to me?"

you took a ragged breath. "two weeks."

"two weeks?" shuri shouted. "i couldn't save him because i didn't have enough time to find a cure. you took that from me."

"i spent that time trying to find a cure, but....but i wanted to protect you, at least for a little while."

"no one asked you to protect me!"

internally, you kept replaying what t'challa had said: he wanted shuri to be happy, yes, but she could never know that he came to you himself and told you he was sick weeks before he told her. you wanted to honor the promise you made him, even as you now felt shuri slipping through your fingers.

you were never a quitter, though. it was your best — and possibly most self-destructive — trait. you tried to approach shuri, to grab her hand, but the second you made contact, she jolted away.

"my brother is dead because of you."

her words felt like a knife. you felt dizzy — there was no way to stop the bleeding, so you sat back down on the bed to ground yourself.

"i....i tried to save him," you defended. "after i first found out, i tried to find a cure myself."

shuri scoffed, shaking her head and narrowing her eyes at you. "you just had to be the hero, didn't you? running around, wanting to save everyone. like you're the only one who can."

"i really tried," you choked. by now, you were holding back tears, feeling your head start to ache. you started massaging you temple to relieve some pressure, but it didn't work.

"and what kind of sick game are you playing, coming here pretending to be supportive? you're just feeling guilty."

guilty was definitely something you felt, but it wasn't why you came here.

you got back up and tried to approach shuri one more time, walking over to her slowly.

"i came here because i love you, shuri." your voice was softer than it had been before. "i loved t'challa, too -"

"don't you dare say his name," she growled, once again moving away from you briskly. "and i don't care if you love me, because i can never look at you the same way. we're done."

hands by your side, staring at shuri from the opposite side of the room, you almost couldn't process what she had said. she repeated her last sentence, this time a bit louder, and you shook your head as though to wake yourself up.

"shuri, please, don't do this. we're both in pain — "

"you have no idea the pain i'm in," shuri interrupted, and you noticed how she choked back a sob. "you can stop trying to be a hero for me. i don't want you. i don't need you." she paused. "not anymore."

to prove her point, shuri finally approached you. she tugged your necklace — the one she had so lovingly given you — hard enough for the clasp to break.

both of you were startled by the severity of her actions, how final it all felt. shuri looked, almost regretfully, at the purple pendant in her hand, but never met your gaze. she then turned away from you, the room settling into an uncomfortable silence as she waited for you to leave.

and you did, a few moments later.

[chiiyuuvv]

This is so wholesome yall made me smile while writing :")

2k words (took me 3 days to write)

@yzerpoz , @cake1box , @Impuvritxes , @yuniniverse

5:32 PM

A hum leaves your lips as you flip to the next page of your textbook, your pen beating against your cheek as you twittle with it, learning the new lesson. Your old school didnt offer these types of assignments, your mind overwhelmed with the new information you've never seen before. Your legs kick up to spin around in your brand new armchair, trying to get your mind flowing, thinking.. something. You agree with the green haired boy from a few hours prior, chemistry was hard.

Your mind pushed to the rim, your eyes flying everywhere else but your huge textbook that sits in the center of your work table. You take in the series of boxes sitting against your closet, a mental reminder to finish unpacking your things, your new dressers looking lonesome without some clothes stuffed into it.

You still needed to decide where you were going to place all of your decorations, your walls broad compared to your old room, clean with so much space to put everything you could ever desire. Maybe you were going to finally hang up that poster that just sits at the side of your bed, or even a new rug to accompany the cold wooden floors; you werent very sure what you were going to do to make use of your time, your head resting on your chair as you take another spin to clear your mind.

Rubbing your eyes, you think back to the boy from a few hours ago, a smile tugging at your lips. Where was he anyway? You didnt know much but you were sure of one thing: that he was going to be a good friend. Although he seemed intimidating from the start, he offered such a gentle smile that washed away all of your fears, a personality so bright and welcoming that it made you want to come out of your shell. Wonders that man did.

And it seemed like the universe could read your mind, the doorbell ringing a few seconds after. Luckly, you could see who the person was by the windows that were placed on the sides of your room, your feet having a mind of their own as they jump out of your chair and parade down the steps of your stairs. "I got it, mom!" You shout, finding the said woman with a phone prompted against her shoulder, a thumbs up sent your way as she continues to ramble on the phone.

You unlock the door slowly, your eyes peeking through the crack to find the boy you were just thinking about nervously ruffling his hair, his fingers tapping against a glass container that sits in his hands as he looks around the area. "Hi." Your voice was smaller than you hoped, his head snapping to your direction as you widen the door, revealing yourself in some comfy shorts and a random shirt. "Hi." He replies, a grin on his lips as he takes in the sight of you. You looked cute.

"What are you doing here?" You ask, playing with the ends of your oversized shirt. "I wanted to talk to you- my mom made some cookies." The boy rambles, his arms extended to pass you the glass tray that was in his hands.

"Wait, im confused." You wave around your finger, a teasing smile on your lips as your eyesbrow raised. "You wanted to talk? Or did you just come to deliver some cookies?"

"Both." You share a laugh, sumins cheeks turning pink as he looks down, staring at his shoes. "Can I.. come in?" He looks up, you could see the shyness in his eyes as you nod.

"I dunno, can you?" Your teasing didnt work out the way you thought it would, a confused expression on the male. "You can come in, im just joking." You chuckle awkwardly, the boys lips forming into an 'o'

"Lemme take you to my room." You nod at sumin, leading him up the flight of stairs and to your slightly messy area, your feet pushing a random sock to the side as you sit him on your bed. "I'll take these," you take the glass of cookies out of sumins hands, "and ill be right back!" You shout hurriedly, going down the stairs again and towards your kitchen, sitting the cookies on the counter and alerting your mom who was at the door.

Sumin notices how similar your rooms were as he waits for your return, your beds aligned the same direction, a worktable to the left of it, and your windows facing each other. He couldnt help but daydream about his future days, waking up in the mornings and looking out his window to find you offering a small smile and wave. His heart pumps with excitement; hes always wanted a neighbor that he could befriend, tired of some snot nosed little kid or cranky person in their forties. He finally found someone that was the same age as him, even in the same class. He felt lucky.

Sitting crisscrossed, he hums to himself. His fingers drumming his thighs as he continues to look around your room, taking in your boxes filled with your belongings. Maybe he could come over tomorrow some time and help you unpack, use that as an excuse to hang out, wanting to use every opportunity he could to learn more about you. He felt curious, could you blame him?

And that curiousness had a mind of its own, sumin getting up from your bed and to the array of boxes that sat in a perfectly straight line in the corner of your room, by your closet. He felt bad for snooping around, breaking a basic rule of privacy and maybe even your trust. But he just couldnt help it. He needed to know everything.. like right now.

An open box brings his attention, the back of what seems like a poster sticking out. And without second thought he takes it, a gasp leaving his lips as he analyzes the picture. It was one of his favorite bands, posing at a skateboard park. Wait a second, you were a fan??

The band was like anything ordinary, the lead singer accompanied with his guitar and the second singer that was female, another female on the keyboard and the last male on the drums. Although they didnt do much, they still managed to win the hearts of many, releasing their new album and announcing their long list of concerts. Turns out they were visiting your city, sumin already buying his ticket and fortunately he bought another one just so his friend could bail out on him. Maybe he could take you with him? Only to hang out, of course.  

"I see you've found my poster. Not to steal it, I hope." Sumin lets out a shriek, a jump leaving his body as he spins around, finding you leaning against your door frame, a foot tapping on the floor. "I can explain!! I just-"

"Wait.. you're a fan too?" You stop him, your eyes lighting up as you clap with excitement. Its not everyday you find someone with the same musical interest as you. "Yeah.." Sumin stands up from his previous sitting position, his back straight and cheeks pink from the scare, still trying to calm his nerves.

"I'm sorry for looking through your things, by the way." His head falls down in disappointment and embarrassment, his fingers playing with each other as he waits for you to kick him out in disgust.

But you dont. When you begin to laugh, sumin nervously brings his head up, a small grin stretching onto his lips at the sound of your sweet laughter. "No, no." You catch your breath, waving your hands in the air. "Its quite alright actually." Your smile makes sumins heart skip a beat.

"Oh." He says, his smile getting wider. "So um.." he scratches the back of his neck, "how did you get to know them?"

You sit on the floor in front of sumin, making yourself comfortable as you ramble about how they appeared on an ad from a tv show you watched from a year ago, their captivating performance catching your attention that you wanted to learn more about them, making yourself a fan.

"If you dont mind me asking, what show were you watching?" The green haired boy curiously asks, his body leaning against his hands that were prompted behind him. "Oh!" Your eyes light up again, telling the boy the show title.

"Wait.. you watch that too?!" Sumin sits up, leaning to your direction with amusement. First you like the same band, then you watch the same show.. what kind of luck was that?!

The show youve been watching, a reality show, just earned a new season. "Oh my god, jessica is so stupid." Sumin remarks as you begin to ramble about the show, a sigh leaving lips as he shakes his head.

"I know! Johnny clearly wants her yet shes going after kyle.. that doesnt even like her if i should mention!"

"Johnny's good looking too.."

"Yeah, wait- you like johnny??" You send sumin a look, wiggling your eyebrows.

"What, no!! I don't!! Stop looking at me I dont!!" He covers your eyes, a laughing leaving your lips. "What i mean is that i wanna work out like him, you know?"

"Mhm sure.. I'll still support either way." Sumin scoffs, leaning his head against the floor as he rolls his eyes. "I dont like you.." he mumbles against his arm, earning another laugh from you.

"We'd definitely have to watch it together some time." You say, calming yourself from your previous laugh, watching out of the corner of your eye at how sumin sits up, his ears perked like a dogs when he hears your words. "Yeah?" His smile grows.

"Yeah." You nod, smiling back at the boy. "What day are you fre-"

"Im so sorry." Sumin apologizes at the sudden noise that cuts off your sentence, fishing through his pockets to find his phone that was chiming, a message from his mother that askes him to come home for dinner. "I gotta go." You could hear the disappointment in the latters voice, his smiling dropping when he realizes that he has to leave your presence. But theres always tomorrow, right? He tries to reassure himself, brushing off his knees and getting up on his feet.

You follow suit, your chuckle fading as you lead him downstairs and to your front door. "Hey." You stop him, a hand patting his shoulder while the other unlocks the knob. "I had some real fun back there. Never thought I'd meet someone that likes the same things as me." You admit, trying your best to change sumins frown into a smile. It works.

"Yeah, me either," He replies, scratching the back of his nape. "Oh!" His eyes widen, his pointer finger in the air as he remembers something. "The band, im sure you know about the concert right? I have an extra ticket and im not sure what to do with it, but since you're a fan too.. maybe you could come with me?" He offers a small smile, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he hopes he gets your approval.

"Oh.. are you asking me on a date?" You tease.

"I mean.. i wouldnt mind you know," he shrugs, sharing a laugh. It felt like sumins head was spinning, his heart skipping beats at your smile, your laughter.. it made him want to cherish little moments like this. But wasnt it a little weird; you've only met earlier today, your second time talking. Why did he feel this way? What was he feeling??

"I'd love to go." Your words break him out of his trance, a stupid smile unconsciously stretching sumins lips.

"Great, I'll see you tomorrow?" He winks, opening the door and letting himself out when you nod. He turns around once to wave which you happily reciprocate, then another time when he reaches his home that was beside yours, his smile getting impossibly bigger by the second. You wave again, a giggle leaving your lips at his silliness as you close your door, your back resting against it as a sigh leaves your lips. Today was a good day.

HOMEWORK ASSIGNMENTS

[tennessoui]

Ummmmmm can i please request 5

This was written all on my phone waiting for my train and I’m trying to post it through my phone which tumblr is being a lil bitch about but here is

5. Falling Pregnant After A One Night Stand (3.6k)

(squick: a/b/o dynamics, mpreg)(two tags I never thought I’d write lmao)

Anakin’s working on the couch when he hears the key in the lock of the apartment door, signaling that finally—finally—Obi-Wan’s home from his week-long hastily planned stay at Bail’s place.

Bail and Breha’s place, Anakin reminds himself. Obi-Wan’s mated friends pose no competition to Anakin’s inner alpha, which definitely thinks of Obi-Wan as his omega.

Obi-Wan comes into the main room quietly, putting his bag on one of the barstools and leaning against the counter for a second, head bowed.

When he lets out a sigh and a heavy curse, Anakin can’t stop himself from speaking up, alarmed. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

Obi-Wan jolts and turns around to face the couch, clearly startled. “Anakin!” he yelps, one hand flying to his stomach and the other to grip the counter behind him, as if Anakin is an intruder, and not the man he’s been living with for six years. “I thought you’d be at work!”

Anakin fights the urge to flush. The truth is, he’s tried to go into work for the past three days, but Obi-Wan’s absense has kicked his alpha hindbrain into a special kind of panic mode, where he can’t stand to leave the den until the omega returns to it safely.

It’s not like Anakin’s going to say that though, not after five years of pining for the older omega from afar. He’s a pro at this by now.

“Working from home today,” Anakin says. And then so Obi-Wan doesn’t think he’s spent his entire week alone on the couch waiting to be not alone anymore (he has), he lies, “Woke up hungover.”

“On a Thursday?” Obi-Wan says, sounding a bit concerned.

Anakin purses his lips and tries not to pout. He rakes his eyes over the omega, taking in his messed up hair and untrimmed beard and the dark circles that have popped up beneath his eyes. “You didn’t answer, Obi-Wan,” he accuses. “What’s wrong?”

The omega’s scent tinges with distress, which only proves Anakin’s point further. Obi-Wan never lets his scent leak through his blockers, not if he can help it. Anakin’s always made sure to luxuriate in his unbridled scent when he can, one that smells like maple and rain and cinnamon. But to smell it now just makes him feel more worried.

“Are you going into—“ Anakin stutters over the word heat. Obi-Wan’s at least feeling well enough to roll his eyes fondly. The older omega thinks Anakin’s one of those alphas that get wildly uncomfortable talking about an omega’s heat. It’s not true. Anakin’s helped friends through heats both platonically and sexually. Look, he’s run to the corner bodega at two in the morning to get Padmé heating pads to be left outside her door. He’s no stranger to heats.

But the idea of his prim and proper roommate writhing around in his nest, begging for something to fill him up the way he needs—that makes Anakin stutter and blush and trip over his words.

“No,” Obi-Wan says, but there’s something off in his tone, something sour in his scent. Anakin puts his laptop aside—the screen’s gone dark already anyway—and makes to stand, his inner alpha baying with the need to run his hands over the omega, to make sure he’s not bleeding or hurt or injured—

“I—I’m going to unpack and take a shower,” Obi-Wan decides, pushing away from the counter and closer to the couch. Not close enough. But closer. “And then I need to talk to you about something.”

“Are you…” Anakin casts around for the right word to say. Ill. Leaving me. Sick. Sick of me. Done with all of this. Dying.

Obi-Wan pauses and gives him his own sort of once-over. Whatever he finds in either his body language or his scent brings a soft smile to the omega’s face. “I’m fine, dear one. I—I need a shower. I don’t—smell right.”

Anakin blinks after him, hands balling into fists and relaxing as he processes those words. Usually it’s Anakin who wants Obi-Wan to shower off the stench of other alphas after his business trips or stays at his friends’ places. Obi-Wan’s always insisted he smells fine, but he’ll cave if Anakin’s mood gets bad enough.

It’s not something he’s especially proud of, but it’s worth it when Obi-Wan curls up onto the couch beside Anakin and he smells only like the shampoo and soap they share.

Sometimes if he’s tired enough, he’ll even let Anakin scent mark him so that next time he goes out, everyone will automatically assume he’s already in possession of an alpha and not looking for anything.

Sometimes, he even asks for it. Those times are the best.

Anakin tries to sit still while he waits for Obi-Wan to come back, but it’s impossible. He moves to the table, then to the kitchen counter, then back to the couch. Where should he sit, where would be a place he feels safe enough to receive whatever news Obi-Wan’s putting off telling him?

In the omega’s arms in his own bed, is the answer that comes to mind. But can he really ask that of Obi-Wan? They’ve done it before, when Anakin’s mother had died, when Ahsoka had left the city to get a degree abroad, when Anakin feels as though he’s going to shake apart if he doesn’t hold onto his omega and make sure that he at least can’t leave him too.

When Obi-Wan comes out of his room, all flushed from the shower with his hair still damp and messy, wearing a blue sweater Anakin’s pretty sure used to be his and a pair of sweatpants that are definitely currently his, there’s hardly a choice to make. If Obi-Wan wants to wear his scent, Anakin will give it to him.

Silently he takes his hand and leads him to his bedroom, toeing out of his shoes and tugging him into his bed and into his arms.

Obi-Wan goes so easily that it only makes Anakin more worried. His heart cannot take this level of stress and he has to hide his face in the crook of Obi-Wan’s neck and inhales greedily at the pure scent of omega—Obi-Wan omega—his omega.

“Obi-Wan,” he says nonsensically, just to feel the way the omega in his arms shudders at the sensation of his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of his neck.

But then Obi-Wan doesn’t stop shaking and Anakin can feel a growing wetness against his shirt. He can’t stop the distressed rumble that comes out of his throat, but he bites his tongue just in time to stop the alpha command to tell him. Obi-Wan wouldn’t like that and Anakin wouldn’t like doing it.

His hands stroke soothingly over the omega’s back as he starts purring from within his chest. An alpha’s purr is supposed to reassure an omega, make them feel safe and protected, but Obi-Wan doesn’t seem to realize this because he doesn’t stop crying.

“Talk to me,” Anakin murmurs nosing at the short hairs behind Obi-Wan’s ears. “Baby. Obi. Omega. What is wrong? What can I do?”

Obi-Wan wipes his eyes dry on Anakin’s shirt and looks up at him with a heartbroken but strangely resigned expression. Like he already knows what Anakin’s going to do, and he thinks nothing he says will change anything.

As if.

When Obi-Wan went on a two month long business trip three years ago, Anakin grew out a beard and it only took one look from the omega upon his return before Anakin was shaving it off. The point is, Obi-Wan doesn’t even need to speak half the time for Anakin to agree. He’s just that in love. It’s pathetic. He can’t remember who he was before it.

“I’m a mess, I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan finally gets out, retracting one of his hands from the tight grip he has on Anakin’s shirt to rub at his eye. “I told myself I wasn’t going to be like this, but. I don’t—it’s—“

“Hey, hey,” Anakin soothes, leaning back a bit so he can knock their foreheads together. Packmates do that all the time. “It’s okay.”

Obi-Wan nods slowly, and his scent expands with the pleasant notes of a comforted, protected omega.

“Do you remember…when I went to Seattle at the end of August for that conference?” he starts slowly.

Anakin hums in acknowledgement. He’d wanted to go with Obi-Wan, instincts demanding that the other side of the country was too far for the omega to travel alone, but he’d not been able to get time off of work.

His heart drops into his stomach at the idea that somehow maybe Obi-Wan met someone there during his four-day trip, and he’s in love with them and is trying to find a way to tell Anakin he’s moving.

Would it be pathetic if Anakin followed him? Would Obi-Wan’s new alpha allow Anakin to live with Obi-Wan still? Would Obi-Wan’s alpha be amenable to telling Anakin how he made Obi-Wan fall in love with him in a matter of days when Anakin’s been trying to get the man to love him romantically for six years?

Anakin’s heart rate is up, but it’s nothing compared to the staccato beat of Obi-Wan’s. He tries to send out more calming pheromones, but he can’t even find them for himself.

This is it. He’s about to lose Obi-Wan. The alpha inside of him whimpers, and it takes all of his willpower not to crush his omega tighter to his chest.

No. Not his.

“I met a man there, just at the hotel,” Obi-Wan says. It would have been kinder if he’d just stabbed Anakin with the kitchen knife. There’s no relief to be found in this slow death. Because—because surely, Anakin will die without Obi-Wan. Not physically, of course. He’s not one of those alphas who doesn’t know how to take care of himself.

Actually, it’s Anakin that cooks most of the time for both of them. And Anakin will do the shopping, will keep an eye on the amount of cleaning supplies they have, how much toilet paper, how many garbage bags.

But what would be the point of cooking anything if Obi-Wan isn’t there to taste it and shower him with praise? What’s the point of cleaning the apartment if Obi-Wan isn’t there to tuck himself into his arms on the couch and thank him for the work? What’s the point of anything if he’s doing it without Obi-Wan?

“Anakin, I—“ Obi-Wan stutters and falls silent. Anakin braces himself for the end he should have seen coming. “I’m pregnant.”

White noise. Anakin doesn't even think he’s breathing. Obi-Wan is pregnant. Obi-Wan…had a one-night stand in a city 2,400 miles away from Anakin, and he’s pregnant. Someone touched Obi-Wan, someone made Obi-Wan come, someone got Obi-Wan pregnant, and maybe…maybe there’s a chance they’ll get to keep Obi-Wan too.

The alpha in his chest howls at the thought. The idea that—that someone else will have a better claim on Obi-Wan’s heart. What’s six years of living together compared to a child?

Except Obi-Wan presses further into his chest, with a shaky whine. The omega is here now, not with any other alpha, not in any other city. He’s in Anakin’s bed, in Anakin’s arms.

Anakin opens and closes his mouth, trying to figure out what to say, how to say it, how to speak. He needs to know so much more. He needs to know what Obi-Wan is going to do, if he’s in contact with the father, if he’s planning to move, if he’s planning to raise the—

As if he can hear his thoughts, Obi-Wan starts talking again, very fast as if he’s afraid Anakin’s going to kick him out in a few minutes and he needs to get the whole story out before he does.

“I’m keeping it. Them. I—I’m so old now—“ he’s barely 38– “I’m afraid this could be my only chance at…at a family.”

Anakin closes his eyes and hides his face in the still-damp strands of Obi-Wan’s hair. He doesn’t want Obi-Wan to see how devastated he is at this response. Anakin’s family is Obi-Wan. He’d thought…he’d wanted….

“I understand if you want to move out before the lease ends,” Obi-Wan mumbles, but his hands clench tightly around Anakin’s back. “I know…a baby…another alpha’s baby…you shouldn’t have to take care of them. I know it’s not what you signed up for, I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t hold it against you.” His voice gets smaller and smaller until Anakin has to strain to hear him. “I can do this alone.”

He sounds as if he’s telling himself as much as he’s telling Anakin. But Anakin can’t even focus on that because his entire attention is caught by everything else Obi-Wan’s just said. Because it sounds…it sounds as if Obi-Wan is planning to stay in the city. In the apartment. Without the sire.

Alone.

As if Anakin would ever let Obi-Wan be alone, given the choice. As if Anakin would ever leave Obi-Wan to struggle through any difficulty without him.

Obi-Wan presses impossibly closer to him. “Say something,” he demands, running his nose up and down Anakin’s neck, over his scent glands, as if he expects Anakin to be able to form whole, coherent sentences when he’s doing that with his mouth.

The pregnancy must be messing with Obi-Wan’s instincts and emotions, Anakin realizes distantly. His body must know he’s not mated, that he’s about to be a visibly pregnant, unmated Omega in a dangerous city. No wonder he’s trying to cover himself so completely in Anakin’s scent. He has to wonder if Obi-Wan even understands what he’s doing. He’s never been one to try and he in touch with his Omegan side.

“Alpha,” Obi-Wan pleads, and Anakin has a second realization that it’s been ages since he’s said something. The room fills with the scent of distressed, in pain omega.

Anakin lets out an involuntary purr and tightens his hold on Obi-Wan’s body. It would be nice to look him in the eyes, but he thinks they both need as little distance between themselves as possible. “You’re going to make a great parent,” he soothes, nuzzling along Obi-Wan’s hairline. “And I’m not going to leave you unless you want me to.”

Obi-Wan stills completely as if shocked to his bones, and then he relaxes bonelessly into Anakin’s arms. This time, Anakin feels the tears as soon as they start and he goes about stroking up and down Obi-Wan’s spine again.

“I was so afraid,” Obi-Wan admits between sobs. Anakin thinks to himself privately that he definitely knows how that feels, but one of them shouldn’t be crying. “I didn’t know how to tell you—I didn’t want you to hate me for making such a stupid mistake—“

There’s nothing Obi-Wan could do to make him hate him. Sure, Anakin’s absolutely filled with hatred for whoever caught Obi-Wan’s eye on that business trip, but none of those emotions bleed over into what he feels for Obi-Wan. Not when his love is too strong and entrenched.

“Bail said you’d understand but I’m just—a mess, I don’t know what I’m doing half the time and these goddamn hormones are making me feel out of control—“ Obi-Wan continues. The fact that Bail fucking Organa found out about Obi-Wan’s pregnancy before Anakin did will drive him crazy if he lets it, so he puts that aside for now and focuses on comforting his omega.

“We’ll figure it out,” Anakin says, scenting Obi-Wan back. “It’ll be alright.”

————

A few hours later, Obi-Wan awakens from the nap he’s fallen into with a start. Anakin’s gotten no sleep, too busy drawing nonsense lines on Obi-Wan’s back and staring at the ceiling, thinking about the future. About what’s going to happen to them, around them.

No matter how much he hates the sire of the child in Obi-Wan, he already feels attached to the baby. It’s part of Obi-Wan. Maybe they’ll have his hair color or his eyes. Maybe they’ll have his compassion, his wit. Maybe they’ll let Anakin teach them how to play soccer or swim or cook.

The possibilities are endless and all of them involve Obi-Wan falling in love with him because of how amazing of a father he is to his child.

It’s not the most pressing thought in his mind, but he has to admit at least to himself that it’s there. That he’s just as in love with Obi-Wan as he was when he woke up in the morning. Now he just has another part of Obi-Wan to love: his child.

Maybe their child.

“I need to tell him,” Obi-Wan mumbles from his spot laying across Anakin’s chest. “I don’t—I don’t particularly want his involvement or, or money, but he should know. He should have the option to be in his child’s life.”

The part of Anakin who has just spent the past three hours getting used to the idea of raising Obi-Wan’s child as if he’s his own bristles at the idea of the sire being involved at all.

“Do you have his number?” Anakin asks reluctantly. He can’t imagine getting to sleep with someone as gorgeous as Obi-Wan and not trying to give him a means of keeping in contact.

But Obi-Wan shakes his head.

“His address?”

Another negative. “I…know his name and where he works.”

Anakin bares his teeth at the ceiling. “And?”

Obi-wan sounds more than a bit embarrassed. “Ah. He was the bartender at the hotel. And his name tag said Set.”

“You went to a medical conference full of alpha surgeons and researchers and you…slept with the bartender,” Anakin says blankly, before he can stop himself.

Obi-Wan huffs. It’s the most Obi-Wan response he’s given since he got home from Bail’s. “Sorry my one-night stands don’t meet your standards.”

Anakin hums. The truth is the only person who will ever meet his standards as a romantic partner for Obi-Wan is Anakin. “So what do you want to do? Call the hotel and ask for Set?”

Which, by the way, is the most pretentiously Seattle name he’s ever heard of. Set’s given name is probably, like, David and he just wanted to sound cool and grunge.

“I can’t just—this isn’t something I can say over the phone, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says. He falls silent.

“It’s mid-November,” Anakin points out. “Neither of us are hurting for money, but plane tickets are going to be astronomical until January at least. If they’re available at all.”

There’d be shitty seats available, of course, but Anakin’s not going to let his pregnant omega cram himself into an uncomfortable, smelly seat for eight hours.

“You don’t—I don’t expect you to come with me,” Obi-Wan mumbles into Anakin’s collarbone.

Anakin just manages to bite back a scoff and the urge to point out that last time Obi-Wan went off to Seattle without him, he got pregnant. Who knows what would happen if he does it again?

“Well, I’m gonna,” he says firmly. “But I think we should drive. It’ll take longer, but I’d feel much better about what you’re exposed to, not to mention how much more comfortable my car is than a coach seat. We can share a motel bed to cut costs, and—what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Obi-Wan picks himself up off his chest to stare at him quizzically. “What if your job won’t let you take the days off? They didn’t even let you leave for the original Seattle trip and that was only a few days. We’re talking weeks here, Ani.”

Anakin sets his face into a scowl. He’s worked at the same finance firm since moving to New York, but if they won’t let him take time off for this, for Obi-Wan, he’ll quit. Simple as that. “Then I’ll go anyway and they can fire me.”

Predictably, Obi-Wan has several protests. Anakin will hear none of them. If he is fired, if he can’t find another finance job in the city that makes the same amount of money, then they’ll move out to somewhere else. He’s heard good things about Denver. And if Obi-Wan doesn’t want to move that far, maybe they can move upstate. It’ll be easier to raise a kid outside of the city anyway.

He’s not dumb enough to tell Obi-Wan this, knowing it makes him sound literally insane, but he is just stupid enough to cut Obi-Wan off and say, “you’re the most important person in my life, Obi-Wan. You….you both are.”

Hesitantly he moves his hand down to rest it gently over the slightest swell of Obi-Wan’s tummy. The omega’s breath catches in his throat, but he lets him touch.

“I’m going to be there with you, every step of the way if you’ll have me,” Anakin adds, stroking his thumb over the impossibly soft skin. Pregnant. Obi-Wan is pregnant.

It’ll take a few days more to get completely used to that idea, that’s for sure.

Obi-Wan studies his face with eyes still red-rimmed and puffy from all that crying a few hours ago. Slowly he raises his own hand to Anakin’s neck and rubs up and down his scent gland with something almost like longing in his expression. They’re so close together. Anakin would let him have anything—everything.

Everything.

“Alright,” Obi-Wan agrees with an air of strained incredulity in his voice , placing his other hand over Anakin’s on top of his abdomen. “Yes. Let’s drive to Seattle so I can tell my one-night stand that I’m carrying his child.”

Anakin nods and adds privately in his head, And so I can tell him that that kid’s gonna be mine in everything but blood and he better stay on his side of the goddamn country.

He’s not losing his family to some stupid Seattle alpha.

[tryingmybestpls]

Not A Team-Part 1: The Start

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: The Reader tries to live a normal life, but her memories won’t leave her alone. Rhodey comes to visit the reader with a proposition.

Rating: T

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: Talks of death, talks of mental illness, mentions of feeling alone

Four Months Ago

"Y/N, do you think you can tell me why you're here?" The female therapist asks, clicking her one before setting it down on her notepad. The ex-hero shifts on the charcoal grey couch, wanting to be anywhere but here. While she knows that the room should be sort of calming, but it has the directly opposite affect on Y/N. Her stomach is twisting in knots and she feels like her breakfast is going to come up.

"I was told I had to come here." Y/N replies, looking down at her chipping burgundy nail polish. There was hardly any color left on her nails, but what was left was stubbornly holding on, a constant reminder of what she had painted them for.

"Yes, but why were you told to come here?" The doctor-whose name was escaping Y/N at the moment-pushes, shifting in her own seat. Y/N continues to stay silent, which makes the therapist sigh, "Look Y/N, you have to be here. The only way you are able to get out of this is when I am able to determine that you aren't a danger to yourself or others. The government needs to know that you are okay. It's apart of the Acco-"

"I-I messed up. I messed up bad." Y/N cuts her off, wanting to get this all over as quickly as possible.

It's the understatement of the century.  I messed up bad. That's what you say when you crash your car or get too drunk and text your ex. "Messing up bad" doesn't land you in court mandated therapy. No, Y/N hadn't "messed up bad", but she couldn't say what she had actually done. Even if she couldn't get the words out of her mouth, she was well aware if she had done. The smell of burning flesh used to be something she would wear like a perfume. Now it threatens to invade her nose, forcing her to go back to that night. Y/N tries her best to ignore it, but it's so hard to forget a smell like that.

"And when you say mess up-"

"I used my powers and people got hurt." Y/N answers, her hands getting hot. She glances down, trying to will away the heat and the fire that will surely follow. The therapist writes down a few more notes. Y/N finds herself hating the way the pen scratches at the paper, the sound almost deafening.

"Is it hard to control your powers?" The doctor asks, to which Y/N immediately shakes her head. She looks back up at the therapist, clasping her hands tightly together. Y/N is trying to look as normal and okay as possible, hoping that the therapist believes her little act.

"No. It-They're just slightly influenced by my emotions and I was just really emotional that day." Y/N replies as she feels the heat move away from her hands. She shifts on the couch, hating the attention she's getting right now, hating the way the therapist's eyes seem to notice every little movement and thought. The therapist writes that down, nodding.

"Why were you so emotional, Y/N?" The woman questions. The ex-Avenger looks back down at her hands, her wedding ring shimmers in the light that's streaming through the windows. Just seeing it makes her stomach sink, her throat tightening with that same emotion.

-

Now

Y/N has always hated silence.

It's the reason why she loved being in the city so much. It was constantly awake. There was never a moment of silence, no the city was always screaming and shouting. Y/N had welcomed the sound with open arms. Even when the Avengers moved out of the city and went upstate, it was still loud. Everyone kept different hours, everyone had different tasks so the base was never completely quiet. Life on the run with Steve, Sam, Wanda, and Nat wasn't quiet either. The five of them were a family, always constantly talking and bickering.

But now, she lived alone.

It was raining out today. The incessant pounding of the water droplets against the roof and the ground outside provided a much needed melody as Y/N moved around the house. Boxes still littered the rooms, precariously stacked on top of each other. She's been leaving here for a while, but some boxes she can't bring herself to unpack. For example, the large one in the middle of the living room that was labeled "WEDDING DRESS + BOUQUET" was now being used as an impromptu side table. Another one that was shoved into the second bedroom had "PICTURES FROM COMPOUND" scrawled on the side in sharpie. She doesn't think she'll ever open that one, not knowing how she handle all of those memories.

Y/N forces herself to pick up one of the boxes in the kitchen, this one labeled "WINTER CLOTHES". Usually, she would be outside tending to the garden (her therapist had told her that she needed a hobby to keep herself busy) or doing small tasks that needed to be done. However, because of the rain she was stuck inside with all the boxes that she had yet to unpack. The box is heavy, most of the weight most likely coming from her bulky winter coats.

Y/N had left the city she had loved so much, packing up her life to move to a small little house upstate. The city didn't feel like home anymore. Living in Steve's apartment without him felt wrong. It had never felt like home, didn't feel like she belonged there. They never lived at the apartment together, they didn't share any memories here. No, this place was all Steve. She was constantly surrounded by Steve-his things, his memory, his smell. It was suffocating, being surrounded by a man that had abandoned you.

Five years she was gone. Five years he had grieved and mourned over her and then-almost immediately when Y/N came back, Steve decided he didn't want to stay with her. He didn't tell her what he was going to do. Maybe he knew that if he had, she would've tried to talk him out of it. Y/N knows that she would've begged for him to stay with her. She was a. proud woman, but she wasn't proud enough to beg.

She had expected him to come back to her. Y/N thought he was going to return the stones and come back. She had thought they were going to be able to continue where they had left off, they were going to able to be together after all this time. They were finally going to be able to settle down and start that family that Steve had always hinted at. Get a house with a white picket fence and get a cute little dog. The fucking American Dream.

And then he had came back as an old man, with a gold wedding band that she hadn't given him on his finger. Steve gave Sam his shield and his legacy, no longer able to carry the mantle of Captain America. And Y/N-well Y/N's world just crumbled around her, her dreams shattering because Steve decided that he was going to move on.

She still loved him, she even still loves him now. It was impossible not to love him, even though he had left her behind. Y/N tried her best to hate him-told herself that Steve had betrayed her and that he didn't want her. She tried to tell herself that Steve didn't even love her, because if he had loved her why would he be so willing to abandon her, especially after he had just got her back? It didn't matter how much he hurt her or what he did to her, Y/N's heart would always belong to Steve whether she liked it or not.

Feeling incredibly conflicted, Y/N had forced herself to stay her by husband's side as he got sick. She didn't ask for an apology, even as Steve told her over and over that he was incredibly sorry for what he did. Y/N knew that he wasn't actually sorry because if he was actually sorry, he wouldn't have lived an entire life with Peggy. She wouldn't tell him how hurt she was or how looking at her wedding ring made her feel sick now. No, Y/N had played the role of the dutiful wife. She held his hand as his condition worsened and made sure his affairs were in order. Her feelings didn't matter as she tried to make his last days more comfortable.

And then he died.

Steve died, leaving her behind. She didn't dare talk about what had happened, what he had put her through. Y/N, even with all of the bullshit he had put her through, didn't want to tarnish his legacy. Steve Rogers was a hero and she wasn't going to be the one that ruined that for everyone. Even Sam tried to ask her if she was okay and she had just brushed it off, telling him that she was glad that Steve had picked him to carry on the legacy attached to the shield he had received.

Y/N had tried to carry on after Steve was buried, but it was hard. She was dropped into a world where all of her friends were gone, a world that had moved on without her. It was a world that she didn't belong in and she knew it. Y/N tried her best to return to normal, but she quickly learned that there was no such thing as the normal she was used to. Everything felt wrong, felt off in some minuscule way that made her unable to adapt to regular life again.

Y/N just kept bottling up her emotions, the pressure continuing to build up as the days went on. She was drowning it and there was no life preserver in sight. Everyone else went back to normal, going back to school or getting a job or finding ways to get busy. Y/N knows that she should've gotten help, that she should've tried talking to someone, but she didn't. Maybe a part of her didn't want to admit there actually was a problem, that Steve hadn't been the perfect husband and she felt abandoned by the man she married.

And that had led to her completely losing it.

Y/N would later be told that it was a nervous breakdown. A nervous breakdown. She felt-and still feels-like that name wasn’t what she experienced. It was so much more than just a nervous breakdown.

It had led to innocent people getting hurt, people that hadn't cause her pain, people that were most likely suffering just as much as she was. Her emotions were just too high and her powers-her powers decided to act on her impulses and her feelings. She had just been so God damn angry at Steve-

Y/N has to drop the box she was holding, her hands growing hot. She mutters curse words as she hears what sounds like glass shattering inside the box as she forces herself to calm down. She does the breathing exercise that the therapist had told her to do, attempting to rein in her emotions. Her eyes shut, breathing in through her nose, and out through her mouth. Y/N tries to pull the heat back inside of her, but it just won't go back in.

Her heart is beating fast in her chest as she quickly moves back into the living room, her feet carrying her to the front door. Her bright red hand grabs ahold of the doorknob, throwing the door open.

The rain is much louder now, making it almost hard to see with how much is coming down. It hits the ground violently, a cold wind trying its best to cool Y/N off, to no avail.

She quickly walked down the steps of the porch as the heat crawled up her arms, her temperature rising. Y/N knows she won't have the time to take off her clothes and she also knows that she's gone past the point of attempting to rein her powers in. Her hands catch first, bright yellow and orange flames quickly covering her skin, coating them until no skin remained.

The flame crawls over her body, burning away  her clothes before the flames take over her entire body. The rain turns into steam as soon as it hits her fire covered body, a cloud surrounding her. Y/N feels more relaxed as the flame licks at her skin, covering her from head to toe. It's easier to calm down after she does this, getting some of those stronger feelings released in order to return back to normal.

-

Hours later while she is in the middle of cooking, someone knocks on her door. Y/N sighs softly, putting her slotted spoon back down on the counter, quickly wiping her hands on a dishcloth. She makes her way to the front door, not bothering to look through the peephole before she opens the door.

Rhodey stands before her, dressed in far more causal clothing that he usually is in. Y/N's eyes are immediately drawn to the thick manila folder in clutched tightly in his hands. He gives her a small smile. Y/N knows that he isn't just here to visit. No one ever comes to visit.

"Hey." Rhodey says gently, almost as if he's testing the waters. They haven't seen each other in a few months, not since the events that had led her to moving all the way out of here, not since she got out of the psych ward she had voluntarily gone to after her accident. Voluntarily is the wrong word here. The US Government had all but strong armed her into going.

"Hi. Uh-Here, come in. It's cold out." Y/N responds, opening the door a little wider. Rhodey's smile grows as he steps inside. He stops for a moment, looking around at her home. It's small, almost more of a cottage than an actual home. He takes note of the lack of any personal items, no pictures out on display, no tchotchkes. Boxes still litter the living room even though she's lived here for a few months.

"It looks good. Real cozy." Rhodey comments as Y/N shuts the door. She nods, giving him a polite smile as she moves past him to go back into the kitchen.

"Why'd you come by? I know it isn't for dinner." Y/N cuts straight to the point. She doesn't even bother looking at him as she checks to see if her pasta is ready. Rhodey's smile falters for a moment while she strains the pasta. He clears his throat, quickly regaining his composure.

"I-Well I stopped by because I wanted to talk to you about something." Rhodey walks into her kitchen, leaning against the counter as she pours the pasta back into the now empty pot. Y/N holds out her hand for the folder, which he immediately hands over. She flicks through it, seeing the plans for an exhibit honoring her husband. Rhodey shifts slightly as he sees her eyebrows knit together. As she goes through the pictures, she can see that it wasn't in the preplanning phase. They had their exhibit ready, all done up with a fresh paint job.

She's seen the exhibit before. Y/N had teased Steve constantly over it, thinking it was the funniest thing that he had a whole exhibit dedicated to him, a man who couldn't even use a cell phone. Steve told her once that he didn't mind the teasing, told her that it was one of his favorite things about her.

But that was then and this is now.

"The Smithsonian wants to expand their exhibit on Steve. I don't exactly see why this has anything to do with me." Y/N's eyes catch on a picture of her and Steve at their wedding, big stupid smiles stretched across their faces. The page notes possibly names for this part of the exhibit, all of them making that emotion crawl up into her throat.

"They want you to speak at the opening. You and Sam." Rhodey answers, watching as her face drops. Y/N closes the folder, still looking down at it. The papers suddenly feels like they're a million pounds, weighed down so many memories. For a second, Rhodey gets his hopes up, thinking that she is actually considering it.

"Get someone else to do it." Y/N tells him, handing the folder back over to the man. Her voice is a lot colder than it was before and her friend could practically see Y/N building her walls back up. Rhodey sighs, holding it for a moment before setting it down on the counter.

"They want people who knew him, Y/N."

"Then get someone else because I sure as hell didn't." She snaps, the fire on the stove growing. Y/N quickly shuts off the burners, shaking her head, "Ask Barnes, ask literally anyone else."

Rhodey opens his mouth before shutting it. He didn't know how to respond. He knew that his friend was upset, but as soon as Steve did what he did, she had shut herself off. Rhodey had tried and tried to get through to her and after what she had did...Rhodey knew she was going through a lot and that Y/N wouldn't tell him or anyone else how she was feeling. She just wasn't that type of person, never has been.

Y/N swallows the lump in her throat that threaten to swell up, serving Rhodey a plate full of food without him asking if he wants one. She ignores all the memories that flash in her mind, trying to keep it together. She hands the plate to Rhodey without saying a single word before serving herself . Y/N grabs them both drinks and napkins, moving around the kitchen in complete silence. They both sit down at her little table, the only sounds being the two of them breathing and their forks hitting their plates.

"How are you doing?" Rhodey breaks the silence, looking across at her. Y/N pushes her food around her plate, shrugging her shoulders.

"Doing better. I go to therapy once a week like I'm supposed to. It's-It's a lot easier to breathe out here." She replies, setting her fork down. Rhodey gives her a small smile.

"I'm glad you're doing better. I'm sorry I haven't been checking in on you. I know you wanted space and some time." He says softly, to which Y/N shakes her head, taking a sip of her drink. She knew that Rhodey felt guilty over her situation, but the man has enough on his plate. He doesn't need to adding 'taking care of Y/N' to his long list of tasks.

"You've been busy. There's a lot of rebuilding that needs to be done and you shouldn't have to be checking in on me." She looks up at him attempting to give him some peace of mind, "I'm doing better, I promise."

It wasn't the biggest lie she's ever told. She was doing better, but she still wasn't herself. Although, Y/N didn't know if she could ever return to being herself pre-Blip. Before all of this shit, she had Steve to lean on. Now...well now she didn't have anyone, and she didn't want to burden any of her friends with her issues. They had their own shit they were going through. They didn't need to deal with hers.

Later on, long after dinner had finished and the rain decided that it was done working for the day, Rhodey stood up from his spot on the couch. Y/N smiled warmly at him, walking with him to the front door. When they step outside onto the porch, the night air is cool and calm, the lovely smell of rain surrounding them.

"Y/N, I just wanted to say that I didn't want to ask you. I know-I know you're still healing. They told me I had to ask, but I didn't want to. I just want you to know that." Rhodey suddenly announces, turning towards her. Both of them were barely illuminated by the porch lights and the light spilling out from her front door. Y/N nodded, that lump in her throat returning.

"I know. I know, Rhodey." She replies, her voice cracking slightly. Y/N stands there for a moment, both of them looking at each other before she decides to throw her arms round him. Her friend is a little surprised by the action, but hugs her back happily. Y/N shuts her eyes for moment, resting her chin on his shoulder. He rubs her back soothingly, wondering if this is the first hug she's had since Steve's funeral. They pull part, once again looking at each other.

"You take care of yourself okay? I'm going to try to come and visit more, but I need to take care of yourself." Rhodey tells her, giving her a kind smile, "And don't be afraid to text, okay? You can tell me about anything, it doesn't even have to be important."

"I'll be sure to text you all about the growth of my sunflowers and whether or not I am capable of fixing a sink." She teases, which makes the man laugh.

"That's all I ask. It was nice seeing you Y/N." Rhodey tells her, making his way down the steps of his porch. Y/N leans against one of the posts, wrapping her arms around herself.

"It was nice seeing you too." Y/N responds as she watches him walk over to his car. He gives her a small wave before climbing inside. She stays on the porch until he drives away, not moving until she can no longer see his tail lights.

Y/N relaxes her shoulders, sighing softly as she turns on her heel and walks back inside. The ex-hero shuts and locks her door. She walks back into the kitchen, gathering the discarded and used plates. As she is putting them in the sink, her eyes land on the manila folder resting on the counter.

Y/N knows that Rhodey most likely deliberately left it behind. She reaches out and picks it up again, a picture slipping out and falling into the floor. Y/N bends over to grab it, holding it gently between her thumb and forefinger. She flips it over, being greeted with the sight of her husband smiling back at her. Y/N knows the picture well-it's one she took.

She finds herself smiling back at him, her finger tracing over the image. She took it after a mission. Steve's hair is a mess from his helmet, his face dirty and he has a split lip. The shield is propped up in the seat beside him and he's just smiling at her. He looks incredibly tired, but he's still smiling at her. This is the Steve she fell in love with, the Steve that had promised to give the world. The one she had seen herself raising a family with.

Y/N leans against the counter, resting the photograph beside the open folder. She flicks through it again, her eyes studying the exhibit dedicated to her and her relationship with Steve Rogers. 'Two Heroes United' was the name they ended up on. It makes tears brim in her eyes as she looks over all of the pictures that make up this part of the exhibit. While normally she didn't like sharing her personal relationships with the world, this felt okay somehow, it felt almost cathartic.

She shuts the folder, taking another glance at it. Her finger traces the embossed Smithsonian logo on the cover of it. If she did it, she wouldn't be doing it alone. If Sam could do it, it couldn't be that bad.

Right?

[saintchrollo]

goodmorning chrollo sluts. kiss kiss. kg teacher reader, unbetad like normal

“what are you doing out of bed?” chrollo’s voice is a pout, drawing your attention away from the toaster.

“i have to go to work, lovely,” you say, keeping your voice gentle.

chrollo pads across the kitchen, sweatpants dangerously low, sleepiness clear on his face. “you do look lovely,” he mumbles. “come back to bed.”

“i can’t do that, angel,” you say, letting him wrap his arms around your waist and rest his head on your shoulder. he takes a deep breath. you pull down peanut butter and honey, waiting for your toast.

“yes you can,” chrollo insists, “you smell so good.”

you can’t help but chuckle and pat chrollo’s forearm. “thank you, you bought the perfume for me.”

chrollo let’s out a hum of contentment. “i make such good choices.” one of his hands travels up your chest, hugging you close. “are you sure you have to work today?”

“it’s a tuesday, angel. i have to work every workday,” you affirm, beginning to make your toast for the day. “do you want to visit me for lunch? i have free lunch and the kids have gym today.”

chrollo raises his eyebrows, resting his chin on your head to watch you assemble your breakfast. “ill pick up sushi,” he promises. “do you want me to drive you in?”

“i appreciate it, but i’ll be alright on my own,” you turn in chrollo’s arms, placing your hand on his cheek. “i think you’re too sleepy to drive, baby. i’ll see you for lunch, okay?”

chrollo nods and leans down to give you a kiss. “okay,” he places a few kisses around your face, to the moles on your cheekbones and your neck, then smoothed out your dress, smiling softly and shaking his head. “darling, if you were my teacher...”

you chuckle fondly at the comment. this wasn’t the first time you’d heard it, and it wouldn’t be the last. “what? you’d help me collect all the blue books?”

nodding, chrollo cups your cheek again and gives you another kiss. “yes ma’am,” he pulls away reluctantly, and follows you to the door.

“i’ll eat lunch around 11:30,” you say, “and i’ll be free until oneish.”

“it’s a date.” chrollo wraps his arms around you again, his hands sliding down and grabbing your ass before resuming a normal hug. you chuckle into his chest.

chrollo kisses your hand and helps you into your coat, handing your purse over and kissing your forehead. it’s so warm and domestic, chrollo soaking up the stark contrast to his normal, thieving life.

—

“hi besties! hi besties!” you call, trying to wrangle your group of rambunctious kindergartners. it takes a few moments, but they all quiet down and look up at you. “besties, let’s look at the clock! what time is it?” you ask, pointing up at the clock.

there’s a resounding cheer for lunchtime. giggling to yourself, you quiet them down again. “let’s all get our lunchboxes and go line up at the door!” you get up from behind your desk and wait patiently, before continuing the explanations. “today y’all are eating lunch with mr. angelo’s class, okay? so we’re going to go walk down to his room. how do the best besties walk in the hall?”

immediately, the kids blow the cheeks out, putting a bubble in their mouths. you smile and clap for them, before leading them down a few doors. while you’re ushering the kids into the room, you smile when you see chrollo walking through the halls, holding a rather large box tied with a black cloth and a neon yellow visitor tag on his shirt. you give him a tiny wave before pointing to your room, which he ducks into.

you wish your students one last good lunch before heading back to your room, shutting the door behind you. chrollo is sitting in your nice desk chair, looking through your treasure chest of treats for well behaved students.

“see anything you like?” you ask with a smile, coming over to give him a kiss.

chrollo pulls out a cheap plastic spider ring. he holds it up to you. “marry me?”

“of course!” you say, holding your hand out to him. he slides the ring up against the engagement ring that is already there. chrollo smiles and kisses your knuckles before he stands to get a different chair for himself.

he ends up with your old office chair, dragging it over and unpacking lunch for the two of you. a few rolls of sushi and rice, as well as some soup.

“did you make all of this?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

chrollo nods. “it didn’t take too long. and i’ll admit, the miso was already in the fridge. so you made that.”

grinning, you lean over and kiss his cheek, “thank you, angel. i appreciate it.”

“i appreciate you,” chrollo responds, easy as breathing. it makes you blush.

midway through your meal, your conversation is disrupted by the door opening quickly and footsteps running in.

“sorry miss [first] i forgot my gym uniform!”

you watch as one of your most rambunctious students rushes in, looks through his backpack, waves at you, then rushes back out.

“those don’t sound like walking feet to me, ryan!” you call after him. his shoes skid on the tile and he rushes back.

“coach didn’t give me very long!” he whines.

you frown and beckon ryan over, grabbing a sticky off your desk and writing out a message in neat cursive. please give my students time to walk in the halls ♡︎

handing it to ryan, you look him in the eyes. “walk, okay? and give this to coach.”

ryan nods seriously. he then looks at your plate. “what are you eating?”

“sushi,” you say.

“can i have some?” ryan asks hopefully.

“sorry bestie, i can’t share with you. you need to get back to class, though. use your walking feet!”

ryan gives you a thumbs up before rushing back out. he immediately starts running again.

chrollo raises his eyebrows in amusement. “bestie?”

“maybe you should call the troupe your besties and they’d argue with you less,” you point out. it makes chrollo laugh.

“i adore you,” he says, shaking his head. “are you sure i can’t take you back home right now?”

“i cant, angel. we still have science class.”

chrollo raises his eyebrows. “what are you doing today?”

“birdwatching,” you say seriously. “it’s so beautiful out today.”

“is that what they’re teaching in schools nowadays?” chrollo asks with a frown.

“i’m not explaining dante to a bunch of five year olds, chrollo,” you say.

“i think you could,” chrollo says. “you’re very good at it.”

you reach over to pat chrollo’s cheek, only to cup his jaw. he turns his head to kiss your palm. “let me take you out tonight.”

“where are we going?” you ask.

chrollo shrugs. “i haven’t decided yet but i want to show you off.”

you blush at that. “alright. i’ll save some energy for you.”

your nice, desk lunch gets cut short by a visit from ryan again, only this time he has another note for you, and immediately after delivering it, sits at his table and puts his head in his hands. you look over at him before back to chrollo. the two of you are equally interested in the contents of the notes.

ryan can’t keep his hands to himself. please have him clean something to learn his lesson. sorry for interrupting your planning period.

“merde,” you whisper under your breath, looking to chrollo apologetically. “sorry angel, you gotta bounce.”

chrollo sighs and gathers the tupperwares from lunch. “it’s alright, my love. i’ll see you tonight. i’m just glad i got to steal a few moments with you.” he leans down to give your cheek a kiss, and you hold up a folder to hide the minimal pda.

after the door shuts behind chrollo, you look to ryan. “alright, bestie. what happened?”

[ronalddear]

Bathroom.

hi again! This is another drabble/missing moment set during dh after the wedding. Again this is only my second time writing any fic so it's very amateur.

This was requested by @nuttybeardetective , and was inspired by this post of mine. Ron is vaguely prudish in this but seeing as this is only my second time writing, I don't think I'm ready to write full-on smut yet. hope you enjoy <3

WARNING: none except for language, because it's Ron ;)

WORDS: 1515

The dim cold ambience of Grimmauld Place did nothing to soothe the uneasiness of the wedding attack and Ron was utterly fed up. One week after their untimely arrival at the grim house enticed them to try and settle into their temporary 'home'. At least physically anyway, Harry was now occupying Sirius' room in reserved isolation and after another night of sleeping adjacent in the drawing-room, he and Hermione had wordlessly agreed upon sleeping in their respective rooms that they'd occupied during the summer before 5th year, with some unannounced hesitation on his part.

The minuscule amount of clothes he carried was unpacked, his worn toothbrush now stood in the cup designated on the 2nd story bathroom, opposite his bedroom. The kitchen table was now draped in Hermione's lists and notes of all sorts, a map of the Ministry adorning the centre. Yet Ron felt as if mentally he was still at the Burrow, packing the extra healing supplies from the bathroom cupboard or stood in the stuffy kitchen, duplicating his mother's kitchenware to stuff into his rucksack.

The immediate thought of the burrow made his stomach drop and his head spin. The forced confinement made him feel ill. It felt as if he was in deep quarantine and had no knowledge of the world outside. This scared him so intensely that his paranoia was at an all-time high after a week without family communication. Surely the whole Horcrux-hunting fiasco would last longer than a week? A couple months maybe? Could he go that long without his serene home, the sunny hillside near the refreshing pond, and his family, who were at risk of being imprisoned or killed because of their non-prejudiced beliefs?

His stomach dropped again and his shoulders sagged under the scorching heat of the water flowing across his frame. He discovered that hot water was helpful for him to relax, only temporarily of course but it was much better than the frigid water in the small shower the burrow housed or the short-lived heating charm that made him feel as if he was showering in lukewarm tea rather than a proper hot shower.

His only downside was that his creamy skin was almost brick red, yet somehow his freckles showed through like a common childhood disease that Hermione had mentioned getting in her early years. He could not remember the name. His hair laid flat on his head, a darker red when wet but now longer than a quiff, he ran his gangly fingers through it, sweeping it back but failing to contain a few stray pieces, which dangled near the curve of his cheek and tickled his ears.

Goosebumps spread across flesh the instant his heels touched the cool tile. The sudden temperature change brought about a shock and he scrambled for his towel to aid his chill. After hastily wrapping it around his waist, he clumsily aimed for his vest to wear until he got to the room so at least he wouldn't freeze to death. Vest in hand, the metal toothbrush cup clanged off the side of the counter, making a ruckus in its wake.

Vest now over his head and arms, bunched just under his chest. the cup was replaced to its original spot and a good few swears had escaped his breath. He bent across the counter to clear the mirror of the steam that emanated from the shower when he felt the slightest brush against his bareback.

"Shit!"

"Sorry!'

His hand frantically searched for his wand to provide defence but unless towels came with pockets then he was out of luck. Hermione's alarmed voice stabbed through the bathroom and the echo lingered for a bit, just enough until he processed that she was in front of him. Her eyebrows were raised and her mahogany eyes were wide after she jumped away from him suddenly.

"Um..Hi.” she started with a great inhale.

Ron's heart rate hadn't returned to normal and his mouth was agape at the sight of her so suddenly appearing in the bathroom. Where he was. Alone. Until she came in of course. So now it was just him and her. Alone. He suddenly became very aware that he had just come out of the shower and was revealing a particular amount of torso, which was probably solid red now with a litter of freckles that he didn't fancy too much himself.

"Uh hey?" he started, completely at a loss of how to conduct the situation, while he sheepishly smoothed down the vest along his stomach. She couldn't have come in here to discuss Horcruxes right? Actually, he wouldn't put it past her to do just that, to be honest.

"I uh.. well I came to shower and I realised that you were still in here, still are in here so.. but yeah your vest was rolled up a bit sorry, just wanted to.. uh fix it, yeah, sorry." she stumbled over her words a lot, something he'd never heard from Hermione but she seemed to speak extremely fast yet agonisingly slow and deliberate at the same time.

She was breathing in deeply again and his eyes fell to the stray tight curls that graced the nape of her neck which her haphazard-looking ponytail exposed. The bathroom was quite dim and the yellow glow from the dingy lights fell just barely on her dark skin. Skin. His eyes travelled a little further to see she was wearing a vest herself, no a camisole, he didn't know what it was but his gaze was hooked on the space between her shoulder and collarbone. He had the urge to touch it with his lips.

He quickly averted his eyes as to not embarrass himself but they glanced over her bare legs in moderately short cotton shorts and he sucked his breath in so hard he was now bent at a slight curve, stomach clenched and breath hitched. He was quickly overwhelmed at the intimacy the situation opposed. Hell, he couldn't believe he was describing an interaction with Hermione as intimate. His ears were on fire surely, he'd need an Aquamenti to put them out if he survived.

"Oh", his voice heightened toward the end and he internally cringed so hard he thought he was going to combust.

"Yeah", she whispered, her eyes were on his arms, his brain scars were fully displayed and swirled across his recently filled out arms.

"I thought you were using the bathroom near your room?" he spoke softly and slowly, drinking in the sight of her lips, which she was toying with impatiently, now flushed.

There was an urge to cover his arms but he resisted and tried to focus on a chipped tile near the door. He failed as soon as she spoke once more, her voice clearer this time and with, almost, determination?

"I think I like this one more." she spoke, referring to the bathroom seemingly but her eyes were nowhere but him.

She intentionally made eye contact and his heart dropped to his lower stomach, his chest unnaturally warm. Wasn't this room cold as shit before? He was smart enough to know that bathroom was the last bloody thing she was talking about but words failed and he was more than happy to let her steer the conversation.

"Can I ask why?', he managed, his mouth was dry and he was sure he's never wanted anything more than for her to touch him, anywhere, she could slap him if she wanted and he would relish her skin on his.

Their breaths were erratic now, you'd swear they'd run a marathon twice over. Her chest was rising and falling agonisingly slow. He was still bent a bit so he was leaning towards her and she seemed to have gotten closer since she jumped back earlier. When did that happen?

"It's a bit more spacious I think, prettier interior as well", she whispered, swallowing halfway in between and added in the last bit staring so far into his eyes that he swore she was probably seeing through his head.

Pretty. Did she just say pretty? He was pretty sure she said pretty. No one had called him that before and if she had just called him fucking pretty he was going to die on the spot. Her words kept repeating in his head, soft and intentional. His entire body was frozen and he knew that the ground wasn't cold enough to make his legs tremble the way they were now. She gazed up at him and he swore he saw a glint of satisfaction after his reaction.

"Right, well, I'll let you have it then..Enjoy.", he applauded himself in restaining his voice from wavering at the end.

She gave a small thanks and he started to walk towards the door, her to the shower. Her bare shoulder touched his elbow at the exact moment her eucalyptus shampoo wafted towards his nose and he swore he almost whimpered. Their eye contact was only broken by the door closing and Ron almost collapsing on the other side.

PLEASE REVIEW! <3

[dreamescapeswriting]

Going The Distance ~ MYG [Request]

↬↬↬Word Count: 3.4K

↬↬↬Genre: Soulmate AU, angst, happy ending

↬↬↬Pairing: Yoongi x Gender Neutral Reader

↬↬↬A/N: I hope you enjoy this my love!!! Hope this is okay for you and it meets your dreams expectations

Staring down at the small counter on your wrist you smiled as the distance between you and your soulmate seemed to grow shorter instead of further away. Instead of being thousands of miles apart from one another at least now, you were in walking distance of one another but it still didn't tell you who your soulmate was. That you were still left in the dark about since it would be far too easy for the universe to give you to one another, there had to be struggles along the way.

"That's the last one, and here are your keys." You smiled at the landlord who handed you some keys to the dorm building and your dorm room key. You'd moved to Korea for the year to study abroad, it was part of your studies and you were glad since South Korea had been one of your dream places to visit growing up.

"Thank you so much for everything." Once he was gone and you were left alone you looked around at the apartment deciding that now was a better time than any to unpack, you had weeks until your studies started back up again.

Yoongi stared at the counter throughout the last two days watching as it slowly decreased as whoever his soulmate was coming closer to being with him, going down from the thousands to mere hundreds.

"You've done nothing but stare at it all day, what could they possibly be doing to make you stare-" Namjoon stopped himself as Yoongi turned his wrist to show his friend that you were finally closer than ever before. At least now you were in the same country as one another and you could finally progress to being with one another.

"Have you spoken to them today yet?" It was something that Yoongi had started doing the moment the distance counter appeared on his wrist at the age of sixteen, he began talking out to anyone he didn't know how it was supposed to work so he would talk to the moon believing that you were on the other side talking back to him and you were. From the age of 16 when your timer appeared you felt someone was with you everywhere you went, trying to talk to you so you would talk to the moon at night - an old tale your grandmother told you that soulmates used to do to keep in contact with one another even if they weren't sure on who they were yet.

"Just like every morning and every night," He lowered his wrist and looked down at the paper he was writing on, he was trying to work on a new song but the thought of you being so close was distracting him.

"It's getting late, you heading home soon?" Namjoon questioned as he watched Yoongi closely he knew he wasn't going to leave until later into the night but it was worth a shot.

"I'll head home soon, save me some food." He laughed looking down at the paper once again and putting the top of his pen in his mouth trying to focus on something other than the timer.

It was 3 in the morning and your jetlag was starting to hit you like a brick wall, you couldn't sleep and you had a hankering for your favourite flavoured ice cream so you took the map from the top of your kitchen counter - the landlord had supplied you with everything you could need to get around Seoul.

"Perfect." You whispered seeing a 24-hour supermarket just down the road from you so you grabbed your purse and phone and headed out onto the streets to see if you could put the map reading skill you had to good use.

"Where are you going? It's 3 am." Yoongi whispered watching his wrist as he walked, you were getting closer to him. He was on his way home from the BigHit building but was going to stop off at the supermarket to get him and the boys something for breakfast but he noticed how close to one another you were. He put his hands into his pocket trying to ignore the thought of crashing into you but the thought alone was making his heart pound, the thought of finally meeting you after all these years of being apart it was making it hard for him to keep a straight face as he walked into the supermarket.

The whole time he was inside he avoided looking at his wrist, it was saying he was 0 miles away from you which meant you were right inside of the building but it was impossible, no one else inside was an Idol, like him. He was so focused on trying to figure out who you were that he hadn't even noticed you walking right into him and almost stumbling back onto the floor.

"Sorry!" You bowed to Yoongi as you bumped into him you were about to explain yourself that you hadn't been looking when the counter on both of your wrists made a ding to signal that you had found one another. You frowned looking at your wrist and up to Yoongi who was glaring at you trying to figure out who you were, he'd never seen you anywhere before so you couldn't have been famous like him.  

"Oh...Hi," Your voice came out shakey as he stared you down, his eyes were making you nervous as he continued to stare at you without saying a word it was unnerving.

"But you're not special." You felt your heart take a hit as he said that right to your face before shaking his head and laughing loudly, you could already tell he was laughing at you as he looked you up and down.

"You don't have to be so mean about it," Selfconsciousness took over your entire body the longer he stared at you, then he began to look at what you were holding and you felt even worse. You had an entire basket full of ice cream - all your favourites you were planning on stocking the freezers for when you went back to classes and wouldn't have the time to come out anymore.

"You're nothing, are you? You're just someone ordinary and boring." Every word he used made it feel like someone was getting a tighter squeeze on your heart so you looked around hoping no one could hear the way he was speaking to you. You couldn't even find the words to talk back to him you just put the basket down and headed for the door but he wasn't over this yet. He followed behind you to see where you were going.

"You're a student?!" He called out when he watched you walking towards the student accommodation he shook his head at you everything he'd been dreaming about for all these years was washed away within seconds. You were nothing he wanted. You were supposed to be special and different to everyone else and yet here you were just another gold digger that was out for him and his money.

"This is stalking you know." It was all you could come up with right now, you were too busy trying to focus on not crying in front of whoever this guy was. You'd never seen him before in your life and he had the nerve to yell at you like this, hurl insults as if he'd known you your entire life. Opening the door to your building you hoped he would get the hint and leave you but he followed you inside until you got to your apartment door.

"Leave me alone you creep!" You tried to yell but he clapped his hand over your mouth making your eyes widen in fear that you had no idea who he was and that he could just kill you if he really wanted to.

"If you let anyone know I'm here I'll end you." You nodded your head reaching behind you with your shakey hands to open the apartment door, he headed inside after you and scoffed looking around.

"Can't even afford a decent place? Just what I thought, gold digger." He spat at you knocking one of the boxes over - it was an accident, he'd been trying to walk further into the room but knocked it over with his bag breaking whatever it was inside.

"What are you even doing in Korea? Huh? Did you follow me here!? You just want to the fame don't you?!" He questioned looking around, he was trying to find any signs that you had any idea who he was but there was nothing. No posters, no magazines and no albums displayed anywhere just some books and clothes you were still in the middle of putting away.

"I had to get stuck with someone normal didn't I?!" He yelled finally losing his temper, he didn't know if he was mad at you of if it was just the entire universe he was mad at for pitting him with you.

"W-We don't even have to be together-"

"You're so fucking dumb!" He screamed throwing something he'd picked up from your kitchen counter and threw it behind him, how could the universe had fucked it up this badly?! Give him his dream life and yet he was stuck with you for his soulmate.

"P-Please stop," You begged him but it only seemed to irritate him more as he threw one of your books at the glass cupboard above your sink smashing it into tiny pieces. He walked over to you getting in your face so you would see that he meant every word he was saying to you.

"I never want to see you again, as far as I'm concerned you are nothing to me, the universe got it wrong." He spat at you your breathing hitched as he stared into your eyes, the longer he stared at you with those hate-filled eyes the more you grew weaker, your legs buckling as soon as he slammed your front door. You dropped onto your knees sobbing into your hands as the timer on your wrist vanished and left nothing but a faint unfilled love heart tattoo - if your soulmate and you were together and in love, it would be filled in with red ink but yours was so faded the ink that outlined it was almost pink. You whimpered into your hands as you tried to ignore the pain in your chest, it felt as though someone had ripped your heart right from it and left you with a giant hole where it used to be.

Three days passed until your landlord had you admitted into the hospital, he'd heard the screaming that night and had just made it into your apartment to find you crying on the floor almost sitting in the broken glass. He'd come by every day to check on you until he finally got sick of seeing you so ill and admitted you to the hospital himself. You felt awful, your chest felt empty but as though someone had laid a weight right on top of you to restrict your breathing.

"When can I leave?" You whispered to the nurse who was holding your wrist, she was applying the blood pressure machine to you when she saw the heart on your wrist. Her eyes landed on yours and filled with tears as she realised what was happening to you.

"I need to speak to the doctor first." She whispered to you filling pity for you as she walked away trying not to look back at you. Everyone knew what the hearts meant and everyone knew what happened when a soulmate rejected you.

"Yoongi! How you feeling?!" You groaned hearing yelling coming from the room across from yours, whoever it was inside of there was always having super loud visitors at inappropriate times. One snuck in at 4 am that morning with food for him since they knew how much he hated the hospital food.

"Awful, like something inside of me has been ripped out." One of the men with him laughed and you turned over to face the window wanting nothing more than to just go back to your dorm room but you still felt sick.

"Who's that?" Namjoon asked looking away from Yoongi,  Yoongi had been staring into the room across from him since the boys walked inside the hospital.

"I'll go." Jungkook laughed getting up from the chair and walking towards your room before Yoongi could even beg him not to - not that he had the energy to anyway. Yoongi knew it was you inside of there, he'd begged the nurses to move his room so you wouldn't see him but you'd been too busy staring out of the window or drawing in a sketch pad to even notice he was in the same hospital as you.

"Hi, I'm Jungkook." Your eyes looked the boy up and down, he was dressed in a hoodie and some jeans holding out his hand for you to shake but you just smiled at him not wanting to pass on what you thought you had. You had no idea that the soulmate rejection was a thing.

"I'm Y/n, w-what are you doing in my room?" You stuttered out sitting up in the bed and looking at him, he pulled the chair out and sat down crossed legged.

"You didn't look like you had any visitors so I thought I would keep you company, you're already much more interesting than my friend in there." He pointed over to Yoongi who then hid his head so you couldn't see it was him,

"Seems shy," You laughed softly and Jungkook shook his head,

"He would be, he's done nothing but stare at you since he got admitted two nights ago." He watched as you reached out for the glass of water in front of you and that was when he saw it, the faint heart that you had it was the exact same one on Yoongi in the place where his counter had been.

"Excuse me a moment." His voice broke as he got up to leave and rushed over to Yoongi demanding answers from him.

"Here," You looked behind you as someone walked into the room and placed something down onto the bedside table,

"What...What are you doing here?" You stuttered out as the boy who had been your soulmate sat down on the chair beside your bed where Jungkook had sat earlier,

"We're here for the same reason," He showed you the wrist and you frowned clearly not following along with it and he sighed.

"When a soulmate rejects you...When I rejected you I made us both sick. Clearly the universe wants us to be together." You scoffed at him pushing the food away that he'd brought you, you weren't going to take food from someone you barely knew and didn't want to get to know either.

"You trashed my apartment-"

"I had a short temper." You nodded along with him but scoffed once again,

"If you're going to scoff at everything I say we're going to be here for a long time." You shut your mouth and he smiled softly at him looking down at your wrist again his heart sank as he realised he'd been the one to hurt you this much that you were stuck in a hospital.

"I need to explain myself," He looked away from your wrist and up at you, you were already staring at him wondering why the universe had given you someone like him.

"I'm...It's going to sound bigheaded no matter how I say this, I'm famous...I'm a big deal here and almost...everywhere I think, that's why I reacted the way I did."  

"It doesn't give you a right to treat people the way you did to me-"

"I know I'm sorry," He cut you off, he knew how right you were about it but he'd built his dream life on the thought of his soulmate being someone famous like him. Someone who he would be able to relate to in ways he couldn't with other people,

"I had my expectations high-"

"Sorry I couldn't meet them." You snapped at him and he sighed, he could see he was getting nowhere with the way he was trying to explain it to you and it was frustrating for him.

"Please let me explain myself...Then you can decide if you hate me or not I promise." You slowly nodded at him and he smiled softly looking at you as you allowed him to speak even though you shouldn't have. If it was him he wouldn't have even given him the time of day to speak about it, to even be in the same room as himself.

"I was a cunt-"

"Correct," He laughed softly as you agreed with him but you waited for him to keep going and let him try to explain his way out of this.

"People use me for my money and fame all of the time...I just assumed you would too." He whispered looking down at his hands as he opened up to someone that wasn't in his life, someone he didn't know who didn't get it.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." You whispered to him watching as he wiped his eyes, he was crying over it so you could that it seriously hurt him somewhere inside and that it was coming out in ways he didn't want it to, like lashing out on someone he didn't know and smashing up their dorm room.

As time passed in the hospital you and Yoongi grew closer to one another, no one knew he was here except for the paparazzi but they were all locked downstairs in the main entrance with no idea what was happening upstairs. The nurses were sworn to secrecy as to what was happening with patients so Yoongi had nothing to worry about,

"What are you thinking about?" You questioned as you walked into your room to see him sitting on the window and looking down at everyone on the ground floor, you were so high up that everyone looked like tiny dots you could just make out the colours of their clothing. Over the last couple of days together you'd moved past Yoongi being an arrogant asshole when you first met him and you began to get to know one another on a personal level.

"How I have to go back soon," You glanced down at your wrist you were both starting to feel better and the hearts on your wrists were beginning to fill with every moment you spent together.

"Is it a bad thing?" You questioned sitting opposite to him on the window ledge handing him a bottle of water that you'd gotten from the vending machine. He leant his head on the window and then looked at you, you were so filled with hope that this could work despite what he'd done to you that it pained him a little.

"It won't be easy." He whispered watching as you shook your head at him,

"We'll make it work...We made this work." You whispered to him as you pulled your knees into your chest and put your chin onto them to rest, he smiled softly at you at how sweet you were about everything. Willing to give anything a shot even with everything he'd told you about his life and what it would mean for you if you started dating.

"We'll make it work." He promised reaching out to take your hand in his and smiling as you locked your fingers with one another.

"I promise I'll replace everything I broke," He said as you looked up at the nurse, she was coming into the room with your discharge papers and smiled at you both happy you were both doing better than you were when you first arrived in her care.

"I know," You smiled kissing his cheek, you weren't going to let him get away with smashing everything up and not replacing it and he liked that you weren't just going to let him move away from this like he'd done nothing at all.

"Call me." You whispered to him as you walked over to your bed, picking up the bag you'd brought along with you to the hospital.

"I will." He promised, sliding off the window ledge and walking with you towards the door so he could give you a real kiss goodbye when the nurse left you alone.

"I'll see you soon." He whispered tilting your chin up to him and leaving a small kiss on your lips.

Tagline: 

@snowy-meowl @jooniesdarlingdimples @lyoongx @fan-ati--c @mitzwinchester @rjsmochii @callingmyangel @kneel-begyourpardon @taestannie @innersooya​

[rusticreid]

watch the evening glow (across idaho)

Summary: Spencer and y/n take a much-needed vacation after a tough case, and find exactly the type of distraction that they need. Spencer x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,482

Warnings: oral sex (both receiving), PIV sex, mentions of history of drug abuse

A/N: Don’t ask me how boats work, I don’t know. I don’t even know what kind of boat it is. In the words of Harry Styles, “it’s just a boat”. Honestly this picture made my hick heart soar and I had to write this so ... that’s how we ended up here. 

While it contrasted his lively Las Vegas upbringing, Spencer Reid felt his calmest in the sleepy monotony of Idaho. As often as possible, he and y/n would hop on a plane for a vacation at their cabin on Lake Coeur d’Alene. They enjoyed lazy days on the lake, sipping beers and laughing as the stresses of life in the BAU melted away. Sometimes, they would take one of their trips following a case that hit one or the other of them particularly hard, needing a reminder that life could slow down, be free and easy too. 

This particular time, it was Spencer who needed to take a breather after a case where the unsub had been dosing captives with narcotics to keep them subdued, which had hit far too close to home for his comfort. After they had gotten home from that case, he had turned to y/n, “That case was a lot, baby. I need a fucking break.” 

Y/n nodded sympathetically, pulling him into a hug. Spencer had been sober for years now, but still struggled with urges to use Dilaudid again. “Do you want to go to the cabin? We haven’t used vacation time in forever.”

He nodded, forehead against her shoulder before he pulled away. “Did you know that one of the primary factors when considering the likelihood of a relapse is the recovering addict’s environment? Those who have risk factors like a high-stress lifestyle, who witness trauma or violence are significantly more likely to experience a relapse? That combined with my coexisting risk factors of mental illness and ADHD means that it’s statistically surprising that I haven’t had a relapse.” 

Y/n smiled at him, reaching up and ruffling his hair, “I’m proud of you, baby. But even if you did relapse, I would be here with you to help out, no matter what you needed. I love you, I’m here for you, and I am so proud of you. Now, let’s get some sleep and then put in requests to take a few days off.” 

---

The one thing endlessly annoying about traveling to Idaho, was that it was severely lacking in airports. To get to Coeur d’Alene, they needed to either fly into Boise, which was a 7 hour drive from their destination, or fly into Spokane, which required a layover in Seattle, but was only a 40 minute drive from their destination. Y/n and Spencer had greatly favored the second option, as the Seattle layovers weren’t usually too long. 

Upon landing in Spokane, Spencer and y/n had packed into a rental car and began the drive to Coeur d’Alene. “So,” y/n began, turning to Spencer “What do you want to do this time? I was thinking we could take the boat out, do a little exploring. Maybe I could find some ways to distract you from the case…” 

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he turned to y/n with a smile on his face, “Oh yeah? And how would you do that?” 

Y/n smirked, reaching out to rest her hand on his thigh, “I’m sure we can work something out.” 

---

As they neared their destination, Spencer pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store so that they could stock up on groceries for the week.  Y/n had always enjoyed the casual intimacy of grocery shopping with Spencer, who never failed to make endless comments about anything and everything they picked up. 

They picked up a case of beer, knowing that that cold beer would pair well with their days on the lake. Grabbing a few other items, they made their way through the checkout, hands intertwined. 

The drive to the cabin was short, but that didn’t stop y/n from palming at Spencer’s cock through his pants. He whined, looking away from the road for a second to glare at y/n, “Baby, if you don’t stop that, I’m going to end up crashing the car.” 

Y/n giggled, slowing her motions only slightly. “Then you’d better hurry up and get us to the cabin.” 

Spencer let out a shaky breath, keeping his eyes on the road as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, “You know, according to the CDC, 9 people die every day as a result of distracted driving. That adds up to approximately 3,500 each year.”

“Well,” said y/n, smirking as she looked out the window, “it’s a good thing we’re here then, isn’t it?” 

---

Y/n headed to the bedroom, stripping off her clothes as she went. Spencer, on the other hand, took his time unpacking the groceries. He smirked, knowing that y/n would already be on the bed waiting for him, likely very impatient. 

Spencer was right, of course. When he pushed open the bedroom door, he was rewarded with the sight of a fully naked y/n touching herself. She looked over at him with hooded eyes, “Took you long enough. I almost finished off without you.”

He let out a laugh, rolling his eyes good-naturedly, “Oh and what, you’d stop at just one orgasm? Just over ⅓ of people with vaginas are able to have multiple orgasms within a single session, and we both know that you’re one of those.” 

Y/n whined, “God damn it, Spencer Reid, just come over and fuck me.” 

He didn’t need to be told again. He stripped down, situating himself in front of her. He smirked up at her as he grabbed her by the calves, throwing her legs over his shoulders as he leaned in to suck a bruise on to her thigh. Y/n reached down, tangling her fingers into his curls in an attempt to guide him to where she wanted him most. He smiled as he moved to kiss and suck at the other thigh, knowing he was driving her crazy. He licked his lips, contemplating for a second before diving in, face first. His tongue flicked at her clit, eliciting a moan from her. His hands gently stroked her hips as his mouth went to work, alternating between sucking her clit and lapping at the growing wetness inside her. 

Having neared the edge before Spencer had even entered the room, y/n was quick to find release, thighs tightening around Spencer’s head and neck as she rode out her orgasm on his tongue. With a heavy breath, and shaky legs, she reclined fully on the bed, “Fuck, Spence. You’re going to kill me one of these days.”

He stood up, smirking as he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, “The risk of death during sex is significantly higher in men, especially those with a preexisting heart condition. There was a study done over 20 years, which showed that 0.19% of natural deaths in that time period were caused by sexual activity, and only two of them were women.” 

“You really do have a statistic about everything, don’t you?” y/n said, grinning at him, “Come here, I need to get you off too.” 

He leaned down to kiss her before laying next to her on the bed, “Well, I won’t say no to that.” 

“What are you in the mood for?” y/n asked, kissing up the side of his neck. 

“I’m not really in the mood to fuck, but I’d take a blowjob or a handjob. Whatever you’re up for is good for me.” 

“I can make that happen. Can you sit back against the headboard for me?” 

Spencer happily obliged, stroking himself with slightly hooded eyes. Y/n straddled his thighs and leaned in, kissing him forcefully. She reached down, grabbing his cock with her hand stroking at him slowly. He closed his eyes with a groan, “That’s it, baby.”

Y/n leaned over, rummaging through the drawer of the bedside table until she found a small bottle of lube. She uncapped it, drizzling some over Spencer’s cock, knowing that he liked wet, sloppy handjobs. She tangled one hand in his hair, kissing him as she stroked at his cock with the other hand. She got herself into a good rhythm, stroking and twisting in a way that had him moaning into her mouth. He bucked into her hand once, twice, three times before spilling over with a grunt.  He let his head fall back against the headboard, panting. 

Y/n got up from the bed, padding into the bathroom to wash his traces off her hands. Once she was done, she wet a washcloth for Spencer to clean himself off with. Returning from the bathroom, she found Spencer thumbing through a book, still breathing heavily. 

“Do you want to take a nap and then make dinner in about an hour?” y/n asked as she wiped him down. 

He smiled, nodding sleepily, “That sounds good.”

---

Y/n and Spencer giggled as they attempted to cook dinner, fumbling around each other in the tiny kitchen. Neither of them were much of a cook, so they generally stuck to simple meals when eating at home. Y/n sat on the counter as she waited for the pasta to boil, watching Spencer as he carefully measured the ingredients for a simple alfredo sauce. She smiled as he whispered to himself, ever-cautious about getting it exactly right.

When the sauce was done and the pasta was boiled, Spencer and y/n piled their bowls high and made their way over to the couch. Spencer grabbed the remote, turning the TV on for background noise as they ate. 

“So what do you want to do this week?” y/n asked between bites, “I’m thinking maybe a hike or two, a couple days on the lake and a stop at the farmers market for sure.” 

Spencer nodded, “I have a couple of books I want to read, but I can definitely do that when we’re at the lake.”

They chatted idly as they finished their dinner and then left their dishes in the sink to deal with at a later time. Y/n went to the bathroom, beginning her nighttime routine, as Spencer went around the cabin, locking the doors and windows, and turning off the unnecessary lights before crawling into bed to wait for the bathroom. 

---

Y/n and Spencer had decided to spend their first full day at the lake. The first time they traveled to Idaho, Spencer had read every book he could find regarding the details of boating, learning the intricacies pretty quickly and deciding on the type of boat that he and y/n wanted to purchase. In the subsequent trips, he had picked up fishing too, but wasn’t always in the mood for that. 

That particular boat outing, Spencer and y/n just intended to eat sandwiches on the lake and lay out in the sun, pretending that the outside world didn’t exist. Y/n scanned the scenery as Spencer dealt with maneuvering the boat. 

They made idle small talk as they made their way around the lake. Spencer found a place to stop the boat, so they could eat their lunch while enjoying the scenery. Y/n dug through the cooler, pulling out their sandwiches and a beer for each of them. Spencer accepted his lunch gratefully, leaning back in his seat to put his feet up. 

They ate in comfortable silence, enjoying the view and the peace provided by the lack of other people. “I’m always surprised by how quiet it is here,” remarked y/n, “It’s like nobody lives here.” 

Spencer raised his eyebrows, “You’re technically right. Idaho has a population density of approximately 19.8 people per square mile, as opposed to the 202.6 people per square mile that we’re used to.” 

Y/n smiled, humming in agreement and taking a swig of beer in favor of responding verbally. 

“You know what,” Spencer said suddenly, turning to y/n. 

She turned to him, expectantly, “What’s up, baby?” 

“We have had sex in every other possible location I can think of, our apartment, our cars, the BAU office, the jet… everything except for here.”

Y/n giggled, setting her beer down and pulling her dress over her head, leaving her in just a bikini, “We can change that. Nobody’s around” she said, looking around to confirm her statement. When she was satisfied that nobody was going to catch them immediately, she knelt before him, toying with the waistband of his swim trunks. He looked down at her through hooded eyes, lacing one of his hands into her hair. 

She noticed with a bit of a start that he still held his beer in the other hand, and something about that made her wet. She palmed at his cock through the thin material of his shorts, smirking at his quiet groan. 

She stuck her hands into the waistband, maneuvering his shorts off his body. She grabbed his cock, jerking it a few times to get it to full hardness. When she was satisfied, she leaned down to tongue at the head, lapping at the drops of precum leaking out. Spencer’s groan was more audible this time, his hand tightening in y/n’s hair. She plunged down, sucking the head into her mouth. She bobbed up and down, and when she looked up, she was treated to the sight of Spencer taking a swig of his beer, his long fingers curled elegantly around the neck of the bottle. She watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. Something about the nonchalance of drinking beer while receiving a blowjob made her even more desperate. 

Spencer was panting, pulling at y/n’s hair. She reached down, pulling her bikini bottoms aside to run a finger through her growing wetness. Spencer reached for her chin, breathing heavily “I’m getting close.” 

Y/n nodded, “Are you in the mood to cum in me?”

Spencer bit down on his lip, flushing, “Yeah, turn around and bend over.” 

Y/n did just that, bracing herself against the side of the boat. Spencer pulled her bikini bottoms to the side, and lined his cock up with her entrance. Grabbing her by the hips, he thrust inside her, hissing as he bottomed out. She clenched around him the way she knew he liked. He got into a rhythm, faltering as he neared his climax. He stuttered against her as his vision whited out, moaning louder than he should have, considering that they weren’t really that far from civilization. He pulled out, watching his cum drip down her legs, getting her swimsuit irreparably dirty. 

He pulled her bikini bottoms all the way down, he trailed his fingers up her legs, towards her pussy, gathering drips of cum on the way to her entrance. His cum-slick fingers trailed over her entrance, teasing at it lightly. He grabbed her arm, turning her to face him so that he had easier access. 

She whined as he teased her, fingers running through her folds as he pointedly avoided her clit. She shifted her hips in an attempt to get his fingers where she wanted them, but he remained intent. “Please, baby I need -” y/n whimpered, gasping as one of his fingers ghosted past her clit. 

“What do you need?” Spencer asked, smiling devilishly, “All you need to do is ask.” 

Y/n whined, both frustrated and incredibly aroused, “Please let me cum, Spence, please.” 

Spencer let out a laugh, but finally caved, circling her clit with his index and middle fingers. She gasped, pressing into him, “Yeah baby, just like that, don’t stop.” 

Spencer sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, only concentrating on pleasing her. She breathed heavily, the occasional “fuck” escaping her lips. Eventually, she reached her climax with a gasp, shaky legs threatening to give out under her. Spencer helped her to sit down, pushing her hair out of the way so that he could press a kiss to her sweaty forehead. 

Y/n drew in a shaky breath, “This is going to be a fucking shitshow to clean up.” 

Spencer let out a laugh, “I think I have some baby wipes in my bag”. With a grunt, he stood up to rifle through his bag, pulling his shorts back up as he stood. When he found what he was looking for, he crouched next to y/n, spreading her legs to clean her up with the wipe. He got to his feet again, holding out a hand to help her up, “I do think you’ll probably have to wear the dress without the bikini bottoms, though” he said with a smirk, “They’re pretty dirty. Tragic, truly.” 

Y/n swatted playfully at him, then walked over to slip the dress back over her head. “Are you ready to head back, or do you want to stay out for a bit longer?”

Spencer pondered for a second, cracking open another beer, “I think I’m ready to go. We can take a walk later tonight if you’re in the mood.” 

Y/n smiled, taking a drink out of her own beer, “Sounds perfect to me.”

---

[kissesinthekitchen]

Teeth

Prompt: It’s been three weeks since Harry first slept with you. Or three weeks, one day, four hours and a few minutes - give or take. Not that he’s counting. And he’s feeling needy. Dreadfully so. 

Smut and fluff. Needy Harry. More than 6,560 words of sub!Harry.

Pairing: Harry x Reader

A/N: I’m really excited about this! This story was written for the Pick Your Poison Fic Challenge - and my prompt was 9F - Sub!Harry. It really pushed my writing and forced me to write something different and out of my comfort zone. I have so much love for @for-fucks-sake-h @andwhenshesays​ and @oh-honey-styles​ for their patience and for putting this event together. These writers have inspired me so much, they literally brought me back to fanfic -after years of writer’s block- and I could not be more thankful. This was my first time taking part in a writing challenge too! I would appreciate any love or feedback this gets. Thank you! xo

His eyes are full now, they’re brimming, prickling with tears. And his jaw is tense. He leans into the cup of your hand and you watch the features of his face flutter, the desperation is still there - simmering, but a calmness passes over him as he leans into your touch. He could be good, he could be so good for you.

God, you want to wreck him.

It’s been three weeks since Harry first slept with you. 

Or three weeks, one day, four hours and a few minutes - give or take. Not that he’s counting. 

And he’s feeling needy. Dreadfully so. 

But aside from passes of food and medication through the door of your apartment and fuzzy Facetime calls, he hasn’t seen you. 

It’s been hard. The evening after you first slept together, you were taken away from him - a girl’s trip to Maui, for one of your best friend’s bachelorette parties. You’d given him time, moments tucked away in your hotel room when your mate was gone and you had an hour to yourself. An hour of grinning at him through the face of an unreliable internet connection to tell him that you missed him so bad. Selfies taken hidden in the bathroom. Cheeky voicemails. He’s kept them all.

Then, when your plane had touched down in California, there had been another road bump in your reunion when you’d come back ill. Your achy, trembling voice had croaked into the phone delivering him the bad news. “Harry, I’m sick.” 

You’ve been sick for the last week and a half and it’s been hard to give you your space, Harry will admit to that. But you’re adamant, serious. You remind him that he has rehearsals for tour starting soon and he can’t risk it. 

“Miss you,” he croaks into his phone when you touch down.

“Miss you more,” you tell him back, a cough slicing through your promise. 

“Let me buy you groceries. I can pick up your prescription-”

Harry watches your face soften through the video call, wanting nothing more than to touch your cheek. 

“I’ll pay you back,” you tell him, smiling as if you both don’t know he has a bank account worth millions of dollars. Later, you both stare at each other miserably through the window of your living room window as he places your groceries and medicine on your doormat. He blows you a kiss goodbye before he leaves and you pretend to catch it with your hand. 

But that had been a few days ago and now you’re on your way to his house, caught in Los Angeles traffic but on your way nonetheless. 

He wonders if you’ve thought about it too, thought about him. If you have missed him just as much. He doesn’t feel alone in this feeling, if the look in your eyes as he left your window is enough to tell him, but there’s something else gnawing at him-

Harry is sure he’s in love with you. 

It’s a feeling that kindled inside of him before you slept together, but now it feels more palpable, real. Bigger than himself. The weeks without you have only cemented it for him. He loves you. He’s in love with you. He might have even written a few songs about it already. 

He wants to tell you. He likes the idea of feeling right, but he doesn’t want to wait. He wants to tell you when he feels like he can’t take it anymore, and he knows that feeling is dawning. The words feel like they are bubbling in his chest, nearing the tip of his tongue each time he talks to you. 

You’ve been together five months now. And he knows maybe that’s a bit of a long block of time to get into each other’s pants for some people - god knows he might have wanted to jump your bones earlier than that. 

But time was always in the way, the same way it feels now. A trip to take him across another country away from you. Your job making you stay late or taking you out of state. You’ve done other stuff together before - of course. Hurried handjobs when you were visiting the studio, his fingers tasting you, he might have even gotten his cock in your mouth when he went to visit you at work. But the real getting together, the real sleeping together - had taken five months. And now that he knows what you feel like, what sounds you make, how you look underneath him - Harry can’t think of anything else. It’s the only thing that has carried him through the last few weeks without you when he’s been miserably lonely. His need for you, and yes, his love for you. 

It happened in your bedroom, on the small - full sized bed in your apartment, rather than the massive mattress in his house. But he thinks it was perfect that way. He loves your apartment now, he knows it. He has his favorite mug and you stock a box of his favorite granola on top of your fridge. He names the plants in your living room. (“Bowie,” he points to a colorful succulent. “Obviously.” And then “Freddie” to the pothos sitting on your bookshelf.) And there are photos of you together tacked up with magnets in the kitchen and frames next to your bed. That night you had given him his own toothbrush to keep on the sink in the bathroom next to yours. 

Everything about him seems to ache without you here. His hands feel empty without you against them, music -even, he realizes- does not feel as vibrant without your voice there to sing along with him. 

You’ve kept him close though, and for that he is happy. He muses on this as he finishes some dishes in the kitchen, trying not to glance at the clock again. 

It started with the text messages. Then the photos you sent him from Hawaii. He has to stiffle a grin at the memory - A sex shop your friends had pulled you into a few days into your trip. You’d sent him a photo of a wall of toys - floggers, gags, dildos, chokers, blindfolds. Harry had barked out a laugh at first when he saw the picture unfold in front of his eyes. See anything you like? You’d teased. 

He remembers how he’d been sitting in his living room, the sound of the latest Packers game fading in the background. His ears felt hot as his fingers hovered over the letters on his phone. 

The choker. He’d typed out, teeth gnawing into his bottom lip. Maybe the blindfold too. 

For me or you?

Me. xx

Harry swears he must have felt all the blood rush to his groin when he saw your reply.

They have handcuffs too. 

Your talks and messages had only escalated from there. It was as if you were both daring each other to go further, but instead you were crossing new territory together, hand in hand. You made him feel dizzy with want, the way you were meeting him inch for inch. 

It’s the only reminder that Harry feels like he needs - he can trust you in a way he hasn’t been able to trust anyone before. He finds himself pledging devotion to the intrigue in your eyes, the way you don’t shy away when he teases you back or admits something through the phone. The feeling leaves him breathless, if he’s being honest. Most of all, it makes him miss you even more. 

His skin is buzzing as the minutes crawl by and your arrival gets closer and closer. He can’t stay still. He paces the hall until he sees the text banner on his phone announce you’re arrival. I’m outside. 

Harry’s favorite thing about you is the way you look perfectly at home in his house. Like you’ve alway belonged here. He swears sometimes that he must have dreamt you into life. It’s like you have just always been here. He’s reminded of this when he hears your voice over the security camera  - “It’s meee.” And when he pulls the door open -  

“Baby-” he opens his arms. 

You drop your bags on his doorstep. And you’re grinning as you launch yourself into his arms, your cheek flat against his chest and your nose buried in his neck. “Harry.”

“Oh baby,” he says, his fingers gingerly stroking your cheek, pushing your face up so your foreheads meet. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes are glistening as he presses your lips together. 

The last few weeks feel like a lie of nostalgia. Your memories of him have not done him justice. Not to the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, not to his warmth or his laugh and definitely not to the way he kisses you. 

He smells good, like something crisp and floral - his expensive aftershave and cologne, and something still so distinctly Harry. That’s the part you have missed the most. 

You kiss him with both arms around his neck to pull him down to your height and you don’t stop until his back hits the door, reminding you both that you need a break to breathe. He’s laughing as he grips your waist. 

“Sorry,” you muse, smudging some of the lipstick that you’ve gotten on his mouth and teeth. 

“Don’t be, love. C’mere,” he takes your groceries (you owe him, don’t you?) and bag from you.

You shuffle into the house, checking your keys twice to make sure you locked your car even though Harry laughs and reminds you there’s a gate and a security guard that patrols the neighborhood. 

Harry helps you unpack the groceries, while you work on relearning the map of his kitchen again, pulling drawers and opening cabinets, trying to get acquainted with his space again. He throws on some Fleetwood Mac and The Zombies filter through the space between you as you start dinner. He muses that the song could not be more perfect for the feeling inside his chest. “Should I try to hide, the way I feel inside? My heart for you? Would you say that you love me too? I can tell the way you smile. If I feel that I could be certain then. I would say the things I want to say tonight.”

He stares at you with something that feels like pride, watching the sun filter through the window as you work. He thought -maybe- it might be hard to look you in the eyes or to push the feeling inside him aside but this, it feels easy. Watching you and being together with you in this way. His house, he feels, it finally feels like home now that you’re here. 

The smell of garlic and olive oil begins to fill the kitchen as you prepare the ratatouille and pasta you promised him you would make. You smile when he leans down to rest his chin against your shoulder as you work, sometimes squeezing your side with his hands. 

“Smells good, love,” he says, a watchful eye hanging over your shoulder at the pots and pans on the stove. 

Harry pours wine into glasses for the both of you and you hum your thanks when he pushes the throat of a glass towards you, closing your eyes as he kisses the top of your head.  And when you unwrap the loaves of bread from the store, he laughs and barks out “Could’a told me to make some, love. I used ‘ta work in a bakery!”

You laugh as you tug on his waist, reaching up to catch his lips. “I know. You never make me forget.” 

You make tiramisu later, trying hard not to stare at Harry too much as you work together. His long fingers dipping the ladyfinger cookies into the espresso mix. And you know he catches you blushing when he asks you to taste the whipped cream from his fingers. It has not stopped catching you by surprise, the way he can make you feel beautiful and important and lucky all at once. 

And even though he knows this was the plan for tonight, he can’t help but beam at the promise in your voice when the words come tumbling later. “Brought my bag,” you tell him over your empty plates. “Packed an outfit for tomorrow. Hope you like my pajamas.” You smirk at him. 

“S’the ones with coffee mugs and lattes on them?”

You throw your head back and laugh at the fact that he remembered them. 

“Sexy,” he teases. You catch him leaning against the counter and taking you in. “Got you a toothbrush.”

You smile, memories of last time quickly flooding your thoughts, but don’t take your eyes off the napkin in front of you. You know he’s lost in the same memories. When you’re washing dishes later though, he leaves you to place the fancy -electric, you’ll notice later and expensive- toothbrush sitting on top of your overnight bag. 

After dinner, when you’re both feeling warm and giggly, you pull him back into the sitting area of his bedroom. Harry gulps hard as he watches you insist on lighting some candles, and the smell of teakwood and rosemary fill the room. Watching you makes his stomach clench, this is all he has wanted, craved, needed for the last few weeks. You in his arms and in bed, taking up his space again. 

He’s sitting on the small sofa next to his bed, the enormity of his room could almost beat the entire size of your apartment. But you feel at peace here, in the same way he feels comforted and hidden in your home. He’s more than the expensive, designer clothes in his closet, the guitars that line one wall, the pile of leather bound journals and gold and white accented bathroom. Here, he’s just Harry. Your Harry. 

When he’s finally relaxed, you push some gifts bags into his hands and insist that he unwrap the gifts you got him from Hawaii. There are books, boxes of chocolate, bags of pineapple candy, floral shirts from vintage thrift stores, and a kitschy keychain with hula dancers and his name on it - that looks so hilariously out of place next to the keys for his Mercedes and vintage cars. 

You look warm and inviting as you turn towards him, the candlelight taking your skin glow like amber. Your skin looks kissed by the sun thanks to your trip. And Harry’s suddenly overwhelmed with how he wants nothing more than to kiss you for your thoughtfulness, for the disbelief he feels at having you here, for the feeling bursting in his chest. 

“Got you one more thing,” you tell him as you close the distance between you, reaching around him to place a small gift box in his hand. 

“Another present? Or summat?” he smiles. 

You kiss the side of his face, humming softly in response, stroking the back of his hair and neck. You try to stay composed as Harry’s fingers gingerly pry the lid of the box open. 

The air feels like it has been sucked out of him. He hates that his fingers tremble a little as he takes the collar out of the box. It’s black and thick, feels smooth like leather, with a buckle that slides closed on the side. He swallows hard as his thumb gingerly runs over the loopholes, imagining the way it would feel gripping his throat or how you would look tying it in place - god, help him. 

“Thought we could use it sometime. Doesn’t have to be tonight. You mentioned-”

And then he’s kissing you. Kissing you so fiercely that your mind stumbles before your body can catch up. Both of his hands on your face, knocking the collar down between you. 

It’s what you have both been walking around all night and it feels like the feeling that had been simply growing in his chest is about to burst. His vision feels like it is swimming right now, but your hands on his face are the only thing tethering him to the ground, whatever is growing between you makes him feel like so much more than himself. The feeling in his chest feels bigger than he has words for right now. 

Your eyes search his. “Do you trust me?

“I do. Y’know I do.” 

“Then Harry?”

His pupils are so wide. “Yeah?” he says. 

“Get on your knees.” 

You watch him carefully as he moves to his knees on the floor, idly shifting closer to the bed. When he stills, you reach for the belt he had discarded on the way into his room. Your fingers rubbing against the leather. “This okay?” 

You listen to his sharp intake of his breath, watch the curls at the front of his face fall briefly in his eyes. “Y-yeah.” 

His hands are one of your favorite things about him. Their large, calloused - his fingers long and tapered. You reach down to press a kiss to the cross on his hand and then move to coil the belt so it loops around his wrists, biting into his skin. 

 Realistically, Harry knows he could get out of this, but it’s the fact that he doesn’t that thrills you. He’s patient and pliant beneath your hands, reduced to his knees and shuddering when your touch leaves him. The line of his neck arching as his eyes follow you. He uses his mouth to follow the line of your palm, kissing your skin until you let go. 

He crawls for you - and oh, you love that. The way his back arches, his long legs and knees hitting the floor, his mind unable to grasp what his body can’t right now - he’s so eager to follow where you go, to be with you, to be a part of you. 

“Harry-” you say, sitting down on the mattress and spreading your legs wide. You lean back to rest your weight on your elbows, thighs lazily spread wide so he can rest between them. You shimmy the end of your dress up, loving the way his nostrils flare and his pupils widen, watching your hands - your fingers grazing where he wishes his skin could go too. Have hungered to for days and days. 

“Harry, do you want to taste me?”

“God, love. Please-”

“Say it again.”

“Please?” he begs.

His nose and lips skim the same path your hands followed. His head of full dark curls turning under the hem of your skirt. You’re gracious enough to help make it easier for him by tugging it up and he groans a sound of thanks into your skin with his lips. 

He’s hungry for it. He inhales deeply, licking you through the fabric of your panties in a way that makes you shudder. He’s even more grateful when you take pity on him by raking your nails through his hair and shifting the material down so he can look at you bare. The tug makes his eyes flutter, it feels so good. 

He’s frozen though, stilling as he waits for your instruction, and you gingerly cup the side of his face in thanks. 

“Go ahead,” you whisper, when he’s almost at the point of whimpering. And then he moves forward, making a home between your thighs. 

Last time you did this, you learned that you love when Harry has both his mouth and his fingers inside you - but this is - well it’s lovely. It’s fucking heaven. Watching how desperate he is to get you off, the way he presses all of his face into your cunt - heeding the deepest part of you, where you’re so wet and just as desperate for him. He’s needy, messy with it. His lips and tongue remembering you all over again, his nose smashed against your cunt and the hint of his teeth against your clit - just enough to have you grinding down on him in a way that makes your brain feel fuzzy. 

Feeling the slickness of his tongue as he slides it inside you makes your cunt feel like it’s fluttering around him. Your face pinches every time he comes back to lick you deeper and you listen to the half garbled words that he’s sucking and pleading into your skin. 

“So wet. So fuckin’ wet for me. Tastes so good. Missed ‘yeh so much.” 

Without the help of his hands, Harry uses one long leg to push himself against the length of the bed- trying to be close to you, while also finding some friction against the mattress. He finds no relief, but when he hears you voice gasp out for him, your fingers weaving in his hair - it’s almost better than any vision he had of you these last few weeks. Oh, it’s so much fucking better. 

He’s so greedy for it. He wants to taste you, needs to feel you cum more than he wants it for himself. You can tell by the way he pushes his tongue between your folds, trying to get deeper, like he’s trying to reach inside you and be a part of you. If his hands were free, he would use his fingers to spread you wide and open. To stuff you full. He knows he would tug on your legs, wear your thighs around his neck like a fucking necklace but there’ll be more time for that - another time, another place - right now, he just wants to feel you cum.

“Harry,” you beg him. “Harry. I’m close-” 

He moans when he watches you slide your fingers down to help aid him, his jaw dropping down in awe as you rub your clit. He works hard to sink down and lick around your fingers before dipping inside of you again. 

“You’re gonna make me come. You’re gonna - I’m going to come in your mouth. God, I’m going to come in your mouth-”

He’s lost in it, but it’s when he looks up at you - his big, green eyes against your flushed pussy, that you feel yourself lose it. It’s simultaneously loving and yet so obscene - you can’t bear it. 

You fist your fingers through his hair, shoulders trembling a little off his pillow, your thighs shaking just as hard- and if his hands were free, Harry knows he would be forcing your thighs and your hips down onto the bed. But all he can do is take it now, take it as hard as you are giving it back to him. His face getting wet and messy with it. 

You could scream with how good it feels. And he licks you through it all, only stalling when your nails dig into his head and he feels you shift away from his incessant mouth. “Too sensitive,” you murmur, and Harry finally relents. 

He sits up on his knees, leaning his forehead against your thighs, trying to breathe through his nose. 

“Harry?”

He makes a sound in his throat, still gasping against your thigh. You touch his head, urge him to rest against your thigh and he’s grateful. He feels something hanging off the tip of his tongue-

“Harry. Harry, what’s your color?” Tell me. Where are you?”

“Green,” he groans, nuzzling deeper into your skin. “That was- that was just a lot. But I’m green. So fuckin’ green, love..” 

You giggle at that and when he finally does look up at you, he looks so pleased with himself. When you take his face between your hands, he feels warm against your fingertips, from the pressure of your hips and how deeply he was digging his face between your thighs. His lips and jaw are soaked, glistening with you and you’re more than happy to help clean him up, licking the taste of yourself from his mouth and pressing soft, appreciative kisses against his face. 

When you finally step aside, his eyes follow you. He’s appreciative of the fingers you still have in his hair and the way you use them to steer him up and onto the bed. 

“Harry?” His eyes look drunk as they meet yours.  He’s still kneeling. “Are you with me?”

“Always, love.”

You smile at him, giving him another pat on the head, your fingers running through his matted hair. And he nuzzles deeper into your hand. 

“Breathe, baby. Give me your safeword.”

His mind is swimming. He thinks of your eyes narrowing at him over dinner - a field - the bright painting on the wall behind your head. - Plastic crinkling around the bouquet of flowers he held clenched between his fingers on your very first date. The vase of them you keep on the island in your kitchen and next to your bed- smiling over at him, the smell of coffee drifting, the sun hitting the bare skin of your back, the name he has you saved under in his phone-

“Sunflower,” he says, the smile on his lips lazy and triumphant when it finally comes to him. “Sunflower. Sunflower.” 

You’re beaming as you stare down at him and he feels like he wants to sink into the praise in your eyes. 

“Good,” you tell him. “Good. You’re doing so good, Harry.”

His eyes are full now, they’re brimming, prickling with tears. And his jaw is tense. He leans into the cup of your hand and you watch the features of his face flutter, the desperation is still there - simmering, but a calmness passes over him as he leans into your touch. He could be good, he could be so good for you.

God, you want to wreck him. 

“M’cock’s hard,” he says, in the same lazy, almost dazed voice. “S’leaking.”

You make work of both your clothes and then unbuckle his pants and take him out and true to his word - he’s hard. So hard. His expression looks pained when you thumb the raspberry tip of his cock, your mouth watering. He’s too sensitive for that right now, but maybe- you think- hope blooms in your chest. In the future. You could use a ring or-

It’s endearing how reactive he is to you. Not only do his eyes always follow you, but it’s as if his skin’s instinct is to follow you too. 

“Harry, I’m going to untie your hands. Would you like that?”

“Yes-Yes Please.” And god his voice breaks twice around your name -you almost want to take pity on him. 

Almost. 

“I’m going to untie them but I want you to listen to me. Listen to me, okay? I want you to raise them above your head, hold onto the headboard. You’re still not going to touch me. Is that understood?”

“Ye-yes,” he stutters out. And oh you love that. Your golden boy, who has had the world at his feet since the beginning - he’s never been denied things. But this, this he’s doing just for you. And for himself.  

He gasps as you work to undress him, pulling his jeans down the length of the bed, then his briefs. You move to straddle his thigh first, leaning down enough to rub yourself against the tiger inked into his skin. At the touch of his thigh against your clit, you moan - and he moans with you - as if he can’t help himself, can’t bear it- feeling you spread open against his skin and being unable to touch you.

“So wet,” he whimpers. “Fuckin’ christ. You’re so wet.”

You allow yourself this moment, a few seconds to rub yourself against him like some kind of cat in heat. Using him until you feel more wetness begin to pool on his skin. You note that his arms are straining with the stretch of the angle he has against the headboard, the veins in his arms a flash of trembling light blue as his fingers shake. 

When finally you feel like you’ve had enough to bear, you swing your leg over his hip and draw yourself down to his pelvis. His face is almost flush with your chest, and you can see the restraint he’s trying to give you - the pupils of his eyes are so wide, and he’s biting into his plush bottom lip, trying not to close the distance between you to suck a beautiful, puffy nipple into his mouth or between his teeth - He needs to be good. He needs to prove to you how good he can be. 

You’re more patient and forgiving this time, spitting on his cock and taking him into your hand. You stroke him a few times, letting the tip of him - just the tip- graze inside of you. 

His eyes and forehead crease at your teasing. 

“You’re so big,” you tell him, and his skin flushes beneath the phrase, his hips bucking up to meet you. 

“B-biggest?” he stutters out and you don’t mistake the nervous lilt at the end of his voice for anything but what it is - a need for confirmation. 

“Biggest. Best I’ve ever had,” you affirm. “Harry. Fuck.”

Pride swells in his chest, making him gasp. 

“God, Harry. That first time we...I didn’t think I’d be able to-. It hurt something good the next morning. Felt like I was aching without you there anymore. - Missed you so much. Missed my baby boy, so much.”

He’s rutting up, hips lifting off the mattress and you feel equally pained for him, your cunt miserably fluttering around nothing too. 

“Fuck. Please,” he begs you, the deepness of his voice making you tremble from the tips of your toes to the roots of your hair. “Take me. Take me.”

You relent, letting yourself slide down the length of him - and oh, this is nice. A snug fit. Another memory of him gone unjustified. You can feel him in your belly. His cock is so thick and deep, it’s still new but comforting. Like coming home. 

“Feel good, Harry?”

“Yes! Yes. God. Christ. You feel so bloody good-”

You shift so you’re resting against him, the palms of your hands flat against his chest. - But not moving. 

“Please,” he groans, his jaw straining towards the side of the bed. “Please fuck me, princess.”

“What do you want Harry?” you indulge him. You’ve missed his voice just as much as his touch, and you need to hear him say it outloud. 

“Fuck me till I cry. Fuck me, ‘till I’m done for. Christ.” 

His skin flushes like he’s embarrassed, so you lean down to kiss his jaw and mouth. “I will. I will. I’m going to fuck you, Harry.”

You use your hands for balance as you lift your hips, sliding up and down the length of his cock. Moaning loud and gasping hard when he shifts up to meet you thrust for thrust. 

“H-Harry,” you call him, only continuing when his head shifts up, his eyes peering up to meet you and tell you he’s listening. The green intensity of them makes you clench around him. “What if I tied you up? Would you like that?”

His feet are flat against the bed now, his hips shifting up in response - he doesn’t trust his voice right now. He feels so wrecked. All he can say is your name as he impales you on his cock. 

“Or maybe- maybe we’ll go somewhere and you could wear a collar - your collar - tight enough around your neck. Something to take out, huh? Just between the two of us - so you’ll know you’re mine. And when I’m gone again, you won’t ever have a reason to forget.”

Harry could almost choke on his disbelief. Hope and lust seem to twine together and something that feels like hope has been freed from his chest. Your mouth - it’s every fantasy, every secret he’s had - coming alive, coming to fruition hearing it in your voice. 

“I’m going to come on you, going to come on your prick, baby,” you promise him. “Then-then you can come.”

“Yes,” he sputters out in response. “Yes-yes. Use me. Please. Please, love. It’s all I’ve been able to think about-since you’ve been gone. Wanting to make you come.”

There’s no hesitation in his voice, and you feel yourself grow wet at the sound. He knows he’s safe. He knows he has you. His exhibitions are unraveling like a thread. They have been since that first message you sent him. 

He’s rambling now. “Wanna come too. Wanna shoot it in deep. But-need ‘ta feel you first. Need ‘ta feel you quaking around me-Baby, please-”

His eyes go wild when you press your hand against his throat, small tears slipping down his cheeks. Your red fingernails look beautiful against the paleness of his skin. And his knees lift up in a desperate show to fuck into you harder. 

“Fuck. I love you. I love you. Fuck please. Please!”

He’s too lost, plummeting into the safety of the haze you have taken him to - he doesn’t notice the way your eyes narrow in surprise as he gasps from between your fingers. Your heart feels too full, like it might smother your rib cage and you let that feeling take you under. He loves you. He loves you. 

Something overtakes you then. A wave of pride, and something territorial. You feel his words sinking into your bones, and you don’t feel afraid. In fact, you feel something like pride and adoration make a home inside your chest. You’re soaring. He loves you. Your teeth sink into the skin between his neck and shoulder and he groans, a heated sound that makes your skin flush, makes you feel impossibly wetter where you’re holding him between your thighs. It’s a mark to match the ones you have left on his left pec and his thighs, the line on his hip, and your handprints around his throat.. And for days to come, beneath the dim candlelight of his bedroom or the sunlight peeking through his bathroom in the morning - he will marvel at them, but now, now he’s too overcome. 

“Harry,” you rake your nails through the back of his head and grab a fistfull of his hair, harsh and tight. “I’m gonna come. You’re gonna make me cum. I want to come for you. You’re so good.”

He chokes as he feels yourself clench around him, swallowing him deep. You’re shaking, tugging his hair, and saying his name - “Harry, you’re perfect. My beautiful-Harry.” And watching you come on his cock, it’s still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

You kiss him through it all and as you come back down. You’re tired, slick, and still recovering but your hands grasp Harry’s. Your fingers clenched between his long fingers, squeezing tight around his rings and pressing down on his wrists. 

You lean down so your mouth is pressed between the pink wetness of his mouth, tugging at his bottom lip with your teeth. 

“Do you want to come inside me? You can, my sweet- Harry. You can. Only you. Come inside me Harry-.”

He doesn’t need much now. You’re grinding against him, lazy and slow. Licking into his mouth. 

“Come inside you,” he repeats your words, gasping against your face. You feel his arms flexing beneath your touch, his hips pistoning his cock in and out of you. Arousal -both yours and his- dripping between your thighs. It’s a mess, but it’s your mess. “All I want - ‘ta come inside you.”

You press your fingers against his throat again and his eyes roll back into his head again. You push the weight of your hips against his pelvis and then feel it - the first few spurts of his release inside you, warm and comforting-

“Fuck. I’m coming. Y/N. I’m fuck-”

You hold him as it happens, your fingers around his throat only relenting when his hips have stopped stuttering and he’s finally stopped calling your name. 

Spent, you collapse on him. Tapping his hands and wrists and loosening them. - “You can touch me. Harry- you can touch me.”

You stay with him for a long moment, it’s a space of time you both need. He’s coming down from where you took him so high, and you need to feel grounded, tethered next to him in every way you can right now. The bites and marks you’ve left on him pulse and throb, and his skin feels like it’s been lit on fire. He aches in the best way possible. He feels each throb like an ache under the intensity of a magnifying glass.

Your hair acts like a curtain over both of you as you plant soft, wet kisses over his neck, his temple, his face. Kissing away his tears. Your fingernails tracing over the tattoos on his stomach and chest as you tell him how well he did, how good, how hard he made you come. It makes him feel looked after, cherished, adored.

Your skin is a warm and comforting weight against his back, until he feels like he’s floated down again, his feet firmly planted.

It’s only when you’re sure he’s stopped trembling, and his heartbeat has slowed beneath the palm of your hand, that you break the surface of this bubble you’ve created together- 

“Harry?” you call to him. 

“Mmm,” he grunts. 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fuckin’ perfect,” he says. “Love?”

“S’okay if I...I’ll be right back. Need to get us both cleaned up, babe.”

“I’ll-” he starts, and you can almost see his tall frame trying to lift from the  bed. 

“You don’t have to do anything, beautiful,” one of your hands comes up to press him back down against the mattress. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere, handsome.” You press a wet kiss to his head again to soothe him and laugh as he makes a joke - “Think ya properly fucked my brains out. Can’t move, love.”

You walk to the bathroom on trembling legs and feet, and retrieve a wet washcloth to clean both of you up, only pausing to smile faintly at your reflection in the mirror - you look disheveled and happy. You hurry to grab a water bottle from the fridge and then patter back to Harry’s room and make him take a few sips from it. He stares up at you from beneath the throat of the bottle and you try to ignore the way you feel yourself flush beneath the awe in his eyes. 

Only after you’ve pulled a clean pair of underwear on him, do you join him on the mattress again. You crawl onto the bed knees first, and Harry’s breathing slows as he feels you tug him towards you, your face pressed between both of his broad shoulder blades. 

You listen to the heavy thud of his heartbeat through his back. 

“I love you too,” you tell him quietly, finally. “Love you too.”

He makes a muffled sound, and then though he feels heavy and his body protests against the movement, he turns in your embrace so he can look in your eyes. 

“Heard that, did you?” he tries to laugh. But you feel worry cementing itself in your heart when he doesn’t look up to meet your eyes. 

“Don’t have to say it back, y’know?” he finally says. “Don’t have to say it just because I did. Don’t have to know what to do with it. You can have it- you can have me either way.”

You lean up a little to brush your hands through his hair, and so he can tilt his head up to meet you. The edge of his jaw against the cusp of your breasts, the pink of his mouth sitting so pretty against your chest, his eyes half lidded and still so fucked out. You wonder if he grasps exactly what he’s telling you. 

“I know I love you. And I know I missed you so much, Harry. I want to take care of you.”

His heart thrills at what that could mean. “Want ‘ta take care of you too. Want to make you feel good.”

“You do. You’re the best. I love you and,” you smile a little, fingers brushing over the bite you left on his neck. “You’re mine.”

He laughs a little, drawing a glance at the mark too. His big hand closing over yours. “I love you too. Been wanting to say it for a long time.”

“I’m glad you did right now.” You smile at him, and the anxiety he was feeling seems to falter. He smiles back.

“Did you mean what you were saying?” Harry says, reaching for you even as sleep looms over the edge of his thoughts. “About the choker and the ring and summat?”

“’Course, whatever you want,” you smile at him above the duvet pulled up over both of your shoulders. “Trust me?”

“Know I do,” he smiles, the dimple in his cheek deepening. 

Your face softens as you reach up to trace it with your fingers. “I’m many things, Harry Styles, but I’m not a liar,” you laugh. 

“Know you are,” he laughs back, the gravely sound of it making you feel light and wonderful. Bright and adored. “First and foremost though, you’re my sunflower.”

You seem to beam under the look in his eyes. You pull him close, tucking yourself under his chin, and kissing one of the sparrows on his chest. “I am,” you tell him. “I am.” 

A/N: If you’re wondering, yes, the story and title were both inspired by the song of the same name by 5SOS.

Thank you for reading! Please Like or Reblog and feel free to follow me to keep up with more stories. I’d love to have you here. <3 Or let me know what you think!

[disastermages]

chapter five of this: 1 2 3 4

[ao3 link]

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The coldness that sinks to the middle of Meng Yao’s gut is caused by nothing but the sight of Jiang Yanli unconscious on the kitchen floor, her head lolling to the side as she lays in Wen Qing’s arms. Her own arms are limp and her legs are useless where they lay, no matter how many times Wen Qing tries to lift her. Her face remains impossibly still.

“Xichen, help me.” Wen Qing demands, her voice sharp and unsure in it’s anger, her arms have gone tight around Jiang Yanli’s stomach, “Don’t just stand there.” In half a second, Lan Xichen’s pinky finger has released Meng Yao, and he’s dropping down on his knees to help lift Jiang Yanli, until Wen Qing can bear the whole of her weight, the two of them pressed back to chest.

It’s only when Jiang Yanli lets loose the smallest sound of protest that Meng Yao feels the coldness in his stomach recede by any degree. “What happened?!” Jiang Wanyin demands, stepping past Lan Xichen, as if he could stop Wen Qing from leaving the room with his sister.

Wen Qing scowls at him, chewing on words that Meng Yao is certain are serrated and dripping with something that isn’t nice. “The same thing that always happens, she was standing at the stove one minute, making soup for the two of you, and then she was on the floor.” Wen Qing’s words are not gentle, they’re loaded down with frustration, but not with genuine hatred or dislike. She says nothing as she drags Jiang Yanli’s arm over her head and rests it over her shoulders. “Find your own dinner, but before you do, one of you has to call Mrs. Yu and Mr. Jiang so they know what’s happened. I don’t care who, just get it done.”

There is finality in Wen Qing’s words, finality enough that none of them move until she does, and then Lan Xichen is following the two of them from room to room and then up the stairs, lingering close enough in case he’s needed again, but giving them space enough to move.

Jiang Wanyin’s fists are clenched at his side, and after another moment has passed, Wei Wuxian is hooking an arm around his neck and muttering something that Meng Yao can’t catch into his brother’s ear. Wei Wuxian’s face lacks the usual grin, even as he reaches behind the both of them with his free hand to turn the stove off where it still burns. He offers Meng Yao the barest smile as he leads Jiang Wanyin away.

Meng Yao is the one to call Yu Ziyuan, her voice sounding busy and barely comprehending what he tells her, though she has him write down instructions to give to Wen Qing, and then she gives him a number where he might be able to reach Jiang Fengmian.

Yu Ziyuan was never supposed to be easier to speak to, but as the line rings out, Meng Yao can’t help but squeeze the handset tight with one hand and try his hardest to untangle the curls of the cord with the other.

It wasn’t fair, Jiang Wanyin, or Wei Wuxian, or Wen Qing should be the one to make this call, Meng Yao hadn’t spoken to Jiang Fengmian in nearly two weeks.

Abruptly, before Meng Yao can let his thoughts wander further down the unfairness of it all, the ringing ceases, and Jiang Fengmian’s voice speaks unevenly into the receiver, static crackling clinging to the beginnings and endings of words.

“Mr. Jiang,” Meng Yao starts slowly, respectfully, “Mrs. Yu advised me to call you on this number to inform you that Miss Jiang had an incident this afternoon.” Meng Yao had blundered exactly nothing so far, though he doesn’t release the phone’s long and curly cord, even as Lan Xichen wanders into the kitchen and leans against the counter, looking at him.

Jiang Fengmian’s voice crackles in and out with questions that Meng Yao answers, leaning the side of his head against the cool of the refrigerator while Lan Xichen picks up a long abandoned knife from it’s place on the counter and cuts uneven rounds from a peeled carrot.

A third voice is the thing that threatens to shake Meng Yao, his eyes getting large as he struggles to focus on Jiang Fengmian’s voice alone. The whisper clammors and hisses, but the words run together, and Meng Yao prays Jiang Fengmian can’t hear the third voice or the waver in Meng Yao’s voice.

“Yes, yes sir, I’ll tell them. Goodbye, thank you.” Meng Yao answers Jiang Fengmian in a daze, only half listening and understanding what he’s being told before he sets the phone down in it’s cradle.

The third voice was too soft to belong to either Jiang Wanyin or Wei Wuxian, and Wen Qing wouldn’t have bothered to stop caring for Jiang Yanli long enough to whisper into the phone from somewhere else in the house, even if she did have it in herself to try and play some prank on Meng Yao.

He must linger at the phone and the wall behind it for a moment too long, because very suddenly, Lan Xichen is crowding him from behind, his arms wrapping around Meng Yao’s stomach just the same as Wen Qing’s had wrapped around Jiang Yanli.

“A-Yao?” Lan Xichen’s voice prompts gently and Meng Yao sets his hands on top of Lan Xichen’s arms. Lan Xichen is still warmed from the sun, as if he’d never come into the house after their walk, and Meng Yao wants to unpack and live there, instead. “Are you alright?” Meng Yao allows himself to be held from behind for one more moment before he’s loosening Lan Xichen’s arms just enough to turn himself around, both of his hands coming to rest on a warm, broad chest, his thumbs stroking back and forth.

“Mr. Jiang had a lot of questions for a bad connection, that’s all.” Meng Yao lies, but he can’t feel bad for it when Lan Xichen relaxes underneath his hands, his arms tightening possessively around Meng Yao.

“You haven’t heard his questions when he interrupts a lesson.” Lan Xichen jokes tiredly, leaning down to press a fleeting kiss to Meng Yao’s fingertips. “Wen Qing believes that Yanli has overworked herself, I thought you should know, you seemed worried.” Meng Yao feels his face go slack for just a moment, his eyes widening as they focus on Lan Xichen’s neck, following the curve of it to where his shoulder disappears into his shirt. Had he really been so obvious? He’d been frozen in place, but Wen Qing had never once spoken directly to him.

“Miss Jiang has been very kind to me.” Meng Yao acknowledges quietly, allowing his fingers to curl into the breast pockets of Lan Xichen’s shirt. Jiang Yanli had been kind to him without reason or requirement, and her kindness hadn’t lapsed, for even a moment, even when she’d asked Meng Yao to never go near the pond at night.

“She’ll be alright, Wen Qing will make sure of it.” Lan Xichen says, almost too quickly, almost as if it’s always been that way and Meng Yao had no way of knowing it. One of Lan Xichen’s hands comes to press against Meng Yao’s cheek, his thumb stroking back and forth underneath his eye so softly that Meng Yao has no choice but to smile up at him and nod.

So long as Lan Xichen looked at him that way, with his eyes full of warmth and something too soft for Meng Yao to name, Meng Yao would smile up at him and nod along with anything. His mouth opens to say something, but both of them are interrupted by the sound of something boiling over on the stove, the loud hissing of it pulling Lan Xichen away from Meng Yao as he rushes to stir it.

Meng Yao feels his face drop away into nothingness as he pulls his arms behind his back, one thumb stroking the other as he eyes the flames burn blue underneath the pot. He’d turned it off, he’d watched the flames flicker out.

It made no sense.

“A-Yao, could you finish chopping those carrots? We might not have to hear Wanyin and Wuxian complain about my cooking if we pick up where Yanli left off.” The spell keeping him in place is broken when Lan Xichen speaks giving instruction before he reaches for a bowl of green onions to drop into soup, nearly dropping the bowl in along with them.

Meng Yao cuts two of the carrots into even rounds before he carefully corrects the chunks Lan Xichen had cut earlier. “I don’t believe that your cooking is that bad.” Their hands brush as Meng Yao hands the cutting board over to Lan Xichen, who nearly drops it.

“I’m not allowed to cook at home, you know, not after I ruined so many of my uncle’s pots and pans.” Jiang Yanli had apparently taken kindness either on them or on herself, most of the ingredients had already been prepared and laid out, and Meng Yao watches as Lan Xichen tips a small bowl of something green and leafy into the pot before stirring it in. “Even Wangji, my younger brother, is better at it than I am.” Lan Xichen’s eyes are warm and distant as he speaks, and there’s a smile on his face as he offers Meng Yao a spoonful of the soup.

It wasn’t Jiang Yanli’s usual pork rib and lotus root soup, Meng Yao had had it plenty of times by now, this was something new, made sweeter by the way Lan Xichen wipes away a warm droplet that had started to run down Meng Yao’s chin, only to lift it to his own tongue.

The rest of dinner is prepared, not perfectly, but mostly unburned because Meng Yao takes over and Lan Xichen begins gathering dirty dishes to clear them.

The pipes don’t knock in the walls when he runs the water, but Meng Yao says nothing.

Yu Ziyuan regards them silently as she comes in, neither frowning nor smiling before she nods to herself and pulls two bowls and a tray from a high cabinet. “Miss Wen will not join us for dinner as long as A-Li is ill, nor would I expect her to.” Yu Ziyuan only clarifies when Meng Yao glances at her out of the corner of his eye, her hand held out expectantly for the ladle he holds. “The rest of you are expected at the table.”

They do not watch Yu Ziyuan as she walks up the stairs slowly, her long skirt held up in one hand while the other balances the tray of food precariously. Meng Yao only watches Lan Xichen as he dries his fingers one by one on a towel. There are a great many things Meng Yao would like to do with those fingers.

True to her word, Jiang Yanli and Wen Qing don’t join them at the dinner table, but Jiang Wanyin and Wei Wuxian do, though Jiang Yanli’s place is left bare and empty, as if no one else dares sit there. Meng Yao couldn’t bring himself to, even if he truly wanted to sit there.

The five of them eat in near silence, with neither of the brothers picking a fight with each other. Wei Wuxian hardly makes a sound, and Yu Ziyuan looks up at none of them until after she’s finished, leaving the rest of them to eat while looking at each other every once in a while after she’d carried her dishes into the kitchen.

Lan Xichen walks Meng Yao back to his room after dinner, kissing him slowly against the door, their bodies fitting together in a way that makes it hard for Meng Yao to think clearly, his hands on Lan Xichen’s hips while Lan Xichen frames his face softly.

“I can’t come in.” Lan Xichen murmurs when they pull apart, his lips still brushing against Meng Yao’s.

“Someone will hear us if you do.” Meng Yao agrees, and they both look towards Wei Wuxian’s workshop. He’d had to run out of it in a hurry just the other day when it filled with smoke.

“But I want to.” Lan Xichen finishes, letting his thumb press against Meng Yao’s bottom lip, “I don’t want you thinking that I don’t want to.” Meng Yao has to stand on his toes to kiss Lan Xichen, his fingers holding on to Lan Xichen’s shirt to pull him down just a little bit as Meng Yao sweeps his tongue over Lan Xichen’s lower lip.

“I want you to come in, but I know you can’t.” Meng Yao murmurs, stroking Lan Xichen’s hair away from his face before he kisses him once more, but chastely and fleetingly. The two of them linger outside of Meng Yao’s door for only a few minutes more before Lan Xichen sends him to bed, and Meng Yao presses his back to the other side of the door after it closes, listening to Lan Xichen’s retreating footsteps.

He only manages to sleep for a few hours when the blankets are jerked away from him, leaving Meng Yao scrambling up to the head of his bed while the door of his room bangs open, bouncing off the wall, but staying open.

“Is there something you want to show me?” Meng Yao answers quietly, but receives no answer beyond a pressing coldness at his back and the door swinging minutely on it’s hinges. It’s enough of an answer to push Meng Yao out of bed, groping for his shoes in the darkness.

At first, he sees nothing in the hallway as he leans his head out of his doorway, only the faintest bar of light underneath the door of Wei Wuxian’s workshop, but then, he sees a flash of white going up the small flight of stairs that led to his room. “Mrs. Yu? Miss Jiang?” Meng Yao calls, still not willing to step out of his room, at least until the door pushes itself against his backside and nearly knocks him into the hallway, regardless of whether he wanted to step out or not.

Understanding and not, Meng Yao shoots the door a cold look before he follows after the flash of white, but the coldness ebbs into worry as he realizes the flash of white had been Jiang Yanli, her dark, unbound hair keeping her face obscured until Meng Yao comes to stand right next to her.

Slowly, he raises a hand to set on her shoulder and shake her, but then, a pale hand grips his wrist tight, as if iron laid underneath the skin, instead of bone.

“We do not wake my daughter when she sleepwalks, Mr. Meng.” Yu Ziyuan says, her voice quiet and dark. She had not changed into pajamas, but both he and Jiang Yanli already had, and Meng Yao is the only one of the two of them who has the mind to be embarrassed for it.

“What should I do instead, Ma’am?” Meng Yao asks carefully, his head whirling around just as Jiang Yanli opens the back door and steps out of it, unhearing and uncaring about the conversation happening behind her.

“We follow after her to make sure she does not hurt herself.” Yu Ziyuan explains simply, as if Meng Yao had asked something extraordinarily simple, pushing past him with her head held high, her hands clasped in front of her, and the backdoor left hanging wide open.

Meng Yao follows after the both of them without a second thought, doubting that whatever had woken him would let him back into his room now.

Jiang Yanli’s white nightgown is easier to follow in the darkness than Yu Ziyuan in her blue-green blouse and long purple skirt, but Meng Yao catches up without having to run, his shoulder not brushing against Yu Ziyuan’s as they walk side by side.

Moonlight filtering through the trees is the only thing that lets Meng Yao see the frown on Yu Ziyuan’s face, the expression cutting her mouth deeply.

Jiang Yanli leads them to the greenhouse, her hand resting on the handle of the door, but struggling with the weight of the door when Yu Ziyuan sighs.

“Why do you always come here, A-Li?” Exasperation coats each and every word as it leaves Yu Ziyuan’s mouth, the frown cutting her even deeper as the door finally gives under Jiang Yanli’s insistent pulling. Meng Yao and Yu Ziyuan follow her at a distance, with Yu Ziyuan going in first and allowing Meng Yao to trail after her.

What used to be trees and shrubs decay on either side of them, their leaves brown and dead, and their branches reaching towards the cracked ceiling panels, scratching as Meng Yao turns his head from side to side, trying to take all of it in when he runs into Yu Ziyuan’s back.

“Mrs. Yu?” Meng Yao whispers, but stops and follows her gaze instead, the frown on her face has turned into horror by the time Meng Yao comes to stand beside her, his own mouth hanging open.

Ahead of them, Jiang Yanli’s back faces them, but dangling above her, is a woman, her limbs limp and her hair covering her face as she sways back and forth. “Miss Mo?” Jiang Yanli calls, her voice sleep clumsy as she tries to take another step forward, but trips on an uneven tile.

“A-Li!” Yu Ziyuan calls, her voice sharp enough to echo inside the greenhouse. When Meng Yao looks up again, the woman has disappeared, and Jiang Yanli is blinking back at them, one of her knees bleeding through her nightgown.

“Mother? Meng Yao? Why am I here?” Jiang Yanli tries to follow Meng Yao’s gaze, but nothing is there anymore, and Yu Ziyuan is coming to pull her daughter off of the floor, her grip both too tight and protective.

“Come along, Mr. Meng, there’s nothing here.”

[jaskiersvalley]

hello! first of all I absolutely love your work, thank you so much for all this geraskier content! so it's not really a prompt, but one of the tropes I'm obsessed with is definitely the first kiss. would you write some more of this? maybe in a modern au? (or not!! whatever inspires you) anyway, thank you again for your writing and have a good day :))

First kiss in a modern AU, you say? It’s almost like you reached into my heart and pulled out one of my weaknesses. Plus, I could never say no to such a sweet request. I hope you’ve having a good day, Nonnie!

When Jaskier signed the lease on his apartment, he was a little dubious but money was tight and something about the Kaer Morhen block of flats was appealing. The landlord lived on site, there was a promise of round the clock help for emergencies and issues with the flat. Sure, it was old and looked a bit shoddy but the flat itself was sturdy and the residents all seemed quiet judging by the couple of times Jaskier went to view the place before deciding to sign a year long contract.

Moving in was quite a mundane affair. He had Priscilla and Valdo helping move his boxes but Jaskier was moving from one furnished flat to another so other than boxes of books, trinkets, clothes and kitchen stuff, there wasn’t much else. Still, it would have been an ego boost to have a musclebound man or two gallantly offering to help. Or even for a new neighbour to stick a head out and greet him. Alas, Jaskier was going to have to live without either of those things happening.

What he did end up having was a knock on his door in the evening when he was staring at his boxes, willing them to magically unpack themselves while he drank his wine. He couldn’t fathom who it was, maybe Valdo had left his phone somewhere yet again. Idiot always had it on silent and kept putting it down in places. Last time, they’d found it in Priscilla’s bathtub. Opening the door, Jaskier blinked at the weathered, older man before him.

“Mr. Pankratz. I trust moving went smoothly. I’m Vesemir, your landlord and wanted to say hello. I trust the flat is to your satisfaction and moving went smoothly. Any issues, I’m on the second floor, feel free to knock.”

A personal call by one’s landlord while sweaty and dirty from a move and pleasantly buzzed from the wine that was clutched in one hand was not Jaskier’s idea of an ideal occurrence but he nodded gratefully. The flat was indeed to his satisfaction. It wasn’t perfect but it wasn’t the absolute shithole he’d fears things would turn out to be.

Of course things don’t go as stunningly well as Jaskier had hoped. Because while the flat was better than most, it was still cheap. Which meant that the washing machine broke down a few weeks into his life in his new home.

Knocking on the door on the second floor, Jaskier felt a little sheepish but Vesemir opened up with a gruff “yes?” that helped words come easier.

“My washing machine is giving me trouble, any chance you could have someone look at it please?”

“I’ll send Lambert this evening.” That was that. Jaskier nodded and returned back home, wondering whether Lambert was the handyman or someone Vesemir trusted.

It turned out, Lambert was one of the most terrifying people Jaskier had ever met. He was spiky and sharp, almost every sentence was punctuated by swearing. It only got worse when Jaskier showed him to the washing machine and left. Initially, it was just grunts and muttered curses but they progressively got louder and more inventive.

“Get to work you bucket of rust and bolts! Or I’m drop kicking your sorry corpse to the nearest tip!” The screaming was followed by loud banging, as if the machine was being punched repeatedly. After a minute of sudden silence, Lambert appeared. “It’s working,” he said and let himself out of the flat.

Almost hesitant to go into the bathroom, Jaskier was stunned to find that the washing machine was merrily chugging away as if it hadn’t been making a death rattle earlier that day. The fist shaped hole in the plaster behind the door was a whole different matter. It was going to be an awkward conversation to have in the morning with Vesemir and Jaskier dreaded to explain that his washing machine worked like a dream but now he had a hole in his wall. How he was going to get the old man to believe it wasn’t Jaskier’s doing was beyond him.

All worries were swept away when, first thing in the morning there was a knock on Jaskier’s door. He was suspicious, especially when he came face to face with a burly, scarred man who looked like he ripped the heads off dolls for living.

“Lambert mentioned you’ll need a bit of plastering. I’m Eskel.”

Too stunned to do anything other than step aside and let man in, Jaskier watched him walk into the bathroom. Half an hour later he was given an almost cheerful wave and the promise of coming back to paint it in a couple of days.

As promised, Eskel was back three days later. Jaskier felt a little braver and trailed after him. Strangely, Eskel seemed shy, he always twisted and turned so the scarred side of his face was hidden from Jaskier. Somehow, it seemed like a habit rather than a conscious decision and it made Jaskier wonder just what had happened to land Eskel with such habits, not to mention such scars. Then again, Lambert had scars as well. Maybe Vesemir had some kind of weird scar fetish he indulged with the handymen he employed.

It didn’t take long to paint the patch and Jaskier was impressed at how well it blended into the surrounding paint. He watched Eskel duck his head shyly at being praised. That was something to file away for later.

The later came a lot sooner than expected because not a month later, Jaskier’s tap gave up the ghost. First on the scene was, as before, Lambert. He looked at the tap like it was offending him on a personal level and Jaskier decided to leave him to it. A wise decision, especially when the clanging of a tap and sink having the ever loving shit beaten out of them started up.

“I could smack my cock and get more of a dribble from it than you piece of shit!” Lambert raged. 

It sounded like Jaskier’s whole kitchen was going to be collateral. Quietly, he just hoped the neighbours don’t think ill of him, surely they all knew Lambert’s unique style of DIY. There was a soft knock on the door and Jaskier was surprised to find a tired looking Eskel offering a soft apology.

“I’ll send Geralt up in a minute. He’s better at plumbing. Let me just get my little spark out of your hair.”

Silently, Jaskier stood aside and gestured for Eskel to make himself at home. He got to watch as there was zero hesitation in Eskel as he stepped into the kitchen with a soft “hey Sparky”. For a few minutes there were only soft murmurs from the kitchen. When the door finally opened again, Jaskier tried not to stare at the linked hands or worry about the fact Lambert seemed to be wearing the hoodie Eskel had arrived in.

A quick peek into the kitchen and it looked surprisingly intact. Deciding to leave it and opt for a delivery for food, Jaskier closed the door. Not half an hour later there was a firm knock on his door. Opening it, a few things flitted through Jaskier’s mind. One, Vesemir definitely had a thing for facial scars. Two, Jaskier had found his muse. Three, he believed firmly in lust at first sight.

“I’m here about your tap. Eskel said Lambert didn’t have much luck with it.”

This must have been Geralt. Jaskier trailed after him into the kitchen and ended up hopping onto the counter to watch him work. Not the most verbose of men but Jaskier found that beauty didn’t come from words.

“I couldn’t quite gather what’s wrong with the tap,” he began, trying to make small talk. “Lambert didn’t say much. Well, he said a lot but nothing of value.”

“That’s Lambert for you,” Geralt rumbled as he shimmied under the sink to look at a pipe. “He usually does electrics and machines, Eskel general decorating and odd jobs while I’m more for plumbing.”

Which was good to know because Jaskier wanted to see Geralt again. It took a couple of hours before water flowed from the tap again but Jaskier was happy to wait. It meant more time watching Geralt get sweaty in small, tight spaces.

From then on, Jaskier had a lot of plumbing issues. As many as he could make up and engineer. Nothing to actually damage the piped but enough to warrant calling Geralt out for them. It also meant he learned a lot about his landlord and the family who owned Kaer Morhen. They were an adoptive family and nothing to do with blood. Ex-army, all served together which explained the scars. While the three younger men called each other brothers, it didn’t stop Lambert and Eskel sharing a flat. It seemed to be a running joke that they all called it saving money and generating more income by freeing up another flat to rent out. However, Jaskier had seen just once how freely affectionate the two were with each other and there was no doubt that the jokes were an old habit while everybody and the world knew just how much those two were very much in love.

Despite all his attempts to draw Geralt out and spend more time with him with artificial problems, Jaskier still found his bathtub was clogging against his will. It was becoming impossible and he had to call Geralt out once more. This time, for a serious matter.

After half an hour of Geralt humming flatly at the issue, he straightened up and looked at Jaskier.

“You need to stop jerking off so much in the bathtub. Your jizz is clogging the pipes. Just use tissue, condoms or even a sock from now on.”

Flushing bright red, Jaskier gawped. “I have never! I mean-” Geralt gave him a half amused look. “Fine. But if you’re so worried about where my come lands, maybe you’d be a willing receptacle for it instead.”

He’d said it out of annoyance rather than anything else but it was too late to take it back. Especially when Geralt kept staring at him.

“I would prefer a dinner date first,” Geralt drawled and stepped closer. They were almost nose to nose.

“Tonight. What time do you finish work?” Jaskier was demanding but he had also had enough of pining from afar. Now was a moment for action rather than dillydallying.

“I have just one job for today. Very annoying resident who keeps calling out for problems he’s obviously created. Once I’ve finished with his bath’s plumbing, I’m off the clock.”

Grinning, Jaskier leaned in. “Well, make it a rush job and don’t be late. I have got my hopes up.”

There was no telling who leaned in first but it didn’t matter. The most important thing was that Jaskier was finally kissing Geralt.

[tennessoui]

I absolutely love your KUWSK snippets and had to read them all after discovering the first part on ao3! (I should also work but I'm non stop giggling instead)

May I ask for: anakin being stressed out (big deadline coming up, handling the kids, work & cooking being too much) so obi-wan wants to help him out? Like he tries to cook for the family for once but I remember you saying that he can't cook to save his life? maybe rope the twins into it as well as a nice bonding moment

hello!!!! i've been meaning to write this for ages and i kept getting side-tracked/didn't have the time to sit and write a proper ficlet, but I did today! Here's 1k now, and I'll post the whole thing tomorrow afternoon(ish) on ao3. I mis-remembered the prompt until it was too late to really change directions, but so this is more of a sick!fic than a stressed out!fic but I do promise KUWSK Obi-Wan does step in even when Anakin is not sick to help with the kids, the clean up after cooking, helping them with homework, keeping the house tidy etc etc

anyways here is the beginning of sick fic! (SET about a month before The Kiss, 2 years after Obi-Wan and Anakin and the twins move in together)

-

It’d be much easier to take care of Anakin when he’s sick if he would actually admit to being sick.

“Skywalkers don’t get sick,” he’d insisted just a day ago. Obi-Wan had raised a very pointed eyebrow towards the twins who are looking quite pathetic, sniffling in their beds and coughing into their fists.

“That’s their Amidala genes,” Anakin had said and then sneezed into his elbow.

Obi-Wan had known at that moment that the next few days would be very awful for everyone involved.

But Anakin is making it much worse than it has to be, he really is. Thank god it’s midterm week, so Obi-Wan can finagle his TAs into proctoring the exams. Thank god he has four TAs for his biggest lecture module, so that they can grade them all too, which means Obi-Wan just has to read through and mark up his capstone students’ midterm essays.

Which he can do from the comfort of his own house turned Emergency Skywalker Walk In Clinic.

The twins had woken up with a fever and a sore throat on Wednesday. They’d never been sick in the two or so years they had all lived together, and Obi-Wan, admittedly, had not known how to handle it.

Anakin, in a surprising twist of fate, had been much more level-headed about the whole thing. He’d called the school to let them know the twins wouldn’t be coming in, and had asked Obi-Wan to run to the pharmacy before his classes to pick up some meds for them. And perhaps a thermometer.

(“I can’t believe you’re forty-four and you don’t have a thermometer.”

“Well, that’s not fair. I have one in the kitchen.”

“That’s different and you know it--”

“Of course it's different, I was just theorizing that perhaps having a kitchen thermometer actually makes up for not having a person thermometer.”

“Yeah, and instead of giving the kids baths and changing their sheets, we can just baste them in their own fever juices too!”

“I’m going, I’m going.”)

He’d calmed down in the face of Anakin’s own composure, but then on the way to the pharmacy he’d listened to a podcast episode about devastating and lifelong effects certain illnesses can have on children, and he had managed to work himself up into a stressful tizzy by the time he parked the car.

The amount of products he’d bought, Obi-Wan can admit now, was a little over the top. Anakin had certainly laughed when he’d come back through the door, not even bothering to take his coat or shoes off--even though the no-shoes-inside rule is his rule--and started unpacking the four plastic bags worth of medical supplies.

“Well, now I’ll feel bad if the kids aren’t sick until June,” Anakin had said, picking up one of the cough syrups to examine the label.

“That kind will make them sleepy, but this kind tastes like grapes,” Obi-Wan had muttered. “And this kind is okay to give to children under four.”

“The kids are--”

“I know how old the kids are,” Obi-Wan had snapped. “This is called being prepared.”

“This is called diagnosable,” Anakin had laughed and then ducked out of the way when Obi-Wan chucks a package of band-aids--he’d panicked, okay--at his head. “Hey,” he’d said after a moment, coming forward and placing his hand on Obi-Wan’s elbow. The contact had burned through the layers of clothing he’s wearing. “They’re going to be fine, Obi-Wan, really. I’ll be home all day taking care of them, and I’ll make chicken noodle soup for dinner tonight.”

“I can make chicken noodle soup for dinner,” Obi-Wan had protested. “You don’t have to do everything.”

“Obi-Wan, they’re already sick,” Anakin had shaken his head with a grin. “The point is to try and feed them something they’d want to at least try to keep down.”

“I hate you,” Obi-Wan had sighed with a quirk of his lips.

“I love you,” Anakin had said, as if that was something he said on the regular, reaching out to take the thermometer from his hand. Obi-Wan’s grip had gone slack though, causing the thermometer to clatter to the counter. “Like a brother,” Anakin had tacked on hurriedly and then winced.

“Right,” Obi-Wan had coughed, wondering why the addendum made his chest feel tight and strange, like missing a step on the stairs. “Well. Yes. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Anakin had said, looking even more mortified.

“Right. Ah. So. I’m. Going to campus. If the twins need anything else, please let me know. I’ll pick up whatever you need for...dinner on my way home. Just text me.”

“Will do,” Anakin had agreed, staring resolutely at the cabinets over Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Bro.”

And to his credit, Anakin had texted him with a long list of things they’d need from the store.

He’d just also failed to mention his own rapidly declining health. Obi-Wan had arrived home to Anakin coughing up a storm in the dining room and the twins bundled up and bleary-eyed in front of the television.

The chicken soup had not been made that night because Obi-Wan had not allowed Anakin anywhere near the kitchen. Instead he’d fed the children toast and applesauce and let them keep watching their show until bedtime.

Anakin had been left alone for the most part, as Obi-Wan had been convinced that Anakin would see reason himself and stop working as he started feeling progressively worse.

That had, of course, been too much to expect.

“I can’t believe you’re twenty-eight and don’t know how to listen to your body when it’s trying to tell you you’re sick,” Obi-Wan had said, lowering and slowing his voice in a bad imitation of Anakin.

“I don’t sound like that!”

“You’re right, you couldn’t get through that whole sentence without coughing at the moment."

“I’m going to bed.”

“Please do. And for god sakes, Anakin, leave the laptop down here."

“Good night, Obi-Wan."

[clumsyclifford]

bella I would love a directors cut on literally any of the rilex you’ve written, but specifically it’s always her, and you, and me, or for these days you’ve been stuck in my brain 💙

OHHHHHH those are some CHOICESSSSSS lucy. fuck yeah. let’s get into it. ill link them both here but we’ll take em one at a time

it’s always her, and me, you

these days you’ve been stuck in my brain

here’s a cut for convenience cos i KNOW i’m gonna go long here.

okay! let’s start with the rilisex fic.

it’s always her, and me, and you

so like it says in the ao3 notes, this fic came from realizing just how frequently rian and alex kiss each other like, all the time? just? casually? for funsies? this was another one of those situations like i mentioned where the hook aka first line (“Rian's no expert, but he doesn't think normal friends kiss this much.”) just appeared in my head and i was like heyyy that’s a GOOD first line. i have to build from that line. that’s the hook, that’s the summary, that’s the core. 

something i discovered upon searching through the editing history of the doc: i had originally sort of intended to go a direction with this where in some other circumstance, rian would see alex giving jack a super casual friendly kiss and he’d get all sad/jealous and be like sure why SHOULDNT alex kiss jack after all its just a thing he does with his FRIENDS. but the fic ended up going a different way and honestly? im glad. i like this way better.

the role of singin in the rain in this fic actually has a HILARIOUS backstory because the night i originally wrote that conversation in the tour bus kitchen, i went into the club and said the following

and then. the next day. rian streamed with ricky, and i asked if he’d ever seen singin in the rain, and he ANSWERED ME and said he hadn’t. so first of all i had already written the scene and i then had to rewrite it to make it so rian wouldn’t have seen it but also!!! i literally asked rian fucking dawson if he’d seen a movie for the sole reason of using that information for fanfiction!!!! and he provided me with the information i needed!!!! whole thing is just fucking hysterical to me. ANYWAY.

ANYWAY, the other reason why sitr has such a big role in the fic is because megs and i watched the movie together while i was in the middle of working on the fic, so it was extremely fresh in my mind. in fact i can probably show you this: i had this comment left for myself when i was kind of trying to figure out if i could make a real metaphor of sorts with the sitr ot3 and the Big Three of this fic. some of this ended up in rian’s wild musings in the hotel scene but i did conclude that it wouldn’t really have worked and that was definitely true but anyway. fuck it, director’s cut, here’s the kind of shit i leave for myself to refer to

so that’s part of the reason why it became such a puzzle piece of this fic, but real talk, it’s also just because i love singin in the rain it’s one of my favorite movies lmao

briefly gonna also touch on lisa and why she’s in this fic because i realize that rian/alex/lisa is an interesting approach to rilex! first of all, i love lisa. i love alex and lisa. and it occurred to me that there was really no reason to split lisex up just to make rilex happen. plus there’s this tweet that really just pushed me over the edge of being like yeah, rilisex is extremely plausible. so that’s that on that.

as for the scene in the hotel room while they’re watching sitr, there is a small piece of that scene - from when alex starts kissing rian’s shoulders etc to “it would defy the laws of nature not to” - that i actually wrote before anything else in that scene. that small piece got stretched out and edited quite a bit from how it started but it did function as a sort of foundation around which i built the rest of the scene, because that small section sort of ~came to me~ absolutely out of nowhere, and i really liked the Vibe it had and i wanted to include it. i THINK that was the only piece of this fic that i wrote Out Of Order - for the most part this was written chronologically.

ALSO!!! omg this is exciting, this fic actually has a deleted scene!!!!!! i hate cutting scenes but i also hate having scenes that are less than 1k and this one didn’t really contribute much to the fic. i can probably share it here right? sure why not ! hopefully you can read this. it originally took place after the scene where alex and rian call lisa for the first time. the question of “what gets left into interview videos and what gets cut” is also just interesting to me as a (fic) concept in general so...eyes emoji, but here’s my mini-exploration that i cut from the original fic. enjoy lol it’s silly <3

oh! also one more thing!! the very final scene was included for two reasons. the first reason being that when i write getting-together fics, i really prefer to add on a scene After they Get Together because i love to write domestic established relationship stuff and i think that’s a satisfying reward for a reader who’s just slogged through all the mutual pining and bullshit to get the characters together. but the OTHER reason is that i got an anon (here it is!) and i read that ask and was immediately like well shit. now i have to fucking include this. for the anon and for myself. so you can thank that anon for that last scene. (also i wanted to include merrikat especially since i had to cut their little moment in the interview scene above.)

so....................whew. i think i’ve bled that fic dry. holy shit that’s a lot of Stuff. OKAY! let’s move on.

~

these days you’ve been stuck in my brain

so!!! THIS fic was the breakthrough after (what felt like) a long bout of writer’s block. long for me was maybe two weeks, but i am the kind of person who is always writing, and two weeks was a long time to go with little to no inspiration/motivation to write anything. i had also been in a weird narrative headspace because i’d been binge-watching disney shows (jessie > austin and ally > girl meets world) and i don’t know how well i can explain this but the way those shows are written is a lot snappier and cares way less for realistic and consistent character development or plots or relationships, and so i was stuck between caring a lot about including those things in my fics but also being unable to conceptualize them in writing because my brain was in Disney Writing Mode. does that make sense? this is rhetorical so let’s go with yes. so anyway. i was in a slump

actually what i ended up doing was basically googling something like “au prompts tumblr” or something and just scrolling through posts. i saw something about soulmate telepathy and i actually tried to write something totally different before i wrote this one, but the first attempt was a different concept and then the direction i took it was like......it wasn’t quite right and i realized that i was kind of writing dark disney style? there is really no way for me to explain what i mean by that because it seems really obvious to me but that’s just because i’m inside my own head so just take my word. 

anyway. attempt #1 of soulmate telepathy rilex went poorly, and this fic was attempt #2. i kinda took the soulmate telepathy thing and changed it as i saw fit and i also went back to skim helen’s telepathy fic because obviously she’s the pro and then i tried not to steal her ideas. and as i was writing it i kinda realized i was doing the whole quirky funny best friend character with jack and also doing the whole “somehow this not-very-dramatic situation with teenagers is treated as The Most Dramatic Thing Ever and that’s totally normal and nobody finds it strange” disney trope with rian and alex being soulmates and i was like (deep sigh) i have to accept that no matter how much i try to fight this, this fic is going to be tainted with disney. and that’s life

on top of that i will add that the real-life rilex were extremely inspiring during the two-day period during which i wrote this fic, because that was when the once in a lifetime video came out and in the brief pre-video livestream rilex were Beyond Married and that definitely helped in the writing of fic rilex!

hmmmm what can i tell you about this fic itself.................honestly, i don’t think there’s much to tell! rian is a band kid because in real life rian was a band kid and he’s staff manager at rita’s just like he was in real life. there is truthfully not a lot to unpack here that i can think of!

oh here’s something i guess: rian and alex go on a date in this fic! that is because watching So Much Disney made me realize that i often forget the fact that people just. go on dates. sometimes. look i clearly do not have an active romantic life but i also really liked the idea of alex and rian going on a date despite not knowing if they’d be soulmates or not and liking each other organically just by getting to know each other, rather than being victim to the whole soulmate thing. like i wanted them to build a connection so that they would want to be soulmates. and then the audience would want that for them too. stakes!! very important.

i can tell you i had a mild crisis over the title of the fic because i am not a fan of the word brain and i didnt wanna use that sticky lyric for the title when it had a word i hated but it was objectively a much better title option than the other one i had, which was “sticky just like the song in my head” but i obviously decided on the former and it has not upset me nearly as much as i expected it to so that was the right decision imo

so! i think that’s all on that! sorry (?) that it got so long although then again i don’t know what’s to be expected in a director’s cut for two long fics but thank you for asking me about these, i love them both so very much rilex is so supremely underrated but so very important

[krisdreaming]

hello! first off, i wanted to say that i absolutely love your blog and writing!! it makes me feel so warm and just so emotional 🥺 second; i have a request! could you write a scenario where oikawa comes home to his s/o, who’s chronically ill, crying because she’s having one of those day where the pain is worse than usual? pls make it as loving and fluffy as possible aaaa besides the crying ya know i’m chronically ill myself and just need something like this rn :(( love you!!

Yes yes, baby, coming right up! I’m so glad you enjoy my blog, and I hope this helps cheer you up a bit! *hugs* stay strong!!

-

Oikawa arrives home with the faint hum of one of your favorite songs on his lips. He’s in a good mood today, and it’s improved even more by knowing that he’ll be seeing you when he gets inside. He turns his key in the lock and steps inside, expecting to see you in the kitchen unpacking some groceries you’d picked up or getting a head start on the dinner preparations. The kitchen, however, is empty.

“Y/N, I’m home!” He calls into the house, plopping his keys and wallet on the counter as he makes his way to search for you. The living room is where he finds you, curled in a blanket and with your back to him, ostensibly taking a nap. Oh. The humming dies on his lips, and he tiptoes toward you, not wanting to disturb you if you really are asleep.

“Y/N?” He reaches out, and when his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, you turn to face him, making an effort to sit up a little further on the couch. Tear stains trail down your cheeks, and at the sight of him fresh tears spring to your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Tooru.” You squeak out. 

“Don’t be sorry.” He says firmly, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face as he carefully sinks down next to you. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Another tough day?” The concern is evident in his eyes, and it only makes the tears come faster.

You can only nod, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders, gently tugging you to rest against his chest. “Is this okay?” He murmurs, and you nod once more, cheek pressed against the fabric of his shirt. 

“I’m sorry, love.” He begins slowly trailing his fingers up and down your arms, a comforting gesture he’d developed over the years that soothes you without aggravating any further pain. You sniffle, aware that you’re creating wet patches on his shirt, but not caring enough to lift your head and prevent them from spreading. He doesn’t seem to mind, or even notice them.

“Can I get you some medicine?”

“Already took some.” You mumble. “Not helping yet.”

“Okay.” He says against your hair. “What can I do? What do you need?”

“You.” You say in a small voice, feeling a little selfish, but a smile plays across his face.

“That I can do.” He holds you a little closer, pressing one kiss after another to the top of your head. “I’m here for as long as you need me to be. I’m not going anywhere.” He’s true to his word. He doesn’t leave your side for the entire evening. 

“You know, you’re one of the strongest people I know.” He says, later, when he isn’t sure whether you’re still awake. You mumble something incoherent, and he presses his lips to the top of your head. “Don’t argue with me. It’s true, and nothing’s going to change my mind.”

-

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