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spid3namy · 6 months ago

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♡　　i always want you when i'm (coming down) 　　♡

ft. geto suguru

cw: 18+ , fem!reader, modern au, mentions of weed & alcohol , praise, unprotected, fwb ( kind of but not really ), pet names, confessions, riding, mdni.

words: 3.2k

the air was muggy. there was so much smoke that filled up the room but it didn’t matter. not when you tasted so damn sweet. sure, you had a ton of weed in your system and it was mixing around with the alcohol you had been drinking earlier. and yeah, you would never do this on any other occasion but right now, it didn’t matter.

you two had been smoking for a few hours now.

it had first started with passing a blunt to one another, laughing and drinking as you two talked about who the fuck knows. ya know, the usual; then you had jokingly offered to just blow the smoke into his mouth instead of him having to take a hit of the drug.

and to your surprise, he agreed. without a moment’s hesitation, he had pulled you onto his lap to give you a better angle of being able to blow the smoke into his mouth.

one thing led to another and now you two were making out; a half finished blunt perched between his fingers while the other rested on your hip gently. you tasted sweet; even though you tasted mostly of alcohol and the weed you two were smoking.

that didn’t matter to him, though. you still tasted sweet to him. and he loved that about you; he was almost positive that you knew that. you must have known since he refused to stop kissing you.

but your lungs were burning. whether from the drug that was in your system or from lack of air, you didn’t really now. but it didn’t matter. when you finally pull away for air, his eyes lock onto you; they are bloodshot and droopy ever so slightly.

“aw.. pullin’ away so fast?” geto asks, a hint of mockery and teasing in his tone. he takes a drag of the blunt that was still perched in his fingers. he blows the smoke out after a few moments and gives you a cheeky grin. “don’t tell me you shy now, doll..” he was still teasing you and you knew it.

bastard.

the sound of his voice made you let out a small giggle; you body sways from side to side slightly. it was clear that you were feeling the effects of the substances you had allowed into your body; if you hadn’t already been feeling them, of course.

you watch as he takes a hit of the blunt, lips parting slightly in awe as you watched the smoke leave his mouth so.. perfectly. your lips were red and slightly swollen from the feverish make out session you two just had. the realization almost made him want to laugh but he didn't.

you loved kissing him; loved how his lips felt against yours. they fit together like puzzle pieces. not that those words would ever leave your lips.

you two had a somewhat interesting relationship. you two were friends. ones who made out all the time and had sex sometimes. but you never really put a label on it. just.. friends. or smoking buddies to be more accurate about it. you make sure to remind yourself that this was not any sign that he wanted a relationship with you. this was merely a way to relax from the stress of the world outside.

here, in his living room, was a safe space. one where you didn’t need to worry about anything other than each other.

you blink out your thoughts when you feel smoke on your face; he must’ve taken another drag of it. you give him a lop-sided grin before taking the blunt from his fingers.

“‘m not shy.. jus’ needed some air ‘s all” you tell him, finishing off the blunt before putting the butt of it into the ashtray with the rest of them. this had been the fourth one you two had shared.

“what? you like kissin’ me that much, Sugu?”

a giggle leaves your lips along with the smoke in your mouth, your eyes focused on him.

geto had his eyes locked onto you the whole time, watching as you laugh and sway from the effects of the drugs and alcohol you had consumed. it was cute, frankly.

he leans into the couch more and rolls his eyes, though there is not real indication that he was annoyed with you; just a playfully gesture more than anything else. he thought you were adorable.

in more ways than one.

though, he doesn’t believe you when you mention that you aren’t shy. he could just see it in your eyes that you were most definitely shy. at least.. on any normal day you were.

“you seem pretty shy to me, doll.” he says, letting a smirk form on his lips before he leans closer to you, his other hand now resting on your hip. “and maybe I do enjoy kissin’ you.. guess we’ll never know the truth though, hm?”

you let out a snort and lean forward slightly; your chests were now pressed together. your hand comes up to touch his shoulder lightly as both of your legs rest on each side of his hips, pressing light kisses onto his jawline.

“careful there, Sugu.. keep talkin’ like that and we might have to kiss ‘gain”

your tone is teasing as you press another kiss onto his jawline, sitting up and giving him a cheeky grin.

“want another blunt, my dear?”

a small shiver runs up his spine at the kisses you gave him. he wouldn’t admit it to you ( and your ego ) but he fucking loved when you kissed him like that; when you pretended that he was yours. but he wasn’t.

well.. not in the romantic sense.

“‘s that ‘possed to be a threat?”

his eyebrow raises slightly as he smirks lightly. though, if you two did kiss again, he wouldn’t mind it. not when you tasted so damn sweet.

“come on.. roll another one up, sweetheart.”

you press a kiss onto the corner of his mouth before sitting up, leaning backwards towards the coffee table. you can feel the way your back pops slightly from the action. not that you really minded.

you grab the bag full of weed and rolling paper before turning your attention back over to him. you roll your eyes playfully and poke his cheek lightly.

“don’t be so damn desperate, Sugu.”

you fill the paper in your hands up with the weed before your eyes lock onto his dark colored ones. your tongue lightly poking out and licking the paper before you pushed it together.

the action was so seductive. enough to cause his dick to twitch lightly. he mentally curses himself for the way his body reacts to watching you roll up a blunt. sometimes he wished you weren’t so damn seductive without even trying all that hard.

“c’mon.. open wide for me, darling..” you lift the blunt up to his mouth, holding a lighter in your other hand.

geto lets out a small laugh as he rolls his eyes. the way you spoke to him was enough to bring his dick to its half hardness. he tried to be annoyed with you but when you looked at him with those doe eyes of yours, he knew it was all over for him.

he doesn’t hesitate and opens his mouth slightly, allowing the blunt to rest between his lips gently. his dark colored eyes stay locked onto your face; his lips curving up into a slight smirk.

a small giggle leaves your lips as you light the blunt. your hand holding his chin up lightly; the touch alone sends a small shiver up his spine.

“ooh.. good boy” you coo, the words seeming almost teasing as you set the lighter back down onto the coffee table.

you allow your chest to rest on his once again, kissing his jawline before moving to his neck. the smell of weed quickly fills up your nose; your shoulders relax even more as you let it over take your senses.

geto lets out a small hum in response to the praise. feeling the blunt being placed in his mouth, he takes a deep inhale; smoke filling his lungs and his body immediately starts to relax in the next moment.

he wouldn’t admit it but he loved when you called him a good boy. and his dick loved it just as much. but he would die with that secret.

his hands gently caress your hips, loving the feeling of your skin under his fingertips. he swore he could feel every fiber of skin there. you felt so damn perfect on top of him. it made him wonder how you would look if you rode him.

he lets out a small breath and he slowly exhales a large amount of smoke. he could not allow those thoughts to fill his brain right now; not when he was already struggling to keep his dick under control.

the feeling of his hands on your skin causes a small shiver up your spine but you chose to ignore it.

your mouth nipping and sucking dark marks onto his skin; you were always more confident when you were high. you marked him up like he was yours to mark up.

but he didn’t seem to mind it.

if you were sober, you wouldn’t be doing this. wouldn’t even be on his lap right now. but you weren’t sober. you had marijuana and alcohol in your system, the two forcing a confidence in you that you weren’t really familiar with.

you didn’t care though; you liked how it made you loosen up. how it made you not worry as much as you usually would.

"watch your hands, pretty boy" you purrs, sitting up and grabbing his wrist lightly. you move his wrist towards your mouth, taking a hit of the blunt before you blow the smoke towards his face lightly.

his eyes stay focused on you the entire time; he watches as you leave marks onto his skin. the feeling of it causes him to let out a content sigh.

he honestly would be lying if he said he didn’t love this confidence you had. especially since you would never do anything like this when you were sober. you were usually much more shy; much more reserved.

"oh I will, doll. but you should watch your mouth." Geto teases, letting his hand wander to gently caress your thighs.

you roll your eyes lightly before taking another hit of the marijuana, keeping the smoke in your mouth. your hands soon come up and pull him closer, pulling him into a feverish kiss.

you gently transfer the smoke into his mouth, a buzz going through your body. you allow your tongue to lick around his mouth, your hips rolling against his. the movement is slow and calculated, just enough to make him need more.

and it worked. because he did need more.

geto lets his eyes half close as your tongue and lips move against his own. the taste of you mixed with the weed they just finished makes him dizzy.

his body relaxes under you as you roll your hips against him. his hands grip at your thighs, loving the plush feeling under his fingers.

you hum and roll your hips again, the kiss between you two turning more feverish with each passing second. geto’s eyes nearly roll back into his head when you grind against him again. you were driving him crazy and it was making him dizzy.

when you pull away from the kiss, he nearly whines at the loss of contact. you let out a small snort and roll your eyes playfully, grabbing the blunt from him and take a drag from it.

“don’t fuckin’ tease like that, doll”

geto barely recognizes the sound of his voice as he speaks. it was so hoarse yet so whiny all at the same time. it was so weird for him.

but you had that effect on him.

and he fucking hated it. yet he loved it all at the same time. not that he would admit it of course. he had too much pride to do so.

you give him a grin as you blow smoke into his face, rolling your hips against him once again. you were still teasing, he knew it. knew that you were doing this on purpose. and if he didn’t like it so much, he would’ve gotten pissed off with you at the fact that you insisted on teasing him. call him greedy, he didn’t care.

“c’mon.. do somethin’ to me.. don’t leave me hangin’ here, doll”

you let out a snort and roll your eyes, finishing off the blunt before you set the butt of it with the rest of them. he sounded so desperate. it was quite cute. not that you would admit that to him.

you allow a hand to reach up and grab his chin, pressing your lips against his once again. he immediately kisses you back, pulling you closer to him and groaning lowly. he must’ve been real pent up with the way he was practically whining for your touch. for more of you.

not that he would admit to you. he had way too much pride to ever admit that.

his tongue presses into your mouth, licking around and gripping your hips at the way you tasted. it was sweet yet had a bit of marijuana mixed in with it. and he loved it. loved how addicting you were.

geto allows a hand to reach up your shirt, lightly brushing a thumb over your nipple. you let out a gasp in his mouth; you hadn’t been expecting his cold hands to touch you like that. he grins and pinches the growing bud, loving the way you whimper and squirm around on his lap.

you pull away from the kiss, your hands reaching down and pulling your shirt over your head as you stare down at him. geto is staring at you almost star struck. it was cute.

he never failed to look so interested in you no matter how many times he saw your body.

“fuck, doll, you’re gorgeous”

he leans forward and presses his lips against your neck, sucking dark marks onto your skin. you moan and allow your hips to roll against his, your fingers tangled into his hair. he continues his assault on your neck before he moves down to your chest.

he presses light kisses on your breasts, his hands on your hips to help you grind against him more. it was starting to make him lose his mind. you let out a small whine, needing more than what he was giving you. it was like he was teasing you on purpose and you didn’t like it. not when you needed him so damn badly.

“c’mon, Sugu.. don’t fuckin’ tease”

geto lets out a chuckle at your impatience, finding it rather cute; he doesn’t seem to waste anymore time though. he helps you out of your shorts and panties, throwing them somewhere in the living room before he shifts out of his pants and boxers.

you stare at him for a while, your mouth suddenly becoming dry. geto chuckles and grabs your chin gently, pressing a light kiss onto your face.

“go on, doll.. don’t be scared”

his words are so comforting. odd for him.

but you don’t dwell on it too much. you lift yourself up slightly, grabbing ahold of his hard dick before you slowly sink down onto it. a gasp leaves your lips at the stretch.

he groans and holds onto your hips, almost as though he was trying to restrain himself from forcing you all the way down to the base. you hold onto his shoulders, legs already trembling as you sink all the way down. you had barely done anything and your body was already shaking.

you weren’t sure if that was good for him or bad for you.

didn’t matter.

you sit still for a while, just allowing yourself to get used to the girth of his cock before your legs slowly lift yourself up. you rise up until only the tip is in before you slam yourself back down, moaning and gripping onto him tighter.

he lets out a groan and keeps his hands on your hips, keeping you steady. you soon lift yourself up again, slamming back down and letting out another moan.

and quickly, the sound of skin slapping and your moans fill up the room.

geto has a good hold onto your hips, helping you move. his eyes are fixated on the way that your cunt sucks his dick in. he was completely mesmerized by it.

“look at you, princess.. doin’ so fuckin’ good for me”

his voice is deep and it barely registers in your brain; the pleasure you felt making you too fucked out to even answer.

he lets out a chuckle before he shifts positions, laying down onto the couch before he starts to thrust into you. you cry out and grip at him and the couch; you needed something to keep you grounded.

his hands are firm on your hips, fucking into you like some sort of dog in heat.

you didn’t seem to care though. not when you were practically begging him for more.

“look at ya.. lookin’ so fucking pretty under me like this. such a good girl.”

his voice comes out as a coo, his thrusts becoming rough with each second. your hands grip at his back, whines coming from your lips; drool slowly starts to roll down the corner of your mouth and onto the couch under you. it was too much.

and it was making you so close to cumming. especially with the way he was hammering into you.

“g-gonn.. cum”

he lets out a chuckle at your attempt at talking; he knew just how fucked out you were just by the way you looked. it was cute. he doesn’t seem to say anything though, just continues to fuck into you. his hands come down and start to rub at your clit.

you cry out, his name falling from your lips as you cum. he grins cheekily and continues his movements, feeling his own orgasm starting to creep up on him.

“good fuckin’ girl.. gonna make me cum”

he leans down and presses his lips onto your neck, his hips stuttering slightly as he keeps moving. you whine, sensitive from the over stimulation.

and before you knew it, geto is spilling his cum into you; his hands gripping at your skin rough enough to leave bruises.

“love you so fuckin’ much.. such a good fucking girl for me.”

you let out a whine, trying to push him away from the weight he was currently trying to push onto you. the two of you stay in that position for a little while until he finally gets the strength to pull out.

“want another blunt?”

“you love me.”

he stares at you and scoffs, rolling his eyes. he knew you were going to say that. he had gotten caught in the heat of the moment, that's all it was.

“no i don’t.”

“well, i love you.”

“... what?”

“let’s get another blunt going!”

#☆ namy writes #jjk smut #geto suguru #geto smut #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto smut #jjk suguru #jujutsu kaisen suguru #geto suguru smut #geto suguru x you #geto suguru x y/n

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zosin-ya · 4 months ago

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ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5 - ʟᴀᴛᴇ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴜɴ

Summary: After your shared exam was finally over, Law invites you to the party, showing a more relaxed side of himself. As the night progresses, his boldness starts to emerge, especially after a few drinking games and making out session in the bathroom.

a.n.: Ikakku as the bartender, Shachi being drunk and Penguin somewhere drunk as well. Enjoy! (4,5k words whoops got a bit carried away)

tags: One Piece, Law x Reader, Modern AU, University AU, Penguin and Shachi as Laws flat mate, Law on a sick motorcycle cuz its hot

[ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ɪɴᴅᴇx]

“You invited her?! Dude, nice!” Shachi exclaimed, holding up a hand for a high-five.

Law just stared at it, unimpressed, and ignored the gesture. He didn’t really feel like it was something to celebrate. Sure, he was glad you wanted to come to the party, but beyond that? Whatever. He was more relieved the exam was over and had gone well. The fact that you’d be there too? Casual excitement—nothing to make a big deal about.

"Shouldn’t you be getting ready for your party?" Law said, towel-drying his damp hair while still dressed in his sweatpants. He had a bit of time before he needed to pick you up. After giving you the address and realizing how far the nearest bus stop was from the party, he suggested giving you a ride.

“Boo, you’re such a buzzkill,” Shachi grinned, throwing on his jacket and grabbing his keys. “Better bring a better mood to the party.”

“Whatever."

“Aigh, see ya later!” Shachi called over his shoulder, before heading out the door.

Law watched him leave, glad for the silence settling in the apartment. He took a deep breath, finishing up getting ready, and tried to shake off the exhaustion...or was he nervous?

While Law was casually getting ready, you were in a whirlwind of chaos. It wasn’t that you were nervous—okay, maybe just a little. Who were you kidding? You were a nervous wreck. It had been a while since you went out with someone, let alone to a party full of strangers. At least Law would be there, a familiar face in the crowd. But speaking of Law, you really had to hurry—he’d be there soon.

Minutes later, the doorbell rang, just as you managed to pull yourself together. Grabbing whatever you might need, you hurried to the door and opened it, greeted by Law, who looked pretty much the same as always. His hair was a little neater than usual, but what really caught your eye was the extra helmet he was holding.

"Hey, you ready?" he asked, his tone as casual as ever. You nodded, quickly closing your apartment door behind you, and followed him outside…while your keys were still on the kitchen counter.

"Thanks again for giving me a ride," you said with a smile, tugging your jacket tighter against the chilly night air. Law shrugged, as if to say it was no big deal, and handed you the extra helmet.

"You know how to backpack?" he asked suddenly, and you blinked, confused.

Backpack?

Seeing your puzzled look, Law grinned and nodded toward his motorcycle. "Sitting behind someone on a motorcycle."

You couldn’t help but chuckle. "That’s kind of a cute term. But no, I haven’t done that before."

Law gave a small nod and stepped toward his bike. "No worries, it’s easy. I’ll show you."

He straddled the motorcycle first effortlessly, then waited as you climbed on behind him. He knew it took a little getting used to the first time, but thankfully, the ride wasn’t too long. “You can put your feet here,” he instructed, pointing to the foot pegs. “Hold on tight to me, and lean with me when we hit the curves. That’s all there is to it.”

You gave a quick nod and pulled on your helmet as Law did the same. Before you could adjust it, he turned around and snapped your visor shut, then clicked his own into place. You watched, before he fired the engine to life with a throaty roar.

Feeling a bit unsure, you leaned forward slightly, gripping the sides of his jacket with a tentative hold. Law noticed and stopped for a moment, then without warning, he reached for your hands and pulled them tighter around his waist, making you grip his chest and fall against his back. The sudden closeness made your heart race.

“I said tight,” he teased, his voice laced with amusement. “Don’t want you falling off.”

A light, embarrassed chuckle escaped you as you adjusted your grip, hugging him more securely. “Right, got it,” you murmured.

With a grin you could almost hear, Law revved the engine, and moments later, you were off.

“Come, this way,” Law said, nodding toward the faint sound of music already seeping into the air. You followed him while you two left the bike at a parking spot, feeling the buzz of anticipation as you approached the building. The party was tucked away in the basement, and as you descended the steps, the volume of the music grew louder.

The moment you stepped inside, you were hit by the heavy, stuffy air mixed with the distinct smells of alcohol and something you couldn’t quite place. The crowd was already thick, bodies swaying to the rhythm in the dark colorful lights, and despite the chaotic energy, there was something about the atmosphere that started to get you in the mood.

Law seemed familiar with the place, confidently navigating through the room. “Want to take off your jacket?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you replied, handing it over to him. When he pulled off his own leather jacket, though, something caught your eye. For the first time, you noticed the tattoos that stretched beyond his knuckles, trailing up his forearms. The black ink swirled in intricate patterns, with just a hint of it peeking from beneath the sleeve of his black T-shirt.

Suddenly, you felt a rush of heat. Was the room always this warm, or was it just you?

Law turned to you and gestured toward the bar, silently suggesting to get a drink. You nodded with a suddenly shy smile and followed him through the crowd. You had to admit, the party was surprisingly well-organized. The lighting, the music, the setup—everything looked pretty impressive, especially the bar. Apparently, the engineering students knew how to throw a party.

When you reached the bar, a young woman with dark, curly hair held back by a bright yellow headband greeted you with a warm smile. Her eyes landed on you first, then shifted to Law.

“Hey, Law! Glad you could make it!” she said cheerfully.

“Pleasure's mine, Ikkaku,” Law replied, giving her a friendly smile. It was clear they knew each other. You stood there, a little shy, but smiled politely.

“Oh, hi! I’m Ikkaku! I don’t think we’ve met before,” the woman said, extending a hand toward you. You shook it and introduced yourself, instantly being taking in by her radiating smile.

“Y/N, nice to meet you.”

Law watched the exchange, a small smile tugging at his lips. He wasn’t too worried about you meeting Ikkaku. Unlike Shachi and Penguin, who could be a bit much at times, Ikkaku was a breath of fresh air. She radiated confidence and had a feisty side that Law respected very much.

“So, what can I get you two?” Ikkaku asked, leaning forward with a grin. “First drink’s on the house.”

“You got the northern vodka by any chance?” Law asked, leaning slightly forward with a casual air. Ikkaku’s grin widened, clearly in on it. Of course she had it, especially since Shachi had specifically brought it for the party. He’d stashed it under the bar, trusting Ikkaku to keep an eye on it and only serve it to close friends. After all, it wasn’t cheap or easy to come by.

“Sure do. With soda?” she asked.

“Yes, please, but for the love of god, mix the drink like a human this time,” Law said, causing Ikkaku to laugh along.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she teased, shaking her head with a playful grin as she turned toward you. “And for you, Y/N?”

You placed your order, and she got to work, carefully mixing both drinks. As promised, she kept it reasonable, not trying to drown either of you in alcohol. Law kept an eye on her as she poured, just to be sure she didn’t pull any tricks. The memory of getting absolutely trashed on the first he came here flashed in his mind—along with the unpleasant experience of throwing up into his helmet. He was careful not to repeat that disaster tonight.

With your drinks, you both decided to move to a quieter table, away from the crowd. Setting your glasses down, you slipped into an easy rhythm of conversation.

“So, you said your friends were here too?” you asked, leaning in a bit closer.

Law hummed in response, casually leaning back as his eyes scanned the crowd. His long legs stretched out below the table, brushing your knee ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” he said, finally nodding towards a corner of the room. “See the guy over there trying—and failing—to juggle the beer pong balls? That’s Shachi. He’s studying engineering, good friends with Ikkaku, the bartender.” His gaze shifted to another spot. “And that’s Penguin, the guy in the beanie. You’ve met him before, right? We live together.”

You chuckled at the sight of Shachi fumbling with the beer pong balls. “Penguin seemed pretty nice when I met him. Shachi, though… definitely can’t juggle.”

“Nope,” Law said, grinning as he took a sip of his drink. His eyes drifted back to you, and for a moment, he found himself quietly studying your face. It suddenly hit him how stunning you looked tonight, the soft light from the party casting a warm glow over your features. The way your eyes sparkled when you laughed, or even just how you looked at him—it was captivating. He found himself lingering in the moment longer than usual.

Why was his heart racing suddenly?

You broke his trance by asking, “Kind of in a mood of beer pong, are you good at it?”

It caught him off guard a bit as he came back to reality, but only for a second. A playful grin spread across his face when he heard your suggestion. Was that a challenge?

“Maybe. Wanna find out and lose?” His voice had that teasing, competitive edge. Law could get fiercely competitive with games like these, a trait he knew well enough to admit. He didn’t just want to win—he needed to.

“Oh, I don’t plan on losing,” you said boldly, ready for a challenge.

Law raised an eyebrow, the spark of competition fully lit and enjoying your bold anticipation. “Alright, game on,” he said, pushing his chair back and standing up, already mentally preparing to take the win—or go down swinging.

You and Law made your way to the beer pong table tucked away in the corner, where Shachi was struggling to pick up the ping pong balls. He kept fumbling, his coordination long gone thanks to the alcohol he’d consumed. Law, amused by the scene, stood back with a lazy smile and simply watched his friend, leaving you to step in.

“Here, let me help,” you said, handing the ball directly to Shachi. He blinked up at you in surprise, clearly thrown off by your pretty face. But when he spotted Law next to you, the gears in his foggy mind slowly turned. As much as his drunken state allowed, he pieced things together.

"Law! There you are!" Shachi greeted, pulling him into a sloppy, brotherly hug, clapping him on the shoulder. As he did, he leaned in closer to him and grinned, whispering into his ear, “You didn’t tell me she was hot.”

Law rolled his eyes at Shachi’s comment, a flicker of both annoyance and amusement crossing his face, but he didn’t bother to respond. Shachi, still riding the high of his drunken state, flashed you a wide playful grin.

"You guys wanna play?" he asked, already grabbing the cups with a clumsy enthusiasm.

You shared a glance with Law, and something unspoken passed between you, before you stepped closer to the table.

The game kicked off. You helped arrange the plastic cups, filling them with something light, cautious not to overdo it too soon. Law handed you the first ball with a subtle smirk, one that made your pulse quicken. He was watching you intently, his gaze lingering just a bit longer than necessary as you lined up your shot.

With a flick of your wrist, the ball sailed effortlessly into the cup. You grinned, teasing him with a playful look. “Try to keep up,” you taunted lightly, savoring the first little victory.

Law raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into that faint, knowing smile. “Alright,” he said smoothly, before taking his first cup in one clean motion, his eyes never leaving yours as he emptied it.

For a moment your mind went blank, those stormy eyes locking with yours so intensely completely threw you off guard. You had a feeling Law knew what he was doing.

Shachi, playing the part of an overly enthusiastic referee, was more of a distraction for Law than anything else. He cheered only you on and did his best to throw Law off, witch loud coughs and "Look over there"s.

Every time Law stepped up to take his shot, there was an obvious tension in the air. He wasn’t just throwing the ball; he was challenging you with each toss, silently daring you to keep pace. And while you landed a few solid shots, Law’s precision was undeniable. Even when he had to hold on on the table, the alcohol clearly starting to catch up with him, he still managed to sink the ball into your cups with impressive accuracy.

By the time your side was completely wiped out, Law still had three cups standing. You huffed in mock frustration, but deep down, the competitiveness had only made things more fun.

Shachi clapped his hands together, grinning like an idiot. “Rules say you’ve gotta finish the winner’s cups!” he teased.

You sighed defeated, “Fine, Law. You win.”

As you reached for one of his cups, though, Law’s hand shot out, stopping you. His fingers brushed against yours, sending a small jolt of electricity through you. He held your gaze for a moment, before he spoke up. “Let’s share it. I’d rather not have to carry you home wasted.”

The teasing edge in his voice made your stomach flip, but the offer itself was unexpected. Law was competitive by nature, and Shachi knew he usually liked to rub his victories in. This time, though, he was...different.

You accepted his offer with a small smile, taking one of the cups while Shachi gleefully grabbed the last. Shachi, clearly impressed, raised an eyebrow at Law. “Wow, Law. Didn’t expect you to go soft on her.”

Law just shrugged, his eyes flicking to you briefly before he downed the rest of his drink. “She made it a decent game,” he said with a casual smirk, though the look he gave you was anything but casual.

“Another round?” Shachi asked, grinning as he set down his cup, already eager for more.

You shook your head with a soft laugh, feeling the alcohol making your head spin just a little. Even Law seemed to be feeling it, though his cool demeanor didn’t falter. He looked at you, the corner of his mouth lifting in a slight, teasing smile. “Maybe next time.”

As the night continued, Shachi separated from you two, wanting to go on a dance battle with Penguin. You watched him stumble away with an amused grin, and leaned against the beer pong table. "He's pretty fun."

Law leaned beside you, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, he’s chaotic, but he’s great." It was something Law probably wouldn’t admit when sober. He valued his friends more than anything, but he wasn’t the type to be openly affectionate.

“How did you guys meet?” you asked, seizing the moment. Law seemed more relaxed than usual, probably thanks to the alcohol and the lively party atmosphere. His eyes remained fixed on his friends, who were currently tearing up the dance floor, before he turned back to you.

“We’re childhood friends,” he replied, rather casually.

Your eyes widened slightly, a warm feeling spreading through you. There was something undeniably sweet about hearing that. Law, already sensing where this was heading, scrunched up his face and quickly looked away.

“Don’t—” he began, but it was too late.

“Aw, that’s adorable.”

“God, here we go,” Law groaned, rubbing his eyes in mock exasperation. But despite his feigned annoyance, a grin tugged at his lips.

"Sorry, I had to, you’re so secretive it’s nice to get to know more about you." you said with a grin. "Hey, how about we play a question game? Taking turns?”

The suggestion piqued Law's interest. It was a good idea, and honestly, he was relieved that you came up with activities instead of him. He wasn't the type to take the lead with things like this.

"Like 'Never Have I Ever'?" Law asked, thinking of the drinking game. You hesitated for a moment before nodding, even though you knew it would probably loosen you up more than you intended.

After returning to the bar and ordering some diluted shots from Ikkaku—not wanting to black out too soon—you both sat back down at the table. Law took the first turn, thoughtfully considering his question. He didn’t want to embarrass you; it was just a fun opportunity to get to know you better.

"Never have I ever… cheated on an exam," he said with a smirk.

As you lifted your glass to your lips, Law shot you a mock judgmental look, causing you to laugh.

"What? The professor left the damn room for twenty minutes."

"You don't have to justify it," he chuckled. "I didn't say anything." He watched you down your drink, his eyes lingering on your lips.

"Alright, my turn," you said, thinking for a moment. "Never have I ever… slept with my ex."

Law lifted his glass, and this time, you gave him a playful judgmental look. He shrugged before he downed his shot.

"What? I'm not proud of it," he admitted with a wry smile.

"Why did you do it, then?" you teased, leaning in closer with a grin.

Law scrunched his eyebrows and sighed, rubbing his face as if the memory itself drained him. "No clue. It was a bad decision, and I’m definitely not making that mistake again. Not with her."

His tone made you even more curious, and you mentally noted that his relationship with his ex hadn’t been the best. You couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between them—and what kind of girl Law had dated in the first place. He was so guarded when sober, often keeping his walls up. Yet here he was, relaxed and open, at least for the moment.

"Okay, my turn again… never have I ever… stalked someone online before a date." Law asked, and leaned back in his seat.

You acted without thinking, your hand already lifting the glass. But as realization hit, you froze mid-motion and looked at Law with wide eyes. He raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer, clearly intrigued by your reaction.

You remembered how you’d stalked Law’s Instagram before your first study session together at the café, and the embarrassment started creeping in. But it was too late now—you downed the drink and set the glass back on the table.

"Why did you hesitate?" Law asked, narrowing his eyes at you suspiciously.

"What? I don’t know what you mean,"

"Cut the crap, tell me,"

The alcohol made your tongue loose, and you couldn’t help but admit the truth. "Fine... I may have, possibly, looked you up online before we met for the first time. Maybe. Just... a little."

Law leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He wasn’t sure how he felt about this. Being a private person, he let the silence stretch between you two, deliberately creating a sense of pressure. It felt like an interrogation.

You shifted uncomfortably. "I just... Look, you were a random delivery guy. I didn’t trust that you were actually a med student. You even know where I live, and remember how you picked up my uni ID?"

Law listened, nodding slowly, his expression unreadable.

"I kind of panicked," you continued, running a hand through your hair. "I thought maybe you were just pretending to be in med school to... I don’t know, lure me in. Since you knew I was studying medicine." You sighed, feeling a bit ridiculous now. "Sorry, I was just anxious."

You braced yourself, half expecting Law to lecture you—or, worst-case scenario, leave the table and leave you sitting there alone at the party. But what you didn’t expect was for him to give you an amused smile, followed by a low chuckle.

"Smart girl," he said, surprising you. "Makes sense. Anyway, your turn."

"Wait, you don’t mind?" you asked, blinking in confusion.

"Probably would have done the same if i was a chick living alone and inviting a random stranger to meet up."

"Wow you make me look like a loser." You laughed an rolled your eyes, to which Law shook his head with a grin. "Just laying out the facts, now go on, your turn."

You continued your game with Law, enjoying the lighthearted fun, until eventually, nature called. All that liquid had to leave your system, and you asked Law where the bathroom was. He motioned for you to follow him, leading you to a small unisex bathroom. He waited outside while you quickly headed in.

As you finished up, you suddenly became aware of how dizzy you felt from the alcohol. You were still able to walk and talk without slurring, but your head was spinning badly. Gripping the sink, you took a moment to steady yourself, trying to calm the whirlwind in your mind. The dim bass from the party music in the background only seemed to make the dizziness worse.

Meanwhile, outside the bathroom, Law leaned against the wall, checking his phone. You’d been inside for a while, and he was starting to get concerned. He debated whether to check on you, but worry quickly got the better of him. Knocking gently on the door, he called out, “Y/N, hey, you okay in there?”

He listened closely but didn’t hear a response. Anxiety bubbled up inside him, and he knocked again, louder this time. “Y/N?”

Finally, the doorknob turned, and you opened the door, holding your head. "My head is spinning. Give me a sec," you mumbled, stumbling slightly as you leaned back against the wall for support, slowly sliding down against it.

Law was quick to react. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him for privacy, and crouched down next to you. "You need some water?" he asked, his voice calm but filled with concern.

You shook your head slightly, the dizziness still overpowering your senses. Maybe the drinking game after beer pong hadn’t been the brightest idea.

He watched you for a moment, taking in the way you sat there, trying to compose yourself. Silence fell between you two, but this time it was comfortable. You leaned your head back against the wall, Law sitting next to you, mimicking the gesture.

Your gaze drifted back to him, and as if by fate, your eyes met. The dim lighting softened everything, but his grey eyes still seemed to cut through the shadows, intense and focused. He really was something, you thought, as your gaze unconsciously dropped to his lips.

Without realizing it, you began to inch closer, noticing how Law didn’t pull back. In fact, he seemed to lean in as well, the air between you thick with unspoken tension. Your heart raced, the moment stretching longer, making it almost unbearable.

Law swallowed, hesitant for a split second before his hand lifted, gently cupping your chin. His touch was careful, as if he was afraid of breaking you.

The space between the two of you disappeared, you could feel his breath on your skin as he tilted his head slightly, bringing your lips closer to his. Unsure of what to do, but not wanting to stop, you let the moment happen.

The second your lips touched, your eyes fluttered shut.

At first, the kiss was light, almost tentative—neither of you rushing it. But then, you moved your lips softly against his, and Law followed, matching your pace. The hesitation faded, and the connection deepened as you both let yourselves get lost in the moment.

Laws hand traveled from you chin to the back of your head, suddenly grabbing a handful of your hair and pulling you in closer. You grabbed his T-shirt instinctively and let the kiss get more heated. Your breath was going heavy, desperate for air, yet neither of your two wanted to break the kiss.

Without pulling apart, you managed to somewhat clumsily get on your feet. Law walked you back against the sink, his lips still attached to yours, as he grabbed your thighs and effortlessly lifted you up. Sitting at the sink was pretty uncomfortable, but your mind was busy with other things. Your hands traveled down from his chest, to his belt, blindly trying to loosen it impatiently.

And Law seemed to be on the same page, he let his inked hands disappear under your top, fumbling with the clip of your bra. The air was thick with tension as you two made out and tried to rip each others clothes off.

Laws zipper was already open and his belt hung lose on his jeans, while he was kissing your neck sloppily and pushed your top upwards, trying to get more of your sweet flesh.

While you two were in the heat of the moment, you completely forgot that you occupied the only existing bathroom at the party. The impatient knock of someone at the door reminded you what you were doing.

"Hey, I gotta piss, hurry up!"

Both of you froze, feeling like being caught in the act.

Law sighed in frustrating and let his head hang low, while you pinched the bridge of your nose. Great, getting cock blocked by a random stranger.

"In a fucking minute!" Law shouted back, and slowly let go of you, letting you hop of the sink. Both of you adjusted your clothes quickly and gave each other a disappointed look. It was great while it lasted.

Law walked ahead, swinging the door open with a bit more force than necessary, revealing the unfortunate person who had been banging on the door. The guy stood there, confused, clearly piecing together what had been happening inside. Law gave him a cold glare, making it obvious that he was pissed off and didn't really care the guy probably knew that you two were making out in the bathroom. You, on the other hand, followed Law out, feeling too embarrassed to meet the guy’s eyes.

As you walked away, still flustered, you spoke up quietly, "Hey, I’m still feeling a bit dizzy... I think I might call it a night." You rubbed your arm shyly, not wanting to seem like you were bailing, but the dizziness was still lingering mixed with exhaustion.

Law nodded in understanding, brushing a hand through his hair as he sighed. "Yeah, let’s leave," he agreed, his tone softer now. He placed a hand on your back gently, guiding you away from the noise of the party, and the two of you headed for the exit, leaving the chaotic atmosphere behind.

[Next Chapter]

tag list: @mars-mizuko @tadomikiku (Comment to be added 🖤)

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moonstruckme · 1 year ago

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hey, i love your writing so much!! can you do something with remus where reader is really upset over doing bad on an assignment and he comforts her. i had an essay today and i KNOW i failed😭😭i fr need a remmy

Thank you gorgeous! I hope you did better than you thought <3

modern au

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 831 words

Remus can feel some sort of upset building inside you. You’ve been quiet ever since dinner, a glumness accumulating around you like a thick fog. He’d call it a sulk if your usual kindheartedness didn’t seem so intact. But every smile is thin-lipped and you’re making painfully slow progress on your section of the puzzle, your eyes too often going cloudy and distant, off to somewhere Remus can’t follow.

“Think I’ve got one of yours,” Remus murmurs, pushing a puzzle piece towards you.

You take it with a low hum of thanks.

He watches as you put it in your pile. His section of the puzzle isn’t coming along much better; he’s too worried about you to focus. You’re teetering on the edge of some sort of fracturing, he can feel it, and he doesn’t know what to do or how to make it better.

He tries a new tactic. “Do you feel like some dessert, love? I might nip to the corner store for a sweet.”

“Sure, that sounds good.” The smile you give him this time is more a grimace than anything else, and then you’re pushing yourself up from where you sit on the floor. “I’m going to go to the restroom.”

Remus watches you go with a hollow ache in his chest. During dinner, you’d gotten an alert on your phone, and the change had been instant. Your shoulders had drooped at whatever you’d seen, your lips parting and then pressing determinedly together before you’d set your phone on the table, face down. Remus didn’t ask, and you didn’t seem inclined to bring it up. But whatever it was has clearly stuck with you.

He gives it a few minutes before he follows. You could actually be in the bathroom, but he doubts it; he thinks he knows where you’ve gone. There’s a small gap between the bed and the wall in your bedroom, just barely big enough to walk in.

That’s where he finds you. Slouched in the corner as if you’ve misbehaved.

“Hey,” he says softly, cramming into the space in front of you. He places his feet on either side of yours, your drawn-up knees slotting between his calves. “Why’re you hiding from me?”

You’ve got your face covered with your hands, and your voice muffles into them when you speak. Still, the evidence of your crying is audible. “Because I know I’m being stupid.”

“You’ve never been stupid, not once in your life,” Remus replies lightly. He takes your wrists in his hands, letting his thumbs run over the sensitive skin. “If you tell me what’s wound you up so badly, I can tell you if it’s stupid, but I doubt it is.”

You lower your hands without his asking. It takes a good deal of self-control not to crumple at the sight of you. Your face is blotchy, a terribly sad downturn to your pretty lips, and when a tear globs and drops from your eye, Remus feels like someone’s thrust their hand into his chest and squeezed.

“You’re too nice to tell me if I’m being stupid,” you say, a teasing note to your voice despite your sorry state.

Remus goes with it. He nods, faux serious, and gives you a look of great solemnity. “If any stupidity comes to light, I promise to laugh at you for the rest of the night.”

You start to smile, but it crumples halfway through. “I really messed up.”

There’s no joking to his seriousness now; he feels his brows bunch as he rubs a path up your forearm, desperate to soothe you. “How, sweetheart?”

“I did really badly on my essay,” you whimper. “I know it’s dumb to cry about but I just—I really wanted to do well.”

His heart swells with sympathy, though there’s a bit of relief that comes with it. “That’s not stupid,” he promises you, working his hand up your arm to your shoulder. It’s halfway to a hug, and you lean towards him a little, craving the comfort. “To some people, it might be, but you put so much pressure on yourself about these things.” He kisses your knee. “I’m sorry you’re disappointed, lovely, but it’s going to be okay.”

You shake your head, sniffling. “The grade’s already in. There’s nothing I can do.”

“I know,” Remus says apologetically. He moves closer, looking into your eyes so you can see the sincerity in his. Your chin wobbles. “It’s done, but you’ll be alright. You’ll still graduate, get a job. In a year from now you won’t even remember this.”

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. You’re still weeping, but it’s slowing. He sets both hands to your cheeks. “You did your best, sweetheart. Keep trying. You’ll be okay.”

“Promise you won’t leave me if I fail this class?” you joke.

Your efforts win a rare smile. Remus scrunches his nose against yours. “Promise. It’ll take a lot more than that, you’ve got me all settled in.”

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cafulur · 5 months ago

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Modern Personal Assistant Labru AU ✨📋🐉

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- Laios is a renown animal/monster expert (not sure yet if this is modern as in no monsters or just a modern version of their realm w/ monsters included)

- he does most of his research independently, occasionally working alongside small groups of other scientists

- a new animal species / monster mutation emerges that completely captures the world’s and Laios’s interest. As one of the top zoologists / monsterologists in the nation, he gets requested to head the first ever research on this unknown creature.

- something about this species is so bizarre that in addition to studying it, Laios is suddenly also having to do press conferences to explain to the masses wtf is going on.

- … except he kind of can’t. the first time he gets on the mic in front of a bunch of people, one reporter asks if there is concern for reproduction as we’ve only found two females of the species. Laios goes on a 20 minute rant about the egg laying process they recently discovered and how according to x-rays of the eggs they do not require a mate to reproduce but appear to still seek and thrive off of community. A conference that should’ve had enough time to answer dozens of questions ends with him only have answered two and a half, as he greatly struggled to be succinct and not derail into mile long explanations. But to Laios, every detail counts!! They’re all important pieces to the puzzle!

- his boss pulls him aside— “listen, you’re the only person on the planet at the moment who has the most knowledge about this thing. if you’re going to also be it’s’ spokesperson, you need to handle your PR better and read the room. we’ve assigned you an assistant to help with any future public appearances.

- enter Kabru, works in public relations, usually political, and is all too comfortable with addressing the masses. local elections just ended and so as a PR specialist he’s being assigned unconventional work by his management company during this downtime, which includes a rambly scientist with zero social cues or ability to read the room.

- Kabru sits down with Laios at a café a few days before the next conference and they run through a little practice session. Kabru clears his throat and acts as a reporter.

- “So, Mr. Touden, how long do you expect the research to go on for before we know if we can integrate this species into our local environments? Is it even safe for us to be near them?”

- “it’s not a question on whether or not it’s safe for us but whether or not it’s safe for them. they seem to be flighty little guys, and don’t even agitate or fight when provoked. but something about the oils from human skin damages their feathers, they have almost the same texture and composition as paper. it’s really fascinating actually, they somehow appear to be resistant to water but our oils break them down very quickly, and so we’re thinking they might thrive better on reserves people can’t access. but that’s also not exactly ideal due their apparent difficultly living in captivity and small spaces, as well as the potential need to migrate. closing off their environment may actually—“

- Kabru knows deep, deep down in his heart of hearts that he needs to cut the man off right then and there, show him how he could be more concise and clear with his words, and maybe not ramble so much. but Laios is positively glowing with both wonder and genuine concern for this creature, and Kabru cannot help but be completely captivated.

#love these fools….. silly silly fools….#i know it’s not a classic PR scenario but idk i can’t imagine laois needing it for anything else #or PA whatever #i have no idea what im saying half the time but it makes sense in my brain :>#kabru #laios touden #labru #dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #dunmeshi #danmeshi #dungeon food #modern au #PA au #laios x kabru #writing

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amuromi · 3 months ago

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★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 7.7k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ I would just like to thank the girlies for showing me the light of the Dominican-French Connie headcanon. Truly a beautiful thing that you’ve all created.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! modern!au, hurt/comfort, previously established relationship (childhood sweethearts to exes), pet names (baby, mami, mamita), oral (f!receiving), mentions of birth control, untranslated Spanish, ooc!Connie (canon is only a suggestion)

It’s late, just on the cusp of twilight. The sun is setting behind the skyline in flecks of amber light, flickering over the culdesac like a dwindling candle. Soon the streetlights will come on, buzzing in bright halos over the cracked pavement of the basketball court. It’s so strange to see the changes that had gone unnoticed in years prior suddenly become glaringly obvious. The old pavement of the basketball court has always been cracked and faded, dandelions pushing up between the rivers of dirt that worked their way through the broken concrete. The green paint has long since been washed away along with the white lines and red free throw lane. Somebody–probably the same person that tagged the mailboxes up the street–has made an attempt at renewing the paint job, wobbling lines of spray paint marking out half court and the foil line. The rest of the park is just as neglected, having never been updated since its first installation. The swings are old and rickety, creaking under the slightest weight, and all the plastic pieces of the playground have been bleached pale under the sunlight. But it’s still standing.

All the pocketknife etchings in the picnic tables and sharpie scribbles on the underside of the tallest slide. This park has always been well-loved. There are memories tucked into the cracked asphalt and carved into trees. Some aren’t even tangible, just the wisp of a thought tucked to the back of your mind that comes loose when you hear just the right song at just the right time. A car driving by with the windows down, in the stifling heat of midsummer. Mostly just bass rattling through the frame of someone’s hoopty as they ease down the block just as it starts to get dark, hollering at someone loitering by the stop sign at the end of the road. Hear just the right baseline at just the right time throws you back to somewhere easier. When the biggest worries in life were getting home before the streetlight turned on.

Age came through and shattered that simplicity. First crack was sacrificing half the summer to a job at some pop-up carnival that closed as soon as school started, then school started getting serious the closer it got to graduation, and that ceremony sent everybody off in their different directions. Like pulling out threads of a sweater until it starts to unravel. Mikasa went one way and Armin another. Eren stayed local. Coming back together has been like finding a dusty puzzle at the back of a closet and hoping it still had all its pieces. Mikasa graduated the same time as you, but Armin and his big brain still have two more years to go for his bachelor’s. Sasha is fresh out of culinary school and looking to set up something local, a little restaurant somewhere in town.

What started as a throwaway story post that you expected nobody to see or care about–a simple “back where it all began” when you decided to walk to the park at 1AM–had turned into a rallying cry that brought everybody out of the woodwork. Now, after all the new neighborhood kids have gone home, the park is still full of people. A bunch of twenty-somethings too big to be messing with all this playground equipment. The streetlights buzz to life as the sky goes black, bugs crowding around the yellowish light, but no one moves to go home. You’re all grown. The only thing that can tell you to go home now is a half exasperated text from your Momma wondering how long you plan to be out of the house for. It’s still early enough in the night–hardly past nine–that you don’t need to worry about getting called home because you’ve been out of the house for too long or some other nonsensical reason. And even that won’t bother your Momma who’s out living her own life now that you’re older. Something about a weekend trip with her friend Mr. Vick, which you know from childhood, is something she calls all her dates, like it’s an inside joke that she still goes out and has fun. “Acting grown,” as you’ve always called it.

And besides your Momma, you don’t really need to worry about much of anything right now. With a degree under your belt, this little return to living at home is only temporary. A brief stop while you’re waiting for everything with your new employment and the leasing office of your apartment to clear. Soon you’ll be working your own little corporate job with an office and everything, and you’ll have your own place away from your Momma’s house, too. Life is sweet and seeing all your old friends is making it sweeter, but there’s still that barest hint of bitterness lingering on the back of your tongue. No one has mentioned it, too busy focusing on who’s here rather than who’s not, but there is one glaring piece missing from the little jigsaw of your old group of friends. One soldier that didn’t answer the call of duty.

Mikasa and Historia are over on the swings, Eren and Jean are playing one on one on the beat up court, and Sasha and Armin are sprawled out on one of the jungle gym platforms. You’re comparatively alone, sitting at the picnic table all by yourself. It’s like something frozen in time. The same chipped paint and rusted bolts. In so many years, it seems like none of the kids have added anything else to the splintered collage you all left behind. There’s still the little lopsided heart that Historia etched out after being convinced that no one would care if she defaced this particular piece of public property. She was always a stickler with things like that. But the park belongs to you guys more than it does anyone else anyway. It’s always been the property of the kids and it’s almost sad that they haven’t added their own touches in the time since you all graduated. Maybe they’ve hidden their tags in different places. On the underside of the jungle gym written in sharpie, or the frame of the swing set etched into the creaking metal.

After a while, the sound of sneakers scuffing on concrete pauses just long enough for a shadow to cut across your line of sight, eyes half closed as you rest your head on the table.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired,” Eren teases. He somehow looks the same as you last saw him yet so much different. He’s bulkier and his hair is longer. He’s sweating, looking sticky as honey under the golden haze of the streetlights as he smiles down at you.

“M’not tired.” It only sounds the slightest bit fatigued as you mumble the words into your folded arms, but you’re not. You slept in today and even when you woke up you only got out of bed sometime in the afternoon. You’re as well rested as can be, but longing is making you a bit lethargic. Something about a watched pot never boiling. Each minute has stretched to a small eternity as you stare up the ridge of the slight hill that flanks the park. The road is mostly invisible from where you’re sitting but you keep hoping you’ll see someone coming down the dirt path worn through the grass. Eren follows your eyes then kisses his teeth, pushing your shoulder as if to break you out of a daze.

“If he shows, he shows. Don’t sit here waiting for him.” Eren at least has the sense not to sound pitying. It’s not like he’s had the smoothest relationship in the past four years either. He’s been on and off with half a dozen girls since graduation, never seeming to settle down with any one of them. Eren is lucky he’s easy to like because he’s never been hounded by any disgruntled ex and it gives you hope for your own past, but that candle you’ve been holding is burning lower and lower everyday. Soon it’ll hiss out in a puff of smoke and that’ll be that. Another door closed, another chapter ended.

“C’mon, you’re not ’bout to spend the night over here looking sad. Come by my cheerleader while I break Kirstein’s ankles.” Eren has always been something like a brother. Older by a couple months, always pretending he was more mature and had all the answers. Usually he’s no more insightful than you, but he means well and tonight it’s a welcomed distraction. You sit at the edge of the court on one of those rickety benches that rocks and sags under your weight, hooting each time one of them scores just so Eren can huff about you “only cheering for him.” By the time they’ve played themselves out everyone has gathered at the edge of the court.

Armin has settled between your legs, shoulders knocking into your knees as you card your fingers through his hair. It used to be longer. Back in middle school he had a thick mop of hair that matched Mikasa’s. They’ve both shorn off their hair to something more cropped and manageable now, still matching somehow. Historia is leaned up against your shoulder, half-asleep but perking up now that Sasha has started talking about food. Something about everyone coming over to theirs tomorrow for brunch. It’s getting late enough that getting up early is starting to sound like a chore but the promise of a home cooked meal courtesy of your favorite chef has you setting an alarm in your phone. Jean sinks one more shot from half court before wiping his face on his soiled shirt and agreeing to call it a night.

Home is only a couple minutes away, the path lit by merging rings of light pouring down from the streetlamps. The pavement strewn with grass clippings is far less intimidating than walking around campus at night. Here you know house 13 is Ms. Emma’s and the blue car parked on the corner belongs to Mr. Leroy. There’s nothing haunting the streets but a stray cat that meows at you as you split off from Historia at the end of the block. She lives in the next neighborhood over–where the sidewalks aren’t as cracked and the houses not so weathered–and you watch her drive off until her tail lights disappear around a corner. Your phone pings as the group chat erupts with the obligatory “I’m home” texts. You send your own before turning in for the night, trying not to mull over the missing name in the text chain.

Morning comes in shades of pink and electric buzzing as your phone vibrates through your alarm. It’s early or at least earlier than you’ve gotten up in a while, but Sasha is already up and texting, reminding everyone that food will be ready by noon. There’s a pang of nostalgia as you get ready in the bathroom that saw you through so many formative years. It smells like your Momma now that you’ve spent so long living in dorms instead of at home. Her perfume and hair products, the sweet smell of vanilla and cocoa butter that clings to nearly every room of the house. Even your own perfume mimics the comforting scent as you spritz yourself in a generous cloud before stepping out for the day.

A pair of sunglasses sits low on the bridge of your nose as you make the drive to Sasha’s new apartment. She moved out soon after she finished culinary school. A modest apartment that isn’t too far from the restaurant she works at. It’s humble but it’s hers, and you’re proud to see how well life has been treating her. A notification from Sasha pops up as you check your lipgloss at a stop light, asking you to run to the store for her. Something about running out of eggs. Historia chimes in a moment later asking if any of the liquor stores are open so she can make mimosas. You turn right at the next light and bemoan the lack of cars in the parking lot of the grocery store. It’s not so early that no one’s on the road but you hate to be that person rolling up into the store before everyone’s settled into the work day.

Just make it quick, you tell yourself as you pass through the doors. There’s an immediate gust of frigid air conditioning that raises goosebumps over your skin as you grab a basket. The store is nearly empty as you meander towards the dairy section. There’s a lady pondering over avocados as you pass through the produce. About as old as your Momma, though her hair is finely peppered with streaks of gray. There’s a vague familiarity to her that comes with growing up in the same place. She might’ve been your old daycare lady or a secretary at your elementary school. You push your sunglasses a bit higher on your face, trying to hide behind the wide lens. It’s too early to navigate through a half recalled stroll down memory lane. She barely glances up as you pass, but you still take a sudden interest in the speckled pattern of the tiled floor, skirting past a display of tomatoes until you can dip around a corner. Halfway down the line of aisles you see an old classmate working the seafood counter. There’s a moment of hesitation before he nods at you and you return the gesture hoping that will be the last of the familiar faces you see until you get to Sasha’s place.

By the time you make it to the self checkout you’ve only seen three more people in the relatively large store. No one that you knew, luckily. The scanner happily chirps to not forget your receipt as you tuck the eggs into your reusable bag, the motion interrupted as you hear a familiar song ghosting past your ears. It’s quiet, muffled, sounding like you’re only hearing it from a distance. It draws your eyes despite the machine reminding you to remove all items from the bagging area. There’s no one behind you to stir up a fuss about you lingering too long at the register, half lost in a memory. In fact the only other person in the self checkout area is a man that looks devastatingly familiar. Even with his back towards you, you could pick Connie out of the biggest crowd. His hair is a bit longer now, grown out of his militaristic buzz cut, and his shoulders have gotten broader since you last saw him, but it’s him.

The music is coming from him, of course. A relic from a bygone era of your life, a song older than either of you that his mother used to play. A comforting sound from those awkward years of middle school. It’s faint but you can hear the soulful belting of the love song even from a distance. It sends you back to the time when you first met Connie. He’d been on the fringes of your life throughout childhood. That friend of a friend that you’d never formally met until your sixth grade English class when he was sitting next to you and cheating off your answers. It took a few months before you realized he was an ESL student and suddenly cheating wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

The register chirps at you to pick up your groceries and grab your receipt and you nearly drop your bag and break your eggs in your rush to leave. Connie glances up from his own scanning at the sound of the commotion. It’s only a cursory glance from the corner of his eye but you see the recognition spark immediately. His whole body goes rigid, suddenly lined with tension at the mere sight of you. It’s too early for this kind of confrontation. Four years suddenly seeming too soon to see him again. You’re halfway to your car before you consider that he might not have recognized you. You try to rationalize that he could’ve just been bothered by some random woman staring him down while he’s trying to get groceries. It makes the lack of any notifications on your phone make more sense. The Connie you knew would’ve been texting you, then calling if you didn’t answer quick enough for his liking. He wouldn’t have let you walk away from him so easily. But, after so long, the Connie you knew only exists in memories. Like the song you only remember as a melody, no true words, just sounds and a feeling.

It’s so strange how a day can sour so quickly. The bubbling happiness of getting to see your old friends has dissipated to a rueful melancholy. You get to see every friend but one.

Masking your upset is easy when you can blame your lack of enthusiasm on the early hour despite having gotten more than enough sleep. Sasha puts you to work anyway, nudging you towards one end of the counter with a bowl and instructions to scramble the eggs. There’s a debate between Jean and Armin over adding milk to the mix, then Historia starts another over how much cheese qualifies as too much. Sasha bats all their hands away with a spatula, tossing in more cheese with a petty grin as you lament that you’re just following the chef’s instructions. You find yourself humming the song Connie had been playing as you cook, struggling to remember the words in Spanish.

If anyone notices your overindulgence in the mimosas, they don’t question it. Historia seems happy to play mixologist as she measures out generous amounts of champagne colored with a splash of orange juice. By the fourth glass you’re feeling fuzzy and warm, like floating in a sun-dappled cloud. Mikasa’s shoulder is a nice place to rest as you drift in and out of the movie Armin put on. Some long, pondering art house film that you’re sure wouldn’t have been any easier to understand if you hadn’t only been half conscious through the whole runtime. The morning tastes like maple syrup and melted cheese. Sweet and savory as you try to ignore the soured note of your shopping trip. You try to imagine what might’ve happened if you hadn’t tucked tail and ran, then decide it was better that you had left in such a hurry. Connie had seen you but he decided to go back to what he’d been doing, ignoring you as if you were a stranger.

By the tail end of the second movie you’re sobering up and thinking of an excuse to duck out early. Sasha is back to banging around in the kitchen, cooking a late lunch, or maybe an early dinner, but you don’t have the energy to pretend to be upbeat for much longer. It isn’t quite sadness. That already came and went years ago. But it’s a strange aching like an old injury flaring up with the rain. Some time to yourself will help clear your head as you obsess over every second of the momentary interaction. Had that been a frown at the corner of his mouth or was it simply a trick of the light? Had he even considered following after you or was he glad to watch you go? The alcohol had dampened the anxiety but with each sobered moment it came roaring back to the forefront with a vicious ferocity.

You make up some excuse about cleaning the house before your Momma gets home from her weekend getaway, ducking out of Sasha’s apartment to a chorus of disapproving whines. There’ll be other days together. You’re staying at home for at least another week and you weren’t moving so far that visits would be out of the question. Fifteen minutes was barely a drive at all, just a quick shot up the road from the high rise you’d closed on. They’ll be able to suffer one evening without you while you get yourself in order.

Connie is all you can think about as you drive home. Him and the way he’d looked at you in the store. Like you were a ghost, a memory meant to be forgotten. And really, you have no right to be mad because isn’t that what you’d done to him? You’re strangers now. Hadn’t talked in years. What would you even say if you did? You consider the park as you drive past, but the sky has turned a steely gray and you’re not feeling like getting rained on in the name of nostalgia. It smells like lawn clippings and petrichor when you get out of the car. It’s still warm despite the storm clouds, a sticky sort of heat that ruins hair and melts makeup. The first crash of thunder comes rolling through as you lock your car, and you nearly unlock it just as fast when you notice someone sitting on your front step.

The porch is outfitted with a cute set of chairs your Momma got from a yard sale a while back but Connie has decided to sit on the steps. He looks up at the sound of your approach and you try not to notice the way the hazel color of his eyes have shifted with the weather. They’re pulling more brown than green in the muted light of the storm as he watches you stomp past him. You hear him scrambling to follow after you even over the jangling of your keys as you rush to unlock the front door. But the porch is small and he’s already there by the time the deadbolt clicks out of the way. The weight of the screen door lifts from your back and the cold glass is replaced with the warmth of his breath skirting over the nape of your neck. It’s the closest you’ve been in years, too close to slam the door on him as he follows close behind you. He shuts the door like he lives here, locking it behind him with a sort of finality. There’s still the back door for you to escape out of and you’ve hopped enough fences to circumvent the enclosure of the backyard, but you aren’t about to let this man run you out of your own home.

There’d been a draining sort of grief settled over you before but now it’s turned to boiling anger. He’s always been a bit desperate for your attention, though he looks a bit confused to be standing in front of you now. His eyes glance around the front room, taking in every detail as if he wanted to commit it to memory. It had been so long since he’d last been in your Momma’s house and you imagine it felt like wiping clean a window to allow the light through, the haze of dirt and lost memories removed as he breathed deep a smell that must’ve lingered in the back of his mind the same way the scent of his cologne lingered in yours. There’s an awkwardness to him that sits far too foreign on his large frame. His hands are shoved into his pockets, deep enough that they’re pulled just low enough for a peek of elastic to poke out over the waistband. You try not to focus on the strip of skin showing above the band of his underwear. If you look too long you’ll get lost in your head and you can’t let nostalgia cloud your judgment when he’s standing in the middle of your Momma’s living room uninvited, looking so fondly at the pictures of you she has framed on the wall.

Connie seems to know you’re about to speak before the words even leave your mouth because his hand catches your chin. He tilts your head up to look at him as his thumb brushes over your lips, smearing your lip gloss just as soon as your lips part.

“Not yet, baby,” he says and you can tell he talked to his mom recently. He’s got that little twang to his voice that he gets after speaking Spanish for an extended amount of time, the accent he outgrew somewhere in middle school slowly creeping back into his voice. You hate that you recognize it. That you wonder what he said to his mom, if he mentioned you. She used to keep a picture of the two of you in her wallet. The same picture your Momma still has framed somewhere. She took it down years ago when you’d come home in the middle of the semester with tears in your eyes, babbling about breaking up with Connie. But she never got rid of it, she said you’d regret it someday. Now, you were slowly starting to understand her insistence on preserving the sweet memory.

The two of you were laid up on a couch, squished together even though you were small enough that there was more than enough space to spread out a bit more. One of your arms is tucked under your head while the other is laid over Connie’s back as he drools on your chest, leaving a wet spot on your shirt. You can still remember the sights and smells of that day. It was the first time you’d been invited to one of his family gatherings.

His cousins had loved you, prattling on in a quick rush of Spanglish that you tried your best to follow as his mom kept handing you plates of food. Connie stuck close to your side the whole day, translating the slang that you missed and stealing your food when he got hungry.

So many of your memories with him were so precious. It seems almost impossible that it had all come crumbling down so quickly. All it took was one phone call for your world to come crashing down because he couldn’t even give you the respect of doing it face to face. Maybe because he knew he wouldn’t go through with it if he could see your teary eyes. He always hated seeing you cry. Even just a pout would have him jumping to fix the problem. Any problem but your broken heart. You almost want to push him away as he leans his head against yours but it feels so good to be in his arms again. Almost like nothing has changed. But it has, and you aren’t about to let him pretend like it hasn’t.

“Not yet.” He says again and this time he kisses you, stealing the words out of your mouth. It isn’t the kind of kiss you’d been expecting, though you truly hadn’t been expecting one at all. It’s deep and searching as if he’s trying to pour every kiss he’d missed giving you in the last few years into one. It feels like drowning and breathing all at once. As if you hadn’t realized you were starving until he gave you food and told you to eat. He tastes sweet, like cake.

“You can be angry,” he promises between breathless kisses. “Later, you can be angry. But right now, let me pretend I never let you go.” But he had, and it hurt, and you are angry. Yet your hands are pulling him closer.

“Not here.” He says between kisses, urging you towards the hallway. He remembers which door is yours–second on the left–even after so many years away. It’s damning how well Connie knows his way around your childhood home. He’s spent countless hours within these walls the same as you. It was like a second home for him. Now it’s like he never left as he guides you towards your bed. It isn’t the luxurious queen size you ordered for your new apartment, just a modest double that was just big enough for the two of you. Usually with room to spare because Connie never did like to sleep on his side of the bed. He doesn’t make an attempt at taking up any space after he sits you on the edge of the mattress, retreating towards the door as if he’s suddenly scared to be this close to you.

It’s a mutual feeling, the excitement and hesitance. It’s like being lethargic and hyper all at once, locked in some shuddering equilibrium that will go off kilter the moment one of you makes a wrong move. So Connie stays pressed up against your door, hands back in his pockets like that’ll be enough to keep his hands off you after he’s already got the taste of you on his lips. He never was one to be satisfied with just a kiss.

There’s nothing hiding his eagerness as you catch the shape of his dick pressing through the gray fabric of his sweatpants clear as day. The sight is enough to lead you down a well-worn path. It’s easy to go along with his wish, to pretend he never left, when you’re surrounded by the familiarity of the past. It’s like you’re eighteen again, watching Connie fight back tears as you tell him you’re leaving for college. It was the beginning of the end yet you can’t find it in yourself to regret it. College had been the right choice and you’re not sure what your Momma would’ve done if you told her you weren’t going to your first choice school just to stay close to a boy. Even if that boy was Connie. But that doesn’t matter right now. Later, he said, you can be mad at him later. Right now you want to forget all the lost years and unspoken emotions standing between you.

There’s a bashful hesitance as you shrug off your shirt, trying not to think of how long it’s been since he last saw you like this. You look different, surely, but Connie doesn’t seem perturbed. His mouth falls open as if he hadn’t expected it to be that easy to get you undressed. Of course you should be a little less forgiving, more steadfast in your anger, but that can all come later. For now, you’re nearly tripping over your feet to get your pants off. Connie stays pressed up against your door, hands solidly in his pockets, but his eyes are greedy as they rove over your undressed form. Light eyes drag down your body, taking in the way your bra strap slips off the curve of your shoulder and your panties are slung low around your hips. It’s mismatched, nothing special, but Connie licks his lips and bites back a smile.

“Show me.” He sounds breathless. “Show me what I’ve been missing, baby.” There’s a soft thud as he head falls back against the door. His eyes are half lidded, lashes fluttering as his eyes take in your state of undress. The slight gravel to his voice has your knees knocking and cheeks warming, and suddenly you don’t feel as confident as you did a minute ago. Connie smirks, a soft laugh falling from his lips. “Don’t be shy now, baby. Lemme see.”

There’s an awkward tremor to your hands as you slide your panties off, thighs closing as soon as you kick them off your ankle. Connie clocks you immediately, sucking his teeth at your coy behavior.

“Uh uh, mama. Spread your legs. Lemme see.” There’s something so familiar in his voice, that slow drawl as he looks down at you, that has your body reacting before you can think. Your legs slide open and Connie groans. “There she is. So pretty, baby.”

He finally pushes off the door to come closer and the sight of him rushes over you like deja vu. It eases your nerves, the familiarity of it all. It’s been a while but not so long that your bodies have forgotten each other. Connie fits between your legs the same as he always did. Falling to his knees the instant he’s close enough to touch. His hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing your legs farther open, before dipping over the curve of your hips to pull you to the edge of the bed.

“Missed this,” Connie says as he buries his face between your legs. “Missed you.” The words are spelled out with his tongue as he laps at the wet heat hidden between your thighs. His short hair still prickles against the palm of your hand as you look for something to ground you as he takes his time to reacquaint himself with your body. He’s mumbling a litany of English and Spanish that hums against your clit as he sucks the sensitive bud between his lips, tracing the shape of his name like he never left. The way he’s gripping your thighs, tight enough that his fingers are leaving dimples in the soft flesh, it feels like he wishes he hadn’t left.

There’s regret and possession radiating from him as he eats you like a man starved. He catches you watching him as your nails scratch at his scalp, hazel eyes sparkling up at you as you squirm on his tongue. He’s looking at you like you’ve hung all the stars in the sky as you cum. He groans loud and long, eyes rolling as your legs try to snap shut. He lets you, loosening his grip on your thighs just enough to feel your legs lock around his head. Connie has the nerve to look perfectly happy to suffer the suffocation as he keeps sucking at your clit. It’s not until you’re pushing him away, whining about “too much,” that he comes up for air. He’s got a dopey smile on his face, your slick shining on his cheeks and chin. He licks his lips and kisses the inside of your thigh, leaving a shiny, heart-shaped mark. He does it again and again, a trail tracing up your stomach before he buries his face against your chest, tongue tracing hot shapes across the pebbled peaks of your nipples. He’s mumbling something, low and barely coherent as he sucks marks into the plush skin of your breasts.

“–me.” It’s a slurred mess on his clumsy lips, his attention divided between spouting his little mantra and tracing the shape of his name against your collarbone with the tip of his tongue. “Only me.” He says it over and over. Only me, only me, only me…

“Tell me, baby,” he says, suddenly crowding over you. He’s pushed you up the bed so your head is resting on your mountain of silk-covered pillow. “Tell me it’s only gonna be me.” His voice, usually deep and dulcet, has risen to an almost whimpering tone as he blocks everything but himself from your vision. The bulk of his arms crowds your periphery, keeps your head from moving as he sits nearly nose to nose with you. He’s close enough that you can reacquaint yourself with the pattern of his hazel eyes, easily parsing which flecks are green and which are brown. “Tell me.”

There’s still a shy hesitance as you thread your arms around his neck, but it’s less about the sudden proximity and more about the sudden outpour of emotion shaking itself awake, like frost melting in the sunlight. Connie has always been familiar even after so long apart, but the emotions he dredges up have been buried beneath years of hurt and the intensity of it all bursting through the wall you’ve carefully built around your heart is almost enough to drown you. Tears come unbidden, burning at your lash line and threatening to make your mascara run.

“It’s always been you,” you promise him. “It’s only ever gonna be you.” It wipes the slate clean. Anyone you’d been with, anyone he’d been with, in the years of distance are wiped away with only a few words. They didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered but the two of you. Connie nearly drowns you in his next kiss, tongue dancing over yours as he groans into your mouth. You can taste yourself as he sucks at your tongue like he’s trying to reacquaint himself with every facet of your body. It’s a shared sentiment as your lips find that beauty mark at the edge of his jaw that you always pressed fluttering kisses to. He laughs, low and breathless, returning the favor as he finds all those favorite places he liked to put his lips. It’s soft and loving, staving off the inevitable as his dick ruts between your legs. Each thrust has his leaking tip pressing wet kisses against your clit, adding to the mess he’s already made between your legs. His hand is clumsy when he finally reaches between your bodies to guide himself home.

“Fuck.” The word comes out as a languid drawl as he fills you to the hilt, reaching to hitch one of your thighs around his waist. Your body remembers the shape of his, bending and bowing with the practiced motions, but you can still feel the changes. Connie has bulked up since you last saw him and he was already a pillar of corded muscles the last time you’d touched him. You can feel the softer parts of your body pressing against the hard contours of his muscles as he wraps himself around you. His arms curl under your back, pulling you closer until your hearts are beating in tandem, chest to chest as he stretches you to your absolute limit on his dick.

“Bésame,” Connie groans, nosing under your chin to lift your mouth to where he needs it. He hovers a hair’s breadth away from your lips, each panting breath mingled with yours. “Bésame, mami.” He says again and you realize he’s waiting for you to kiss him. You’re happy to close the gap he’s left, letting him swallow all the little noises you’re making. It’s reminiscent of the days before when you had to be quiet so your Momma could at least pretend she didn’t know what the two of you were doing behind closed doors. But she isn’t home now, so you’re free to make as much noise as he can draw out of you as he rocks his hips against yours. He isn’t going for speed. Instead Connie fills you with slow, deep strokes that stir up your insides and make you feel him in your stomach. It punches the air from your lungs, leaving you to breathlessly slur his name as your nails leave marks across the broad expanse of his shoulders.

“That’s right, mami.” His teeth scrape against the shell of your ear. Each gruff sound slipping past his lips echoes in your head as he presses his nose against your temple. “Mark me up. Quiero ser tuyo.”

“Tú eres mío.” You say, leaving sticky marks along his neck, lipgloss and spit shining between the beads of sweat. Connie groans as you nip at his pulse, hips stuttering as he pulls you impossibly closer.

“Eres mía, mamita. Dilo, mami, dime.” He’s slurring his words, each one bleeding into the next as Connie fucks you into the mattress. You’re on the cusp of mindlessness as he reaches between your bodies to find your aching bud, nearly too far gone to understand what he’s saying. It’s only because it’s him, only because you’ve heard it a thousand times in what feels like another life, that you know what he wants to hear.

“Soy tuyo,” you whine as he spells his name on your clit. “Soy tuyo, lo sabes!”

“Yo sé, mamita.” His voice is damning. You can hear the smile in his tone as he grinds his hips in deep circles, drawing out the inevitable as you teeter on the cusp of a blinding orgasm. It burns low in your stomach, thrumming at the base of your spine as he kisses your fluttering eyelids.

“Mírame.” He says, tone just short of begging. “Mírame cuando tu vienes.” When you open your eyes, all you can see is Connie. His half lidded eyes and parted lips as you cum with a choked cry of his name. He spits out a gruff “mierda” as your legs lock tight around his waist, keeping him locked in place as your body writhes underneath him. You can feel your muscles tensing, toes curling and back arching as pleasure sings through every inch of your body. You vaguely feel Connie’s fingers fumbling clumsily across your arm, pressing and squeezing like he’s looking for something. When he doesn’t find it, he sits up, lifting your body with him as he sits back on his knees. It draws forward the vague memory of when he used to poke at the little plastic bar in your arm; your birth control. It’s gone now, having run its course in the years since you’d last seen him.

Still, you keep your legs locked tight around him.

“Tu turno,” you pant, circling your hips until Connie reaches to hold you still.

“No puedo, mami. Tienes que dejarme salir.” He says, patting your thighs where they’re still wrapped tight around his waist. It only makes you squeeze tighter and Connie groans, falling on top of you as you tighten around him.

“Está bien, papi,” you whisper, rubbing soothingly at the marks you’ve left on his back as Connie nearly vibrates with how hard he’s trying to focus on not cumming inside you. Neither of you had been worried about protection before and you’re not worried about it now as you flex your legs, catching Connie by surprise as you roll the two of you over until you’re on top.

“¿Lo quieres?” You ask, but his hands are already loosening, no longer holding you still. He paws at your thighs, nodding sheepishly like he isn’t sure if he’s truly allowed to want anything from you. He shouldn’t, not after what he did, but that’s a problem for later. All the anger and confusion can come after he does.

“Dime,” you say just to tease him. It looks like he’s on the cusp of insanity, lips poured and eyes glassy as he stares up at you like you’re the only thing that matters to him.

“Te quiero!” He barely gets the first syllable out before you’re moving. Red lines appear on his flushed chest where your nails scrape for purchase against his muscles, pressing him into the bed as you bounce on his dick. Fatigue is creeping in, singing each stroke with the sting of overstimulation as the pleasure begins to burn away. But Connie’s close. You can tell by the way his vocabulary has shrunk to only a few desperate words, mainly your name, as his fingers dig into the bruises he already left on your thighs.

“Hazme acabar,” Connie all but whines. “Estoy cerca.” He sits up suddenly, almost knocking you over as his arms wrap around your waist. He’s holding so tight that he nearly squeezes the air from your lungs as he cums with a hoarse shout of your name. It’s thick and graveled, resonating in your chest as he holds you against him. He’s gripping like you’re going to disappear the moment he lets go, looking at you like this’ll be the last time. Later, he kept saying. Later is now as you feel him spill inside you.

“Lo siento,” he whispers against your lips as he steals a final kiss. It sounds more like a goodbye than an apology and the finality of it digs out the hollow that has been sitting in your chest all these years. When Connie pulls away it suddenly feels like no time has passed at all, like it’s the beginning of the end all over again. Later is now but the anger you felt before won’t come. Instead all you feel is desperation as you cling to him, sticky with sweat, as he lays you across the sheets and kisses your forehead. You can feel him trying to leave again. He carefully detangles himself even as you try to hold onto him, pressing deceptively sweet kisses to your lips as you whine for him to “please, stay.” It’s like he doesn’t hear you as he slips from the bed and pulls on his sweatpants. But when he leaves the room you don’t hear the telltale sound of the front door slamming. Instead, you trace the sound of his steps towards the bathroom, hear the faucet turn on. A few moments later, he’s back.

“Don’t cry, baby,” he coos as he wipes away the mess he’s made of your body. “If you wanna be mad at me; be mad, but you know I can’t stand seeing my girl cry. No llores, mami.” He insists, wiping away the tears along with the sweat and cum slipping from between your legs. That had been an impulsive decision. One that will have to be dealt with eventually. Later, you think distantly. You can deal with that later. Right now you’re more worried about Connie. He sits sheepishly at the edge of your bed, offering his shirt for you to wear. It feels like a peace offering as you pull it over your head. It smells like him, it smells like home. You watch Connie fumble in his pockets until he pulls out a ring, one you recognize in an instant.

It wasn’t one of those cheap Pandora princess rings that every girl in your grade got as a promise ring. It was something far more precious. You’d seen his mom wearing it for years before it suddenly appeared in the palm of his hand all those years ago when he asked you to be his forever. He hadn’t wanted to take it back when you broke up. Even as he broke his promise, he wanted you to keep the ring. It’s cold when he slides it back on to your finger, but it fits like it’s always been there, like these last few years had only been a few moments instead of a small eternity. It felt strange to let go of everything so easily. All the pain, all the anger. It shouldn’t be that easy but everything slides back into place as if it is. Everything is different now, yet still the same. You’re different, he’s different. But it reminds you of something your Momma said about distance making the heart grow fonder. She could never muster any trig anger towards Connie because she said this is what you needed. A brief interlude to become your own person after years of entwining yourself with Connie. Now you understand what she meant by all that. It’s too soon to tell if it’s worth it but you suppose you can worry about that later.

#connie ★#connie x reader #connie x reader smut #★ mine!#aot smut

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newnlovesjennie · 4 months ago

Text

make love as soft as cinnamon

sanji/reader

cws: w33d usage

tags: fluff, modern au, smoking together, make out sessions, getting high, lightweight sanji and lightweight reader

☆⋆。𖦹✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩°‧★☆⋆。𖦹✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩°‧

given your boyfriend’s compulsion for smoking cigarettes, you were quite taken aback when discovering that sanji had never tried smoking anything else. sheepishly, he admitted he’d been a faithful subscriber to nicotine and nothing more, not even the special green leaf his friends so deeply love.

(cigarettes were so 1900s. i mean, did he not see the anti-smoking ads that were rampant in the 2000s? did they not have that in france…?)

so when you proposed smoking it with him for the first time, he was slightly reluctant, though he eventually accepted. if you had to guess, it might’ve been because he was afraid of embarrassment. you two had just started dating, after all.

once his shift at your neighborhood restaurant the baratie ended and you secured the buds needed, you two were nestled together on your shared bed, blankets sprawled underneath your knees.

you were crushing the bud with your fingertips, while sanji insisted he could roll up, due to his experience with rolling cigars. you giggled and reminded him how much an eighth costed in this economy, and how he should leave the preparations to the experts.

blunt rolled and placed in between your fingers, you flicked open his lighter and took a hit. passing it to sanji, you cherished the burning sensation as it went down your throat and encompassed your whole body, filling you with heat. embarrassingly, it had been a while since you’d been high, so the affects were immediately kicking in, as you could feel your legs become lighter and your mouth get dry.

sanji passed it back, face slightly tensed from the foreign taste and feeling. you took another hit, letting the leaf do its course through your system, tingling your body in just the right ways and making your head all fuzzy.

after a couple hits, you looked up to see your boyfriend’s state, and suppressed a laugh from erupting. he was completely stupefied, eyes staring at the wall, red as his nosebleeds. his mouth was parted, lips slightly dry, as you could see his brain trying to process everything around him.

you dragged your fingertips under his chin, brushing against his facial hair and snapping him back to reality. he gave you a dopey smile, causing you to laugh even harder. your limbs were feeling lighter by the second, so you opted to nuzzle your head into his chest, with your arms around his waist. he rested his chin on your head, hands coming up to ruffle your hair, saying “you feel extra fluffy, (name)-chan…. i wanna lie like this with you… for a really long time….”

rubbing your back, you felt his hands attempt to massage and hold every part of you, as if his hands had a magnetic pull to you. you lifted your head, to meet his dazed out expression once more, before his lips crashed into yours.

the instant relief was felt by both parties, the cottonmouth fixed. sparks began flying like it was your twos first kiss, the shared warmth between your bodies becoming a comfort. you felt weighed down by something heavy, like a pile of molasses, and it was his kiss that kept you solid.

he flipped you over, your back to the bed, and his arms caging over your shoulders. “i should’ve figured this would make you horny”, you laughed. he literally melted into your next kiss, and your hands interlocked like two puzzle pieces fitting together.

he swallowed, noses brushing, “i wanna feel all of you… all of you, is that okay? let me feel you, love, for the rest of the night….”

pt 2?

#sanji x reader #one piece #op #one piece smut #straw hat pirates #black leg sanji #one piece sanji #sanji vinsmoke #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x you #one piece fluff #i don’t know if tumblr censors certain words or not

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lauraneedstochill · 2 years ago

Text

First time for everything (modern!Aemond Targaryen, college au — part 2)

✨ part 1 — “All yours”

words: ~ 6900 (it’s worth it, though ;) warnings: a TON of fluff (is anyone surprised at this point?), smut (minors DNI), you may feel a little sad that he’s not your boyfriend (I certainly do)

author’s note: this was supposed to be mostly romantic headcanons but then something came over me... honestly, I blame it on the goddamn golden chain! can’t believe I wrote this, I’m drinking holy water as we speak

⋙ You think you should be concerned with how easy things are with him. With how fast he sneaks into your thoughts, and his hand effortlessly finds yours, and you relish in the simplest touch, in the feeling of comfort that he brings, and he knows all the right words, and the two of you fit like puzzle pieces.

With anyone else, you would’ve been concerned but Aemond gives you no reason to be.

⋙ Your first date comes in a week, and you’re not nervous about it but more so ridiculously curious — he only mentions that you should dress casually, and you think of dinner or maybe a picnic. But when the cab brings you to the city center, and Aemond opens the door for you — you find yourself standing at the steps of a gallery and you instantly know where he brought you to. It’s a three-week exhibition of Mexican artists, the one you’ve been dying to go to. You only mentioned it once and in passing weeks ago, frustrated that the tickets were sold out in 15 minutes, and since then you have long forgotten about it. But Aemond hasn’t. The realization that he remembered that little detail makes you stupidly sentimental, and you can’t utter a word. He brings you into a hug, planting a kiss on your forehead.

“We can get another Uber and go to my place and watch every rom-com you can think of if it makes you feel better.”

With your head nuzzled to his chest, you hear his heartbeat, the sound of it calming like a rumble of waves. When you shyly look up at him, the color of his eyes is dusted with scattered sunlight.

“Aemond, but you planned — ”

“I planned to spend time with you,” he hushes you with that same tone of gentle certainty. “Everything else is just decorations we can easily switch up.”

His reassurance sounds more like a promise, and you have it engraved in your memory, along with him, looking at you like this. And you think he should make some memories, too, so you take him by the hand and lead the way.

⋙ You opt for an audio guide since both of you aren’t keen on following crowds, and you enthusiastically walk from one painting to the other, sharing the earphones, your fingers intertwined with his, and you can’t help but talk over the guide. Aemond doesn’t complain once. Every time you look at him, he’s smiling brightly at you, and sometimes he leaves a quick peck on the bow of your shoulder. Somewhere in between Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, you realize that you really want to kiss him.

⋙ Part of the exhibition is a screening of a documentary played in a small dark hall, and Aemond is naive to think you actually want to watch it. You drag him in, and the place is empty, only lit by the movie screen, and before he can ask a thing, you pull him down by the collar of his shirt and kiss him until you’re both out of breath. And then you tell him it’s the best date you’ve ever had.

“You mean, the best so far,” he remarks cheekily — and trails for your lips again.

⋙ On the next date, you learn that he loves to cook. The man who can live off protein shakes and steaks actually owns cookbooks and lets you pick a meal but forbids you to help him, saying that you deserve a break. Still, you charm your way into the kitchen to assist him with making the sauce, and Aemond is unable to say no. You are a chaotic cook and he follows the recipe but somehow you make a great team — he’s good at cutting vegetables and measuring, you pick all the right spices and know what al dente is. He looks absurdly gorgeous in an apron, and you end up sitting on his lap while he lifts a forkful of pasta to your mouth. You bashfully confess that you’ve always wanted to re-enact the kissing scene from “Lady and the Tramp”. He grins at your confession — and gladly helps to make your wish come true. A couple of times.

⋙ You do go on a picnic — you feed him cherries and Aemond reads you his favorite book out loud, you wear his hoodie again and his perfume lingers on your hair. He takes you to the biggest library in town and you spend hours looking for that one old copy of Sylvia Plath’s book of poems, and he steals a few kisses from you in between endless rows of shelves. You go to a fancy french bakery and he buys you one of each kind of pastry, and you are both all sugared up — and in love.

⋙ When Aemond has to leave for a competition, it’s not necessarily tragic — since you knew it was coming — and it’s only for five days, but you get blindsided by the realization of how attached you’ve become. On the night before his departure, he invites you in for a movie marathon, brings you popcorn and makes you laugh to tears, and then you doze off in his arms. He moves you onto his bed and tucks you in, and you wake up when his side of the bed is still warm. You find freshly made waffles in the kitchen — and there’s a blue post-it note on the fridge that says: “I’m gonna miss you more. — A.”

He leaves you a spare key to his apartment.

Your breakfast tastes like tears.

⋙ The first day without him is pure misery, but you eat your waffles and follow the routine, and Aemond sends you texts every chance he gets. You make him a playlist called “Kick some ass” (he does), and you kick yourself for not coming up with an excuse to go with him. On the second day, you pull out his hoodie in a poor attempt to find some comfort but his scent had almost dissipated, and his seat next to you stays empty, and each class only reminds you of his absence. On the third day, you are up to your ears in studying and you miss Aemond’s phone call, and your heart all but erupts from yearning.

On the fourth day, Mr. Harrold brings up Marina Tsvetaeva’s love poems, and you think that must be some cruel joke. You spend half an hour pretending to be deaf, but then the professor quotes:

“to kiss the lips is to drink water,”

— and suddenly you are nothing but thirst, and you feel like you are about to burst into tears again. You don’t know how you manage to sit through the rest of it but as soon as the class is over you sprint out and buy a train ticket. You don’t bother yourself with packing, only picking up your toothbrush, a face wash and Aemond’s hoodie. And you know for sure that you’ve fallen hard for him.

⋙ You arrive by the time their morning training is over, and the guys are piling out of the locker rooms already. Aemond is one of the last to come out, his hair still wet and his t-shirt clearly not ironed, and his face is too sad for your liking. His best friend Cregan notices you first, elbowing your boyfriend with a smile. Aemond follows his gaze with indifference — and stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. A second later his face lights up. And then you do the cheesiest, right-out-of-the-movies kind of thing — you run to him, he scoops you up, you wrap your legs around his waist.

“I didn’t know that you would come,” Aemond is grinning ear to ear. “I would’ve picked you up to save you some time and — ,” you can’t stop yourself from kissing him, a tad modestly but with ardor nonetheless, and he forgets what he wanted to say. You card fingers through his hair and notice a shadow that spread under his eyes. You want to cook him dinner and pepper kisses all over his face and wrap him up in blankets so he can get some rest. Aemond bumps his nose into yours.

“Please don’t skip classes for me,” he entreats but his tone suggests that he’s delighted that you did. His gaze warms you up like sunlight.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve never done it before,” you lower your voice as if it’s a well-guarded secret. “But I was feeling adventurous.”

He plays along with a mischievous smile:

“First time for everything, huh?”

You two leave right after the awarding ceremony, and Aemond doesn’t bother to stay for the farewell party. He ends up falling asleep on your shoulder, with his hands wrapped around you, and some old lady on the train ‘awws’ at you. He naps in the cab, too, his fingers ensnared into your palm, and you’re overcome with emotion, wishing that the ride to his apartment lasted a bit longer. You order take-out while he’s still fighting off sleep but does so while cuddling you on his couch. There’s another, internal battle that he’s having as his face goes more somber than tired but your kisses and food seem to help.

That is until Aemond pulls you in bed, back into his arms, his breath tickling your neck.

“It was no fun,” he finally admits, “leaving you.”

You interlock your fingers with his, your lips graze his knuckles before you turn to face him.

“But it will get easier,” you promise — both him and yourself. “And I missed you, too.”

His lips melt into yours to seal the promise, and you breathe in a lungful of his scent. Aemond passes out in no time, and you watch his chest rising and falling, the steady rhythm of it eventually lulling you to sleep. Right before that, you think that it was your first separation out of many to come, but in the end, it’s all worth it when he’s the one you are waiting for.

⋙ Another thing you two are yet to cross off your list is, surprisingly, sex. Aemond is the one to suggest taking it slow, and it does make sense at first — with his competitions scheduled back to back and you being swamped with homework, both of you doing the bare minimum to help each other deal with exhaustion. He sends you reminders to take a break, you help him with meal planning and spend evenings reading together, most times with his head on your lap. Aemond leaves you snacks and post-it notes with his favorite quotes of Russian poetry, which brings some excitement into your studying — and you come to his training, being the supportive girlfriend that you are.

And that turns out to be a problem.

⋙ Watching Aemond train is quite a spectacle — enthralling at first, but also unspeakably arousing as you come to learn fairly soon. He is focused and fast, his toned body flexible and moving with energetic precision. He’s got a quick reaction and there’s a glint of threat in his gaze that makes some of his competitors feel uneasy. He’s not the one to rip t-shirts apart and flex muscles (much to some girls’ disappointment) but to you, it only fuels the anticipation that spills in your lower abdomen. But your lusting wanes when you see the weary look on his face, and you only snuggle up to him as closely as possible, deeming that enough for now.

One of these days Aemond comes out of the locker room with Cregan whose arm is draped over your boyfriend’s shoulder, his hold tight like a bear trap, but the intent is friendly.

“Y/N, you need to side with me on this one,” Cregan enthusiastically pleads. “I’m throwing a party and this monk doesn’t want to go! I was hoping you’d make him socialize.”

“I will not make him do anything,” you retort politely, and Aemond gives you a look of gratitude. “But we can negotiate once you stop holding him hostage.”

Cregan lets out a bellowing laugh, freeing Aemond with a pat on the back.

“I’ll never force our star boy to bear having a good time but I’d love for you two to join us,” he warm-heartedly explains. “Just think about it!”

He leaves you in the cooling stillness of the evening, and Aemond plants a kiss on your temple.

“We don’t have to go,” he immediately assures.

“Your friends can’t be that bad.”

“They get a bit wild when drunk,” he chuckles softly into your hair. “And Cregan is set on having a dress code each time.”

“Is it something wild, too?”

“No, mostly formal, and the guys usually end up throwing away the ties.”

“Doesn’t sound bad to me,” you draw circles on his palm. “Maybe we can have some fun,” your smile is a tad impish, and his looks surprisingly pleased when he agrees.

The sky is painted by the sunset, pink tones of it reflecting on Aemond’s face. You’d like to see him all dressed up. And then strip him of his clothing.

⋙ You hate shopping for dresses so your best friend tags along, and she dismisses at least a dozen of options before managing to fish out the perfect one — knee-length and with a deep cut on the back, it’s the color of a sea storm with a splash of purple. Once you put the dress on, she comments approvingly:

“He will fuck your brains out.”

“Arya!” you hiss at her but she looks unamused.

“What? I thought that’s what you wanted. Kinda surprised he hasn’t jumped your bones yet.”

“We are taking it slow,” you remind her while staring in the mirror. You try not to think of how easy it will be to take this dress off.

“Very PG-13 of you,” she huffs with a smile. “But I guess I should thank him.”

“How so?” you raise a brow at her.

“I fear, once you get a taste,” Arya gives you a suggestive look, “he will keep you in bed for days. At least for now I still have a chance to hang out with you.”

You feel your cheeks heating up at the mere thought of it. And you hope that’s exactly what happens.

⋙ Aemond comes to pick you up on Friday evening. He buzzes in through an intercom and you let him in, opening the front door in advance. You go back to your room to put on the heels, briefly stopping to fix your hair. Aemond walks in with no warning, his voice brimming over with boyish excitement:

“I was just thinking — ,” and then he falls silent, seeing you standing with your back to the door.

You look at Aemond over your shoulder, moving your hair away from your neck to expose more skin, and turn to him slowly.

“You, um... I-You — ” he clears his throat. Then does it again, eyes roaming over your body. “This dress looks really good on you,” he manages to say while you take him in.

The color of his suit is almost black and it sets off his dark blue shirt, crisp and carelessly unbuttoned. His jacket is an excellent fit, framing his shoulders and sitting tightly around his arms. But what catches your attention is the golden chain that snakes along his collarbones, part of it coyly hiding in the depths of the dark material. Your eyes fix on the shining jewelry — for a brief moment, you contemplate staying at home and undressing him to find out where the chain ends.

You blink that thought away, remembering that it’s time to leave as both you and Aemond hate being late. You walk over to him, running your hand over his jacket:

“You look quite charming yourself,” you give him a smile instead of a kiss. “What were you saying?”

Aemond seems startled and supposedly oblivious to the effect he has on you but you catch a twirl of darkness condensing in his gaze. In the depths of it, there’s a flicker of need, of hunger — and you wonder if he’s been ravenous this entire time, too.

“You should come over tonight,” he suggests, and you don’t need him to give you a reason.

“Sounds like a plan,” you move your hand away, suppressing a frustrated sigh so he won’t get the wrong idea. Or the very right idea that you try your best to push aside, at least for a couple of hours.

On your way out of the apartment, you can feel him gazing devouringly at you. You let him.

⋙ Cregan is a combination of a party animal and a homeboy — he pours drinks with one hand and threatens to rip anyone’s head off for leaving as much as a scratch on his family’s porcelain tea set. He jokes and generously compliments all the girls he meets but he also respects boundaries and makes sure to pay the same attention to his fiancee, Alysanne. She doesn’t mind, her black curls bouncing while she laughs and warmly greets the guests. You catch her eye in no time — she’s smiley, her gaze filled with curiosity.

“Everyone is dying to meet you,” she takes you under the arm and leads away to introduce you to a motley group of girls, and within a minute you are caught in the current of voices and faces. They bombard you with questions, chatty but not too prying, some already a bit tipsy and way more friendly than they would’ve been otherwise. But you let yourself enjoy the talks and gossip, mostly for Aemond to have some fun with his friends. And he actually does.

They talk sport, as expected, their arguing innocuous, followed by toasts and some banter. They play poker although half of them barely remember the rules so it’s hardly gambling but they do get rid of ties pretty fast. Cregan puts on some music, breaks a few glasses and calls for your boyfriend to join them for beer pong. Aemond has no intention to get wasted so Cregan takes it upon himself while your boyfriend throws the ball into the cups with ease. Other guys call it cheating, Cregan says it’s an allocation of duties.

Aemond laughs — sincerely, with his dimples showing, but you note that he never refills his glass of whiskey. And every time you throw a glance at him, his eyes are on you, and the golden chain seems to attract every ray of light in the room. You only have one drink — a watered-down gin tonic, but you feel like you can liquor up just by looking at him. In an hour, when they move to the pool table, Aemond slings his jacket over one shoulder and rolls up his sleeves — and you’re dazed, lust swelling in you, sweet and viscous like honey.

He aims the pool balls and makes the shots but each one echoes in your lower belly. You try to think of a reason to leave but you can’t think straight, and Aemond seems completely unaware of your torment but then one of his mates makes the wrong shot, and a ball falls off the table, rolling at your feet. You move to pick it up — as gracefully as your dress would allow it, and walk to them, and suddenly Aemond watches your every step. You only lean on the side of the pool table, with no intention to tease or bend over, yet his eyes scan over your whole body, his hold on the cue tightening.

“Earth to Aemond,” Cregan mutters with a smirk. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he musters in reply. “I think I’ve had enough socializing for one day.”

He stares at you, and you nod with a silent agreement that comes with a delectable foretaste.

⋙ Cregan walks you two to the cab, red in the face from all the alcohol but still good-humored. He gives you a big hug, politely keeping his hands at your shoulder level, and then embraces Aemond, too.

“I’m so glad you came!” he rumbles excitedly and then adds, “I was afraid I’d never live to see the day.”

“Man, we see each other pretty often,” Aemond laughs off.

“No, I mean this,” Cregan gestures at you. “Finally, you got the girl!”

Aemond looks at you — happy and proud, his hands finding your waist, and your heart sings with glee. You all but drag your boyfriend away as Cregan guffaws and waves you goodbye.

“He’ll stop his teasing eventually,” Aemond chortles once you get into the car, and it sounds like he mostly wants to reassure himself.

“Well, he does have a point — you took your time with me,” you giggle, straightening his collar. “I was kinda expecting you to kiss me in the locker room,” you jokingly pout.

“You mean, the place that smells like a bunch of sweaty men? Nope, that’s not how I imagined our first kiss to be,” he rebuts but then his face freezes, and you realize he didn’t mean to let it slip. You turn your head to him, and the reddening of his cheeks is visible even in the dim lighting of the car. He avoids your gaze — your tall, handsome, annoyingly hot boyfriend — because he’s clearly flustered. Every time you think he can’t get any more attractive, he somehow does.

You move closer, your arm bumping into his.

“Was it the only thing you’ve imagined us doing?” you ask quietly.

He looks at you in an instant, and when your eyes meet, you bite your lower lip, a twinkle of a smile in the corners of your mouth. You can only hope that he takes the hint — and, by the look on his face, he does.

“No,” Aemond gulps. “Definitely not the only thing.”

You place your hand on his knee and then leisurely move your palm higher, stopping at his upper thigh, letting your fingers slide to the inner side of it, all of that while maintaining eye contact. He’s holding his breath the entire time.

“Dare to share?” you lean in, putting your chin on his shoulder. “Or better... show me?” the question is only meant for him to hear.

There’s a shift in the air and your pulse skyrockets, and you feel like you’re ten seconds away from straddling him right here and now. But then Aemond covers your hand with his and says:

“Yeah, I can show you.”

⋙ You expect him to be all over you once you’re in the elevator but no, he’s the epitome of restraint. If only it wasn’t for his jaw clenched and his back tense — and him literally closing his eyes because there are mirrors around the perimeter, and he physically cannot avoid looking at you. He rushes out of the elevator but does his best to slow the pace as he knows you won’t be able to keep up with your heels on.

He unlocks the door with one turn of the key and then moves away to let you in first, you hurry in, he follows suit, the door closes with a bang. The apartment is dark, the street lighting shyly peeking through the windows, your heart is pounding so loud, you can barely hear a thing — and then your turn to Aemond, and he’s already looking at you. And the world stands still.

He takes a step toward you, one after another, shamelessly leering at you, and the sheer intensity of his gaze is enough for you to feel the all-familiar throbbing between your legs.

“I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you,” he rasps when you’re barely a meter apart. You can’t tell who closes the distance first but in the next second his lips collide with yours — as eager and vehement as ever — and your mind goes blank, your body overflowing with lust that spreads with blood and rages like fever.

His hand nestles under the angle of your jaw, his mouth avidly capturing yours, drinking your little sighs, while your fingers are tugging at his shirt — they accidentally slip down, and Aemond groans, his own arousal making his pants tight. He spins you around, your back resting against his chest as he lowers the straps of your dress — and rapidly pulls the upper part of it down. You are not wearing a bra, your bosom heaving with shaky breaths, and he inhales sharply at the sight. He moves to gently squeeze your breasts, hands full of supple flesh, and then he tentatively rolls your nipples between his fingers. Your head falls back on his shoulder, a low moan escaping your mouth, and you grind against him, desperate to feel more.

“You are so sensitive,” Aemond coos, his breath warm against your neck, your nipples hardening in his hands. “So beautiful.”

He goes for your zipper, pulling it down, and his fingers slide under the slinky material, raring to touch your skin. You wiggle your way out of the dress, and he helps to take it off, his hands following every curve of your body, stirring you up. Turning around, you claim his lips, your tongue finding his in a frenzy as you push the jacket off him, your shoes already lying around in the hallway, and he maneuvers you toward the bedroom. Aemond roughly swings the door wide open — and then he tenderly lays you down on the bed like you are his most prized possession.

He undresses at the speed of light and, at any other time, it would’ve made you laugh but it only turns you on more — the growing anticipation, the hunger he has for you, the all-consuming desire that fills you to the brim. Aemond strips down to his boxers — and he looks god-like, slim and muscled, and it feels like a blessing when he kisses you again. He hooks your panties with one finger and breaks the kiss to drag them down, his touch leaving a burning trail from your hip to your heel.

And then he gets on his knees.

Aemond places a hand on your ankle, massaging small circles there as he slowly pulls you toward the edge of the bed. Your breath shudders at the realization of what he’s about to do, and he grins — greedily, darting his tongue to wet his lips. Aemond moves you closer and puts one of your legs over his shoulder, leaving kisses up your calf. He uses his hand to spread you wide for him and hums with contentment upon seeing you glistening with arousal.

“I wonder who made you so wet,” he teases, fixing his gaze on you.

You intend to answer him but the six-letter word — his name — is stuck in your throat as he runs his thumb up to your clit — and, without a warning, repeats the movement with his tongue, licking a wide stripe and then diving right in. Your eyes flutter shut and you can feel him opening his mouth wider, his lower lip moving down along your folds, his tongue lapping at you with a voracity of a starved man, jolts of pleasure rippling through you within seconds. You have to cover your mouth with a hand to muffle a long-drawn moan, afraid that his neighbors will hear although you can’t even remember if he has any.

Aemond looks up at you, the lower part of his face obscenely wet.

“I feel that you are holding back,” he says in a husky voice, his eyes dark with lust. “But I can fix that.”

He gives you no time to catch your breath as he sucks at your clit and slides a finger into you, making you cry out loud, your hips unwillingly bucking upward. You really want to know how the hell is he so good at this but you can’t concentrate on anything but the feeling of his tongue, your body trembling in his hands like a guitar string. Aemond adds a second finger with ease, curling them both inside you, and then you feel a distinct vibration as he can’t hold back his own moan, seeing you like this, tasting you like this — and it sends you over the edge.

Aemond helps you ride out your orgasm, leaving soft kisses around your navel as you come down from your high, your mind hazy and breathing ragged but you keep your eyes focused on him. With a blink of an eye, he’s fully naked and with a condom on. He’s bathing in the moonlight that outlines his tense muscles, his face flushed pink but with no hint of shyness, and when he locks his gaze with yours, it flares up your desire all over again, and he notices it right away.

Aemond has a grin on his face as he hovers over you, lips contouring your jawline, and he presses his tip at your entrance but doesn’t push it in, instead coating it in the wetness that’s already pooling between your legs. But his teasing is short-lived as he lasts for barely a minute, sliding his cock up and down — and then his eyelids flutter, and a small moan leaves his lips. You wiggle your hips, clenching around nothing, and look at him, whimpering “Aemond” — and that’s all it takes.

He sinks in you in one swift motion, so thick and filling you up so perfectly, your mouth falls open in a silent cry.

“Fuck, I — ,” he sucks in a breath, not moving an inch. “I-I need to go slow or I will not last.”

He lowers his face, leaving a trail of kisses from your breasts up to your neck, and they burn like bruises on your heated skin. His hips roll against yours agonizingly slow, and you feel like your whole body is on fire, and you need him deeper, and you crave more of him, all of him. A glint of gold catches your attention, your eyes moving to the chain that dangles down his neck, and you pass the cool metal between your fingers. You lightly tug at the chain with your lips and then release it with a wet sound, looking at Aemond through your lashes. You feel his breath hitching, his gaze not leaving your mouth.

You part your lips, letting the chain slip in, and then grit your teeth, the gold glimmering between them. You push the chain out with your tongue, swiping it over the jewelry and sucking the chain back into your mouth. Aemond is so spellbound, he stills his movements, his pupils dilated to the rim. He brings his hand to your face, tracing your lower lip and then opening your mouth again to pull the chain out, his lips slanting over yours.

“Aemond,” you breathe out into his mouth. “I want you to fuck me.”

His restraint snaps and crumbles and dissolves completely. He pulls out for merely a second before slamming back into you, and the movement electrifies every nerve in your body, eliciting a yelp from you. Before you know it, he’s pounding into you at an ungodly pace, his hips harshly snapping forward, finding just the right spot, while his grip on you is still gentle, and you feel an overwhelming pressure building up, your moans turning into wails, your body going weak and pliable, aching for release.

“I-I am so close, I need... ,” you can’t form a coherent sentence, throat soar and voice strained. “I — Aemond... — please.”

He understands it perfectly and smiles breathlessly at you.

“So fucking polite,” he purrs, his teeth grazing your neck. “And all mine.”

His hand slips between your bodies, zeroing in on your clit, and then he starts tapping on it, the movement precise and fast, fanning your overstimulated skin, and it makes your whole body quiver violently as your orgasm washes over you like a heatwave, and you don’t care if the whole neighborhood hears you. Aemond’s eyes never leave your face while you come undone, your back arching as your walls tense and pulse around him, and he follows soon after, his moans muffled by the crook of your neck.

It takes a minute for you to come to your senses as he pulls out and rolls on his back, bringing you into his embrace. You both try to regain your breath, and the time crawls while you are in this bubble of intimacy.

“It’s the dress, isn’t it?” you break the comfortable silence, your fingers tracing a dash of moles on his skin.

“The dress is downright sinful,” Aemond laughs, “but no,” he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

There’s an unexpected pause, and then he speaks up with raw emotion in his voice:

“I want you all the time.”

You glance up at him, your hand moving up his chest, and you feel his heart beating erratically like a bird trapped in a cage.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to rush it. I knew that once we...,” he stutters, and your eyes dart to his lips, swollen and raspberry-tinted. “There’s no going back from here.”

He just made you cum twice and now he's stumbling over his words — and it’s the perfect combination, truly. Your tenderness clashes with something more primal, igniting the flames all over again, and his fingers already tighten the grip on your thigh.

“Then it’s a good thing that I don’t want to go back,” you murmur, and he lowers his head first to capture your lips with his, and you think that Arya was right. And then his hand slides between your legs and you can’t think of anything at all.

⋙ A week later, there isn’t a single flat surface in his apartment left that you didn’t have sex on. Aemond wants to know every way to make you feel good and he gets down to work with the diligence of a straight-A student. He’s eager to learn but he does take his time to practice — and you enjoy every minute of it as he maps your body and memorizes all the spots that make you weak. But apart from the ardent passion, there’s this caring softness of his that fills your heart with love even when you least expect it.

It happens one morning when he sits you down on the kitchen counter, his hand in your pants, fingers sliding into you, deep and rhythmic, as his mouth covers your nipple — and you sharply arch your back, risking hitting your head on a wall but Aemond manages to place his hand there and keeps it behind your nape the entire time.

Or on another day, when you two burst into his apartment after his training, your hands all over him as you hop onto the wooden shoe stand, unbuttoning his jeans, and he hikes your skirt to your thighs, pushing your panties aside, and fills you up, his mouth muffling your moans — and then his palm lands on the wooden surface and he breaks the kiss:

“This wasn’t made for sitting on it, I can tell.”

You honestly couldn’t care less but Aemond doesn’t wait for you to respond — he easily hoists you up, still hard and fully in you, and as you squirm and shiver with pleasure, he brings you into his room and lowers you on the bed.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” he smirks, his hands skimming up your thighs.

You are not sure if it’s about the fluffy blanket or him instantly picking up the pace but you nod vigorously, pushing your hips up to meet his. He sucks on the sweet spot close to your ear and whispers:

“It’s about to get better.”

And it does.

⋙ He buys a new shoe stand the very next day. He brings it in and assembles it himself, and you watch him with a blip of guilt:

“The old one was fine, Aemond, you shouldn’t have bothered.”

He puts away the tools and, as he’s standing up, he places a kiss on your pajama-covered hip, following it by a peck on your lips:

“I did and I would’ve done it again, sweetheart.”

Aemond goes to his room to put down the tools, and you come along.

“I just don’t want you to waste your money,” you murmur, standing in the doorway.

And then he says without thinking:

“Technically, it’s not mine.”

You look at him confused, and Aemond sighs, pondering for a minute.

You never brought it up but sometimes it does make you wonder why he seems so careless with his finances. You know that he’s got a scholarship (as do you) and he doesn’t tend to throw money around but he also doesn’t count the costs and rarely looks at price tags. You don’t ask him for anything nor do you want to yet the topic looms on the horizon, and you don’t really know what to think of it.

It sounds like Aemond doesn’t like to discuss it so he keeps the story brief: as it turns out, the apartment isn’t the only thing their dad left them. He also set up an account for each of his children to get — as Aemond says, his voice cold and bitter, — “a great deal of money in inheritance”. He doesn’t talk much about his father, either, but from what you’ve gathered Viserys has never been a loving parent so you can’t blame Aemond for the resentment.

“Maybe you should save up that inheritance for something more valuable,” you come closer with a soft smile, cuddling up to him and thinking that’s the end of the conversation.

What you don’t expect is for Aemond to pull out his phone and open the bank’s app to show his account to you. It looks like a phone number, only a couple of digits shorter, and you stare at the screen for a second before it dawns on you.

“O-oh,” you mutter.

His hand clings to your waist but he doesn’t say anything, and the silence feels weird and heavy like a wet coat.

“I rarely withdraw any money from it,” Aemond finally says. “But it comes in handy, like, once or twice a year.”

He wants nothing to do with his father, you realize, but that also explains his attitude toward money. Although he’s far from being spoiled, Aemond still comes from a privileged position, and you try to choose your words wisely before speaking up:

“Well, your refusal to depend on him is admirable but doesn’t it feel... wrong to have that amount of money and do nothing about it?”

Aemond unconsciously tenses up, lowering his gaze to you, an inkling of a frown on his face. You pull away slightly, too wrapped up in your thoughts as the words spill out of your mouth:

“Arya’s been volunteering at a dog shelter and they barely get any donations, she says the dogs are surviving mostly on leftovers brought by the neighbors, can you imagine? Also, I overheard Mr. Harrold complaining that the library roof is rotting and for some reason, the funding does not cover repairs — and, sure, we can just stop going there — but I think if you have the means and if you don’t really care about the money, why not use it to help someone out, you know?”

Aemond’s lack of response makes you turn to him, and you see him staring at you, his face expression unreadable.

“I mean, I’m aware that money doesn’t buy happiness and I’m not your financial advisor, obviously — do you even have one? ‘cause it seems like you should — and I won’t ever talk about it up again if you don’t want to and I don’t mean to overstep and — ”

The words roll off his tongue out of the blue:

“I love you,” Aemond blurts out.

You stop mid-sentence, looking at him in bewilderment, with wide eyes and lips parted, your train of thought completely forgotten. Your heart skips a bit — and then does so again, and you feel short of breath. Aemond doesn’t look away, his lips quirking in a smile as he gently tugs you closer but still leaves some distance as if he’s afraid you’ll want it.

“I love you,” he says again, without a shadow of a doubt. “And I know it may seem too soon, and you don’t have to say it back but I want to. And I want you to tell me anything and everything,” he allows himself a kiss on the corner of your mouth. “And there’s no one I’d rather talk to than you.”

You feel like someone set off firecrackers in your chest and they burst, loud and blazing, and your own smile blossoms. You cup the side of his face, sneaking a kiss against the underside of his jaw.

“I’m so glad you told me,” you whisper as your thumb settles next to his lower lip. “Because now I can say it, too. I love you,” you place a kiss on his cheek, “I love you so much,” — and on another cheek, right on his scar.

And then he catches your lips with his, and you both can’t stop smiling into the kiss, and you think that’s your favorite taste from now on: his laughter in your mouth. And you feel like you’ve never been happier in your entire life.

Aemond sprinkles your face with kisses then, only pausing to ask:

“What’s the name of that dog shelter?”

⋙ He buys way too much dog food — and water bowls and collars — and you help him pick the colors, and it feels kind of like a Christmas morning. The order is delivered in a few days, and you come by his apartment to help sort it out but Aemond greets you with a hand behind his back.

“I have something for you,” he grins mysteriously. “Turn around and close your eyes.”

You do as you’re told, curiosity bubbling in your chest, and something thin and cooling glides over the skin around your neck. You open your eyes to look in the mirror but find yourself at a loss for words. It’s a chain, a copy of the one he wears.

“I know you don’t like yellow gold so I thought a white one would be a better option,” he follows the curve of your shoulder with his finger.

“Aemond, this must cost a fortune,” your cheeks suffuse with pink.

“Na-ah, it doesn’t, not even close,” he places a kiss on the side of your neck. “I may be a philanthropist now but it’s only fair that I treat my girlfriend, too,” you catch the reflection of his smile and can’t help but smile back. You also can’t stop yourself from thinking of how to thank him, and an idea pops into your mind.

On the next Friday evening, when Aemond returns from his training session, he’s surprised to see a soft light coming from his room. He walks in — and then freezes in place, speechless: you are laying in his bed completely naked, batting your lashes at him and biting down on the white gold chain that glitters on your flushed lips.

“I think this gift calls for celebration,” you purr. “But you seem overdressed for the occasion.”

Luckily, he can remove his clothes at the speed of light.

Hours later, you’re laying in his bed, your body sweaty, aching and intertwined with his, and the first light of dawn is seeping through the curtains. Aemond nuzzles into the crook of your neck, your fingers vine through his hair, and he runs his hand from the cleft of your breasts up to your chain, the warmed-up metal bright against your skin.

“This was my best investment ever,” he drawls with a tired smile.

And you can’t agree more.

• shamelessly inspired by the quote “Don’t ask her to moan, make her” • this is only the second time I wrote smut so please be nice? something tells me I will write more ehehe • there will be part 3 BUT it may take a while ‘cause I want to think it through. also, I’m trying my best to keep the chapters relatively short around 6-7k so there’s a chance I’ll write more than one part • I plan on including interactions with his family / some vacation time / moving in together — but maybe there’s something else you want to read about? don’t hesitate to tell me!

as usual, comments are VERY appreciated 🥺 (opinions? asks? PLS just talk to me)

tagging everyone who’s ever asked: @greenowlfactiffif, @kyuupidwrites, @pearlstiare, @i-killed-ramsey, @bellaisasleep

✨ my recent fic: “My first choice” (she’s Aegon’s bestie, inspired by “Little women”) 🔥 the first smut I wrote: “The object of my desire” (~6500 words, inspired by the famous scene from Bridgerton S2) 💌 my masterlist English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes!

#aemond targaryen #I JUST WANT IT TO SHOW IN THE TAGS DAMN IT #my stuff #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen fics #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fanfiction #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond modern au #hotd modern au #aemond fluff #aemond targaryen fluff #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #aemond smut

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exielimon · 2 months ago

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Something wormed it's way into my head like a month ago and guess what? I can't get it out. I now have a modern AU and you have to deal with me giving the boys silly highschool nicknames. For example:

Four, aka The Ant

(613 words ahead)

"wait- you went to Central Hyrule High School too??"

Legend asked from the desk, his station a mess of tools and trinkets and oil he'd clean later.

"Why you surprised? It's a public school" Four answered the question with another question.

"Well, I don't know, you're my superior in mechanics but you were probably my classmate" Legend murmured, nose touching a tiny piece of the car radio he was trying to repair.

"Nah, I'd remember another Link." Four quipped, still under the car he was working with, not even turning his head to speak. "You were there too?"

"Well I was always on competitions and went traveling very often because of that. I thought I was published in the school news?" Leg and murmured, a bit self consciously.

"Oh, sorry, I never actually read those things" Four finally popped his head out from under the car.

"Oh, don't worry, I'd rather you never know" Legend reasured, embarrassment creeping into his cheeks.

Four went back to his work and stayed silent for a couple minutes, then he got out from under the car and opened the hood.

"Can you pass me my backpack? I brought a piece from the store yesterday..." He didn't trail off, he started muttering under his breath while analyzing the insides of the engine like a puzzle to be solved.

Legend saw the backpack at the side of the desk, that wasn't really the safest place, where oil could spill over and stain it, but Legend tried to not do that, so he guessed it was like Four was trusting him. There wasn't much space for keeping things away in a little house workshop either, so it was understandable anyway.

He made to lift the backpack and was immediately surprised by the thing refusing to separate from the ground. However, Legend was strong enough and with a bit more of effort he usually makes, he grabbed the thing and carried it over to Four.

"What do you have in this, rocks? Gods it's heavy"

"A motor actually" Four accepted the pack and, to Legend's secret surprise, lifted it easily with his non dominant hand to open it with the dominant one. "And my tools"

Sure enough, there was a goddess be damned motor in the bag.

"How do you have so much strength and so little height?" Legend blurted out, not really catching himself.

Four burst out laughing and Legend tried to think of that to lessen the warmth at the tips of his ears.

"Well, I've been in this since I have memory. My grandpa taught me, this is his workshop. Actually, people in highschool said I was so little I worked like an ant. It kind of stuck though a couple years."

"Wait really?? I remember hearing that name in the hallways! I laughed a lot, secretly obviously" Legend exclaimed that one shut up you ant! he heard a lot on the hallways was hilarious.

"Oh, yeah it was really funny, friends held it over my head for a while" Four chuckled as he connected the motor. Legend went back to his work with the radio.

After a few more minutes, Legend started laughing.

"You ok?" Four asked, chuckling too because Legend's laugh was a bit contagious.

It took a bit for Legend's giggling to calm down enough to apologize "sorry, sorry, it's just... ant" and he kept giggling.

Four was smiling too, it had been a while since he heard the nickname and he never let anyone but two specific people call him that, but Legend was a good guy, it was fine.

Wow did he really just make a new friend over mechanics and old nicknames?

Thx for reading!

#linked universe #lu four #linkeduniverse #lu fic #lu legend #modern au #lu modern au

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rambleonwaywardson · 5 months ago

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Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 14

Masterpost Read on AO3

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: I've been absolutely blown away by some of your comments, especially on chapter 13. Not lying when I say they make my day. We are slightly shorter this week, just over 10k. There's a few new technical terms in the Mission Control transcript dialogue that I'll include at the end of the chapter.

---

We’re all made of stardust, Gale likes to say.

The human body is nothing but a fascinating and precisely messy, messily precise combination of the very elements that build up everything around us. Everything that has ever lived, everything that has ever been, came from the stars.

It’s hard not to be romantic about space. It’s the very star stuff, after all, that poets and philosophers and physicists alike have wondered and wandered about for as long as human thought has been able to comprehend the idea of an unknown. Our ancient ancestors stared up at the sky and, even without a concept of what it was or where it led to, they looked at the stars, and the stars looked back.

The stars from which we came, and the stars to which we will one day return, when the little miracle of a world on which our kind was born is swallowed by the sun that gave us life. Some may say that the vastness of an infinite universe renders a life lived, no matter how large, insignificant. Nothing but a speck in the cosmos, a blip on the timeline of something grander than we can ever comprehend.

But why can’t it be the other way around?

For life to come forth from the building blocks of a largely uninhabitable infinity feels like impossible odds, because the odds should be mathematically impossible. One in infinity. And yet, billions of years of chance and circumstance, and it resulted in you.

Who’s to say that a life lived, no matter how small, isn’t, by virtue of its very existence, the most significant thing imaginable? Perhaps it’s made even more so by the reality of a forever that we can’t comprehend. Because, of all the infinite possibilities in the universe, you are here. You are breathing. You exist. You are alive.

Our universe is a masterpiece with no artist to claim it, the most complex melody to ever be played. A human life, a human breath, may be but a moment on a vast canvas of reality that we can never touch.

But what a moment.

How special is it that such a thing is even possible. To one person, a life is everything. To the universe, many think it’s nothing. But in a sky of a million stars, every little thing is a puzzle piece, one stroke of a brush that fills in the gaps in this work of art. Where life seems impossible, every improbable life that beats those odds is nothing short of a miracle.

So. How lucky are we that this beautiful, complicated universe aligned so perfectly, that the laws of physics have permitted us to exist as we do, together, in this minute span of space and time?

We’re all made of stardust.

That thought has always made Bucky smile.

One day he’ll return to the stars that created him from nothing, but until then, he exists in a universe that gave him everything. A reality that, among improbable odds, gave him Gale.

—

November 22 Lunar South Pole, Starship

When Curt opens his eyes, he doesn’t recall closing them. He must have fallen asleep at some point in the night that, on this side of the moon’s south pole, is never actually night. Just a stone’s throw away, and he would be in total darkness all the time. But not here. Not where his ship sits, lonely in an ocean of glass and dust. Oxygen, silicon, magnesium, iron. The same oxygen that fills his lungs. The same iron that courses through his blood.

He’s spent too long listening to Gale Cleven wax poetic about the universe.

When he blinks his eyes open, he can’t explain the vague feeling of dread pulling the walls of his chest inwards like a perpetually collapsing tower of cards. Perhaps that’s just the state in which he’s been living the past few days. Never sure what comes next, up here on this nowhere neverland. Unstable, ready to topple at the slightest breeze.

Maybe it’s a good thing, then, that there is no wind on the moon.

Music is playing. He must have forgotten to turn it off. Mournful notes surround him on all sides, washing over him in a surreal tide of sound.

One More Light, by Linkin Park. Who cares if one more light goes out in the sky of a million stars?

The dread in Curt’s gut quivers, spreading through him like a disease. He glances over at Bucky’s still form across the cabin, but he can’t see the rise and fall of his chest in the dimness of the lander’s simulated night. He swallows, feeling the painful lump of anxiety stuck in his dry throat. The song, no doubt, doesn’t help.

It plays on, though, as he rolls sloppily out of his hammock and wanders over to Bucky’s cot. Slowly, slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to know. As if his actions right this very second, this fraction of a second, could change an outcome that he’s fought tooth and nail to have any say in. He hears his own heartbeat, pumping blood that carries within it the same iron that courses through the veins of their solar system. He feels it pounding in his chest as he wades through this small ocean of a no man’s land. Schrodinger’s cat – alive or dead?

He looks. Slowly, slowly. And he swears he feels the moment his soul is crushed beneath a weight that it wasn’t designed to bear.

For a moment, he is consumed by all of his worst fears. A heart stopped. Chest still. Face pale. Fingers cold. Unmoving. Like a light gone out, the blink of a supernova that can’t be observed with the naked eye, nothing but the sudden absence of light to tell the universe that it’s moved on from this life.

Not even a flicker.

Bucky.

Just gone in the night.

Who cares when someone’s time runs out if a moment is all we are?

Curt wakes with a gasp, a ball of anxiety dislodging from his throat in a scream that he has to forcefully shove back down into his chest so it doesn’t ring out at a deafening pitch. His eyes snap open, his hands gripping the fabric of his hammock so tight his fingers hurt.

Alone. He’s alone.

The only living being on the surface of this whole desert-island world.

He can’t breathe.

He glances over at Bucky’s still form, squinting through the darkness of the cabin. He can’t see well enough. His fingers frantically search for the PTT button on his coms.

Curt: “Benny? Benny??”

Benny: “You okay, Curt?”

Curt: “Is he alive?” He can’t push the words out fast enough, desperate enough. Not a single person on shift misses the way his voice breaks on the third word.

Silence.

Curt can feel the panic rising up through his body, tears threatening to spill over. His heart is beating too fast in a chest that feels hollow and hopeless, and his head spins. He waits for Benny to tell him no, don’t you remember… Waits for the confirmation that he’s lost perhaps the most important person in his life. Nervously, though, he looks at the time displayed on the console across from him. It’s the same day as it was before, when he last remembers being awake.

The same day.

A dream.

But. It’s 5:30am GMT. He’s been asleep for at least four hours, the longest he’s dared to close his eyes in the past few days. Bucky’s progress gave him a sense of complacency, and now he worries it’ll cost him everything.

A lot can happen in four hours. But it doesn’t take a lot for a light to go out.

He swallows thickly. His whole face burns, his eyes stinging with the fear that is threatening to eat him alive if his CAPCOM doesn’t say something.

Curt: “Benny?”

Benny: “He’s fine, Curt. Did something happen? His vitals look as stable as can be expected.”

Curt shakes his head, as if he isn’t alone in the dark. He flexes his fingers against the side of the hammock, gripping and releasing, gripping and releasing. His eyes squeeze shut against unshed tears.

Curt: “No. Bad dream.” He tries to make his lungs work properly. Tries to force his body to stop shaking. He’s okay. He’s okay. “Forgot to turn the music off.”

Who cares if one more light goes out?Well I do.

Okay. Well. That’s certainly enough of that.

Curt throws himself out of the hammock with abandon, stumbling as his socked feet slide on the floor. He grabs his tablet, pauses the music, and he stares down at the screen long after it fades to black again, unblinking as the quiet descends around him.

Benny: “I told you we were concerned about the sad boy hours playlist.”

Curt: “Oh shut it, Benny.”

He hears Benny snicker.

Benny: “You okay, Curt?”

His heart is still pounding. The dread is still making a home deep in his chest. All he feels is a gripping fear that isn’t quite like anything he’s ever felt before. But he nods.

Curt: “Yeah. Thanks, Benny.”

He turns on the lights. And he wanders, slowly, slowly, over to Bucky’s cot. Relief washes over him when he sees the way Bucky’s hand twitches. The way it moves slowly, slowly, up from Bucky’s side to his chest. Blue eyes blink up at Curt, brow scrunched. The hint of a smile plays at the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

“Scream?” he says quietly, fighting to scrape the words out of a dry throat through lips that fumble across the messy syllable.

Curt huffs and rubs a hand over his face. He nods. “Yeah. I did.”

The expression on Bucky’s face changes, the quirk of his lips dropping as he squints up at Curt in concern, but it returns a second later. “The fuck?”

That makes Curt laugh, and he feels some of the nerves recede. A tide going out as the world continues to turn. “You’re just full of sass, aren’t you.”

Bucky makes a vague, minute motion with his shoulders that might be a shrug. Curt watches as Bucky’s left hand drifts in stiff, labored movements up to his chest to meet his right. His fingers brush over his wedding band, and Curt can visibly see some of the tension leave Bucky’s body.

“You remember him talkin’ to ya last night?” Curt asks. He reaches a hand out to rest on Bucky’s good leg and shakes it gently.

Bucky’s eyes flick back up to him even as his thumb continues to rub over the ring. “Buck,” he breathes out. His eyes, already glassy, take on a wet look and drift away from Curt’s. The corners of his mouth drop into a frown. “Don’t… cry.”

Curt doesn’t know who he’s saying it to, exactly. Himself or Gale. Belated words that he couldn’t force out hours ago. But the words, the look on Bucky’s face, make Curt feel like crying anyways.

And then Bucky’s out again.

—

Houston, TX

Marge is exhausted. She won’t complain, but she’s barely getting any more sleep than Gale is. She loves her job as Artemis PAO, she really does. But it was running her ragged even before catastrophe struck home. She’s dedicating all of her work hours and then some to keeping this mess controlled in the media. She’s been constantly communicating with the public about the mission status, monitoring media coverage, negotiating with media outlets about what to release when, and trying her best to keep the whole damn world off Gale’s back. She fights like a mother cat, baring her teeth and showing her claws as she pulls out every trick in the book to keep the ugliness of the press from descending on her best friend. Her brother.

She spends her entire ten hour work day between Mission Control and her office, trying to put out fires and keep up with the shit storm swirling around her, and she is never, ever done. She’s working before she gets to the office and she’s working after she leaves. She’s working in the middle of the night while she lies awake in Gale’s guest bedroom.

And when she’s not doing any of that, she’s keeping a sharp eye on Gale.

Gale, her best friend since they were just little kids in grade school, playing make believe in her bedroom or throwing sticks for the dog. Wandering through the countryside under a setting sun, Gale telling her all about the stars above, the stars he has always loved so much. Camping in her backyard, making pillow forts to watch movies and share secrets in, making up stupid handshakes that they could never quite remember.

Gale, who, at only eight years old, came to her house with tears staining his cheeks but trying so, so hard to hide how much he’d been crying after his dad hit him for the first time. Gale, who bit his lip until it bled because he was scared to go home but just as scared to tell Marge why. Gale, who learned too early that life can suck, but tried so hard to break free anyways.

Gale, who she grew up with, who she has watched become the incredible man he is. Who she loves so deeply. Her platonic soulmate, she likes to say, making him laugh as he hugs her tight. They’d go to the ends of the Earth for each other. Hell, they showed up on NASA’s doorstep together, prepared to do just that in their own ways.

She has seen him succeed. She has seen him on top of the world in every sense of the word. And she has seen him hurt. She has seen him cry. She has seen him seething with rage. But she has very rarely seen him scared. Not since he was that wide-eyed little boy watching bruises bloom on his arms and chest for the very first time.

Gale Cleven and scared are not words that feel right together, but they are words that, from time to time, do coexist. Marge is one of only two people in the whole world who ever sees what that intersection looks like. Her. And John.

Gale is scared, now. He’s angry. He’s grieving. He’s lost and confused and hurting and hesitantly hopeful but trying not to crumble, trying not to get caught beneath a landslide. He’s scared. Because John almost died. Could still, perhaps. He could come home, or he could not. He could come home, but if he does, he could be totally different. He could be fine. Or he could not. And no one knows. No one will know until he’s safe and sound with his feet on dry land, wrapped in Gale’s arms with a beating heart. It could happen. Or it could not. And now Marge has to hold the pieces of his husband together.

She’s trying her best, she really is. She’s terrified to take her eyes off of Gale, though. Everyone sees him as this stoic pillar of strength that can always be relied upon, because he is. She knows that he isn’t prone to dramatics or drastic measures. He’s level-headed, ready for anything, indomitable. He’s unbreakable, when it comes to everything except for John.

John, who has spent nearly two decades chipping away at Gale’s walls of stone. John, who calms the internal storm that Gale won’t let the world see. John, who takes care of Gale when no one else notices that he needs to be taken care of.

Buck and Bucky. One cannot exist without the other.

One half in limbo, and so the other won’t sleep. Gale barely even eats. It doesn’t seem to occur to him. Marge is worried that if he keeps going like this, he’ll simply keel over or get into an accident or simply vanish from this plane of existence. And if the absolute worst happens, yeah, she’s worried about that unbreakable will in him breaking.

Gale, who she has known as long as she’s known herself. Gale, who has always been there for her through the highs and the lows and the zigzags of this crazy life. Gale, who has always been the strongest person she knows. She doesn’t think she needs to worry, but she isn’t taking the chance.

Gale, who has always been just fine on his own. Gale, who never falters under pressure. Gale, who has never been afraid of anything.

Other than losing John.

Gale, who fell asleep in her bed last night because he was afraid to be alone. She held him close, and she let him sleep right there beside her like they were kids again, hiding from the monsters that he refused to talk about. She’ll call it a win that he slept for four whole hours before he woke around 3am and wandered out of the guest room. She found him sitting on the floor, his back against the door to his master bedroom, the dogs laying beside him. He was looking through the wedding photos, biting too hard on his lip. He’d finally made it to their first look, but he couldn’t bring himself to go further. He just sat there, staring at the emotional and ecstatic look on John’s face as he took in the sight of his fiancé dressed in white, lit up by the sun streaming through the windows. Gale smiled, and he frowned, grimaced at the blood on his lip, ran a hand through his messy hair. And then he smiled again.

“He’s gonna be okay,” he said, not even looking up. His voice was weak but carried a sense of certainty that Marge hadn’t heard since before the accident. “He has to be.”

It breaks her heart, seeing him like this. She wants so badly to make the world right, to bring John home safe, to personally guarantee that Gale doesn’t have to worry about a thing.

But she can’t.

So she’ll stay with him. She’ll keep an eye on him. She’ll make sure he eats and she’ll hold him up when he falls and she’ll get him through this if it kills her. No matter what happens.

But goddamn is she tired. And scared.

She’ll protect Gale with everything she has from the cruelty of this world, and she will stand by him in the aftermath. He’s her best friend. Her family.

But John is, too. John is her friend, too. He’s her family, too. Has been since the moment Gale introduced them so many years ago.

So here she is. She’s alone in her office bright and early the morning of November 22nd. Today, Starship leaves the lunar surface, whether John is ready or not. She and Gale arrived at JSC earlier than usual so she could get some extra work done. Normally, she’d stay in Mission Control for the entirety of Red Shift, but she has to moderate a press conference this afternoon. Time that she simply does not have to spare.

When they arrived, Gale went off in search of better coffee than Mission Control has to offer. He’s with Sandra, so they can discuss Artemis 4, though it’ll likely devolve into office gossip anyways. It was difficult for Marge to let him go off without her, somewhere where she can’t watch him, remind him to breathe, hold the broken pieces of him in place. But she thinks some time with one of his colleagues, talking about something that isn’t Artemis 3, will be good for him.

As for her, she’s supposed to be getting work done. Sending emails. Drafting press releases. Checking schedules. But she isn’t doing any of those things. All she’s managed to do since she got here is stare silently at the wall.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath and rubs a hand over her eyes. Fingers poised over her keyboard, she stares at her computer screen, willing herself to get to work on this statement about Major John Egan’s condition and the plans for getting him home. But every time she tries to type his name, she freezes.

Her eyes wander to a photograph on her desk. It’s her, Benny, Gale, John, and Curt standing in front of the SLS in KSC’s Vehicle Assembly Building. They’re all grinning from ear to ear, all of them, even her, in NASA flight suits. She reaches a hand out to touch it, her finger landing gently on John’s face, and all of a sudden there’s tears streaming down her cheeks.

She takes one gasping breath, a little sob that tries its hardest to release every awful thing she’s feeling but can’t even come close. She hides her face in her hands, bites her lip like she’s always telling Gale not to do, and she breathes. Slowly. In. Out.

She’s startled out of it by a knock on her door, and she rushes to brush her hair back out of her face. She wipes below her waterline, taking care not to smear her makeup, and she sits up tall, shoulders back. She plasters a smile to her face even though it will never reach her eyes.

“Come in,” she calls, forcing a steadiness into her voice and hoping it doesn’t betray her.

The door opens, and Benny walks in. Surprised, Marge checks the time. Not quite 8:00.

“Gale’s on console already?” she asks. They’d gotten to JSC around 6:30, but she didn’t expect Benny to leave Mission Control until at least 8am sharp.

He nods. “He wanted me to check on you. He’s concerned.”

Marge laughs wetly, letting her guard down just the littlest bit. It’s just Benny. “He’s concerned about me?”

Benny nods again and sits in the chair on the other side of her desk. He slides a cup of coffee across to her. “Says you’re wearing yourself out looking after him all the time.”

Marge frowns as she grabs the hot cup and inhales the scent of the caffeine she so desperately needs. “I don’t have a choice, Benny. He’s… not okay.”

“I know,” Benny agrees. “But you’re allowed to hurt, too. You love John nearly as much as he does.”

“I don’t think that’s even possible.”

Benny laughs halfheartedly. Marge loves her friends fiercely. But Gale loves John with a power that outshines every star in this universe. “Maybe not,” he says. “But this is hard for all of us. It’s allowed to be hard for you.”

She sips her coffee to keep her voice from trembling. “I know. But he needs me to be the strong one right now. I can’t afford to break.”

Benny nods in understanding and offers a sad smile, because he knows. He feels it, too. This pressing need to keep it together because there is simply no other choice. He can go home and throw things at the walls on his own time if he needs, but Marge can hardly even do that, since she’s basically on 24/7 Gale watch.

“How’s John doing today?” she asks. They’re getting dangerously close to their Starship launch window.

Benny runs a hand through his hair and sighs deeply. “He’s… improving. We’re seeing more and more signs of him. Just not as quickly as we’d like.” He smiles weakly and tells her about the last six or so hours. Bucky has woken up a few times, totaling about three hours of being conscious. His speech capabilities are returning. Mostly single words like “fuck,” “Gale,” “Curt,” and “shit.” He seems aware of his surroundings. He can answer yes/no questions, and most of the time he seems to remember what happened on the surface.

He can swallow, and has asked for water twice but is not eating on his own. Curt has had to help him with sitting up and holding his water packet. Sometimes he wakes up confused, startled, anxious, doesn’t seem to know where he is or why. Even awake, he drifts in and out of awareness. He keeps trying to pick at his IV or reach down to his leg, and he seems to be in considerable pain. He has not had another seizure, but his heart rate spikes every once in a while, or his breathing will become erratic, too slow or too fast.

Perhaps the most promising development is that, as long as Curt helps him get his comcap on, he’s able to speak to Mission Control well enough to convey basic needs. Sort of. Almost. This means, ideally, once Curt manages to get him all set for launch, he’ll be able to communicate with Curt and Gale if he needs anything. Curt, for all intents and purposes, is in charge of all flight and docking duties on Starship. Thankfully, he spent time training on all facets of these procedures, so he isn’t going in blind.

“How’d Gale seem?” Marge asks.

Benny shrugs. “He seemed okay. But, I mean, he usually seems okay on shift, you know?” When Marge frowns, he rushes to reassure her. “I think he’s gonna be alright, Marge. As long as John keeps improving, he’ll be alright.”

“What happens if he doesn’t? Keep improving?”

Benny sighs again and reaches across the desk to take her hand. He glances at the photo on her desk, the one of them all together. He doesn’t know, is the truth. But he’s a pilot. An astronaut. He always has a sense of the worst that can happen, but he can’t afford to actively anticipate that outcome. All he can do is move forward and take it as it comes. He offers Marge a weak smile. “We’re just gonna take this one minute at a time, okay?”

They don’t count in days anymore. Minutes and seconds. It’s all they can ever count on.

—

Bucky doesn’t like a single thing about this. No. Nope. Not at all.

He scowls at Curt in hopes that that will convey the general desire to burn this entire place to the ground and take the two of them with it.

“I know, dude,” Curt groans. “We don’t got a fuckin’ choice so work with me here.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, as controlled as he can manage, and glances out the window of Starship, which he can finally see out of again now that he’s sitting up. Even once he managed to open his eyes, he spent a long time just staring at the ugly ceiling of their little crew cabin, imagining stars above. Curt has helped him to sit up straight today, though, with his legs hanging over the side of the cot. Before Curt started helping him to dress in his first suit layer, he was finally able to see the damage done to his body – his leg hanging useless and throbbing, held together by a splint, and the faint remnants of a decompression rash mottling his skin. Curt removed the bandage from around his head, but Bucky keeps trying to reach his hand up to rub at the wound there.

Curt keeps swatting it away, saying “I didn’t stitch you up for you to break that open. So quit it or I’ll wrap you up again.”

Sitting up like this makes Bucky feel dizzy, the room tilting and blurring around him all funny, and he feels his heart rate spiking again. He tries to focus on the stars he can see through the window. Flickering lights in a dark, forever sky. He wonders if he can count them, but his brain keeps stalling after he reaches six or seven and his vision goes fuzzy.

Pain pulses in his leg with every heartbeat, and nausea keeps rising and fading, rising and fading. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe deeply, but the air chokes his lungs as his chest shakes with the effort.

“Hey, take it easy,” Curt says. Bucky feels Curt’s warm hand on his knee as his copilot kneels in front of him. He’s securing the booties of Bucky’s cooling garment, which has to be worn beneath the OCS suit to avoid overheating. How, exactly, to get Bucky into the layers of his suit required a lot of back and forth and arguing between Curt and “the idiots in Mission Control,” while all Bucky could do was sit and wait while they determined how best to dress him up like some sort of doll.

The results were excruciating, involving removing the splint to get the cooling garment over his broken leg, and it was a harrowing taste of what’s to come between now and touching down on Earth. Benny said Smokey wanted Curt to redo the splint anyways, since the swelling in his leg has likely gone down, making it too loose. Either way, Bucky kind of wants to be unconscious again so he doesn’t have to feel so much pain. Part of him thinks if it’s between this and never waking up again, he’d choose the latter. He can’t bear the thought of abandoning Gale like that, but he desperately needs all of this to stop.

Nausea rises up as Curt jostles his leg trying to get the splint back on over the cooling layer, and it doesn’t subside like it did before. Bucky tries to reach out to tap Curt on the shoulder, tries to say something to let him know, but all that comes out is a weak “uh?” And then he’s coughing up bile that misses Curt’s head by mere centimeters. Curt looks at the spot on the floor where it landed, looks up at Bucky with a mix of disgust and pity, and Bucky kind of wants to cry.

He hates this.

He hates it.

He hates the way he can feel it sticking to his mouth and the way it’s making him choke on little coughs that rattle his brain as he tries to keep from swallowing what didn’t make it past his lips. He hates how useless and incompetent he feels, like an overgrown child who can’t take care of himself or so much as communicate what he needs. He hates that he can’t dress himself or eat or drink. He can hardly move, can hardly balance enough to sit upright. He hates that Curt is stuck here taking care of him when that is not what he signed up for. And he is in so much pain.

He feels the wetness in his eyes, but thankfully the tears don’t fall.

Curt takes a deep breath and looks Bucky in the eye. “Just a second,” he says. He finishes fastening the splint, making Bucky grunt in pain again, and then Bucky is alone, focusing too hard on staying upright on the edge of the bed.

When Curt comes back, he has one of the rags they use for cleaning. He squirts some water from his water packet onto it and gently wipes Bucky’s face, then the floor. Then he holds the water towards Bucky. Bucky takes it between his lips and sucks weakly at the straw, feeling instant relief at the way the water coats his throat and washes away the acid taste.

Curt wipes his mouth again, drying up a drop of water below his lower lip. He frowns as he considers Bucky, barely able to handle getting into the first layer of his suit before launch. “This is probably gonna get a whole lot worse,” he tells him.

—

Gale feels sick.

If Starship liftoff and rendezvous weren’t scheduled for Red Shift, he absolutely would have been here anyways. But, even after everything, he didn’t anticipate how much being in Mission Control would hurt. How much it would physically hurt to know that his husband is confused and sick and in so much pain. How much it would hurt to sit here and bear witness to the unique torture that is launching Bucky off the moon despite all of it.

The moment Gale takes over the console, the first thing he hears is a weak voice crackling over the coms. “Gale?”

“I’m here,” he says. He wants to reach across space and time, hold Bucky to him and shelter him from everything that’s about to happen. He thinks, for the first time, that perhaps being unconscious was the most merciful thing for the Artemis 3 Commander these past few days. Perhaps he’d been selfish, wanting so badly for his husband to wake up. Because how is this any better?

The next thing he hears is a quiet sob, a voiceless scream that didn’t have the power to truly make a sound, as Curt tried to get Bucky’s bad leg into the OCS suit. Gale has to shut his eyes for a moment and take a breath, push past the bile rising in his throat at the sound of John in anguish. The completely irrational part of his brain wants to shut this whole operation down, make everyone stop what they’re doing, stop subjecting his husband to this abuse. The rest of him knows that that isn’t an option. They have to get this launch right, and they have to get it right now, excruciating pain be damned. So he holds his breath to keep the pieces of his shattered heart from overflowing right onto his console, because if he can’t deal with listening to Bucky’s suffering, then he can’t be here at all.

It’s not fair, but it’s what this job requires. As long as he is in Mission Control, he needs to put on a brave face, play Major Buck Cleven.

When he finally opens his eyes again and looks around the room, every flight controller is looking right at him. Painted on their faces is sorrow and pity, for him and for John, two of NASA’s most unassailable forces being shoved through Hell but fighting through it for each other. He looks at each of them, and he holds his head high, even as he swallows thickly to keep the tears stinging the backs of his eyes from welling up right here and now.

“Gale?” Bucky says again, his voice weak and thick and begging for something that Gale can’t give him.

And in that moment, Gale makes a decision. The only way to get John through this is to make room for both of them – Major Buck Cleven and Gale Cleven. He’ll be as strong as he has to; he’ll get these boys through this if it kills him. But in the end, even if the mission needs Buck at the helm, Bucky needs him. His husband.

So he tries out a watery, encouraging smile even though Bucky can’t see his face, and he softens his voice, like it’s just him and John, no one else. “I’m here,” he says again. “I know it hurts, darling. I’m sorry we’re making you do this. But it’s the only way to get you home.”

—

Curt managed, somehow, to get Bucky all set in his suit, even as Bucky cried out in agony and tried to push him away. Curt doesn’t know if it was easier or harder when Bucky started to get all disoriented, fading in and out of consciousness. He gave up fighting, but it left Curt trying to single handedly shove his body into the most complicated outfit known to man. “I’m sorry,” Curt kept saying, wincing every time Bucky gasped in pain or flinched away.

As much of an ordeal as it was to get Bucky dressed, it was nearly as difficult for Curt to dress himself. On launch day at KSC – a day that feels so terribly long ago now – they had a whole team of suit techs, specially trained to help them get into these OCS suits. They helped the astronauts put on every layer, checked the fit and positioning of every single component, triple checked every seal and zipper to make sure not a thing was out of place and everything was as comfortable as possible. Even up in space or on the moon, the astronauts are trained to help each other so no one ever has to try to get themselves into the suit without another set of hands and eyes. It is not, by any means, a task that they are meant to accomplish on their own. And Curt has quickly learned that the hard way.

He manages, though, and finally returns to the console to finish preparing for launch. Before getting himself suited up, he had to carry Bucky across the cabin bridal-style in order to settle him into one of the seats and strap him in. “Now, don’t you fuckin’ touch anything,” he instructs, pointing a finger at Bucky. “Look at me.”

Bucky tilts his head a little and his eyes slowly roam over to see Curt beside him. Curt can see it all on his face: the joke he wants to make, the stubbornness he doesn’t want to leave behind. I’m your commander, show some respect, he probably wants to say. This is my ship as much as it is yours.

But even John Egan isn’t stubborn or egoistic enough to think he can fly a spaceship when he can barely move or talk, when his brain keeps going all foggy and he can barely stay awake. The look on his face also tells Curt that he’s angry, he’s sad, he’s in pain both physically and emotionally. It says, Am I still the commander of this mission if I’m no more use than a goddamn toddler?

So Curt gives him his best reassuring smile. “You just sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride, Commander.” Bucky rolls his eyes, but the expression on his face eases into something less unsettled.

Luckily, Mission Control had foreseen the difficulties in suiting up, and they scheduled plenty of time into their morning for accomplishing a task that really shouldn’t have been harder than literal rocket science and yet managed to be just that. Before taking on that endeavor, Curt spent much of the morning preparing Starship for takeoff. Another task that was not meant to be accomplished by one person alone.

He never got to do his last EVA to retrieve their plants.

He lets himself look out the window one more time before he has to strap himself in. He can see the LEAF greenhouse far in the distance, and he presses his hand to the thick glass. He’d been really, really hoping for that one last moonwalk. That last chance to bound across the peaceful emptiness of the lunar surface, to take in the views he’s dreamed about since he was a kid. He really wanted to be able to bring home their little crops, the first living things to be born and to grow on the moon. But Bucky just wasn’t in a good enough place to be left alone for so long. No one could be sure if or when another seizure would occur, like a monster lurking in the darkness. And no one was confident that Bucky would be able to communicate his needs in Curt’s absence, or that he wouldn’t get agitated and accidentally hurt himself.

Curt doesn’t feel angry anymore. He might later, when it all catches up to him again. Now he’s just a little sad. A little disappointed. He looks out at the moon, at the Earthrise on the horizon, the stars in the sky, the vast expanse of fine rock and rubble that calls to him. He knows Bucky dreamed of the exact same thing. Neither of them are alone.

When he looks back at his commander, Bucky is watching him. His voice is quiet and scratchy, slow and unsure, but Curt can hear him over the coms. “Plants?” His eyes alone say more than that one word ever could. I’m sorry.

Curt smiles sadly and shrugs. “I’ll tell your husband to get them on Four.”

Then he nods to himself, looks at the console in front of him, and asks Houston for a launch checklist.

—

Shortly before takeoff, Gale is biting at his thumbnail in anticipation as he listens to the other flight controllers give their go/no-go. Typically, Curt and Bucky would have run through their pre-launch checklist together, only referencing Houston if they needed clarification on something. With Bucky unable to do much of anything, Gale had to take Curt through the checklist himself. He scans through the hard-copy packet of instructions in front of him, triple checking that he didn’t miss anything.

He pauses, his finger pressed with too much force to a line of text that smears ink on his skin, when he hears Bucky’s small voice coming over coms again.

Bucky: “Gale?”

Gale: “I’m here, darling.”

He can hear it: Bucky sounds nervous. Gale can’t seem to decide if he should smile or frown. On one hand, Bucky is awake, coherent, thinking, talking. On the other, Gale knows he’s scared. And John Egan and scared are not words that seem like they should fit in the same sentence.

He wonders how much of this makes sense to Bucky right now. He wonders if he knows how much this is all about to hurt, even more than it already does. He wonders if knowing in advance would make it better or worse, or if the fear etched into Bucky’s voice is simply because everything happening around him is already too much.

Gale: “He okay, Curt?”

Curt: “Think so. A little agitated, but I think he just wants to know you’re there.”

Dr. Huston informs him that this situation is extremely stress-inducing for Bucky, who is still not fully aware of what’s going on and is in a lot of pain. It’s natural for him to be seeking comfort. He’s reaching out because he doesn’t feel safe. And no matter what state he’s in, he seems to associate Gale with safe.

Gale has to fight back tears once again.

Gale: “I’m here, John. I love you.”

In the silence that follows, he can feel the words Bucky can’t actually say in his mind. I love you more, angel. Gale sips his coffee and looks across the room at Marge, who catches his eye and gives him a thumbs up.

Clark starts counting down. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.

—

Curt mutters under his breath. “Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Liftoff.”

The Starship engines shake the entire silver tower, jostling Curt in his seat. They could do as many simulations as they wanted, but nothing compares to the real thing. Even in partial gravity, the ship has a shocking amount of power. He watches moon dust kick up in a billowing cloud around them as they start to rise.

Bucky: “Gale?”

He sounds agitated again, and Curt can see his gloved hand trying to grab onto something, searching for stability. Curt reaches his hand out and squeezes Bucky’s fingers to let him know it’s okay. He wonders how excruciating this aggressive shaking feels when you’re coping with a traumatic brain injury. He doesn’t want to know.

Gale: “I’m here.”

Curt: “We’re going! 600 feet and climbing.”

The official mission transcript will indicate that something unintelligible was said, but Curt hears when Bucky says “pitch.”

Curt: “Yeah, we have pitchover. Right on time. Hear that, Gale?”

Gale: “I heard. Thank you Major Egan.”

Typically, this is the point in the launch when Curt would say something like what a fuckin’ ride , but he’s too nervous about the potential for Bucky to simply disintegrate into dust beside him, lost to the lunar sky. Stars from which we came, stars to which we will return.

Curt: “Alex, Rosie, we’re on our way to you. Heat us up somethin’ nice to eat would ya?”

Alex: “Want me to set the table, too?”

Curt: “That’d be great, honey… Trajectory good.”

Gale: “Trajectory good. Systems nominal.”

Curt: “Copy.”

Gale: “Alex, I want in on whatever you’re makin’.”

Alex: “I’ve got chicken ‘n rice. And wheat chex. I’d stick with whatever you have earthside, Major.”

Curt shifts his gaze back and forth between the rising trajectory displayed on the screen in front of him and the rapidly descending darkness out his window. They’re nearing 5,000 feet, velocity approaching 400 feet per second. Rate of ascent right where it should be.

Curt: “Right on the H-dot. Goin’ up as expected. One minute.”

Gale: “Starship, you’re go at one minute. Lookin’ good.”

Curt: “AGS and PGNS agree.”

Bucky: “Gale?”

Gale: “I’m here, John. You okay?”

There’s a garbled groan through the coms, and Curt glances over. He recognizes the weird, twisted expression on Bucky’s face immediately, the way the commander shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Curt: “No. No no no. Do not be sick right now.”

Another groan. Bucky doesn’t have anything in him to throw up except for bile, but either way, vomit is the absolute last thing you want in your helmet. Once they hit zero G and things start floating… well, Curt is concerned Bucky won’t have the wherewithal to keep himself from choking on it.

Gale: “He doin’ okay, Curt?”

Curt: “Drink your water. Drink your damn water.”

Curt reaches a hand out to pat Bucky aggressively on the shoulder and then motions to the little straw sticking upwards into his helmet out of the neck ring. While they were suiting up, he even figured out a way to stick it up a little higher so Bucky doesn’t have to duck down so much to get at it. “Water,” he says again.

Bucky’s eyes follow his finger and try to see the straw, not really remembering where it is or what he’s supposed to do. Water. He doesn’t see how he’s supposed to get water out of that, but he ducks his head down and struggles to get it between his lips. He cries softly in frustration as the nausea rolls through him, but he manages, feeling cold water rush into his mouth faster than he was prepared for. He coughs a little as it dribbles down his throat, but he manages to swallow. Curt nods and pats him on the shoulder again.

Curt: “You’re gonna be alright. Just don’t fuckin’ throw up in there.”

—

“Trajectory nominal,” Croz reports. “We’re on target.”

Gale doesn’t even realize he’s standing, probably has been for a while, with one hand on his hip and the other pressed to his lips, until Croz looks up and asks him if he’s alright. Only then does Gale notice that he’s paced a few steps away from his console and is standing on Croz’s other side, behind Bubbles. With an unconvincing nod, he runs a hand through his hair and wanders back over to his own desk. He picks up his fourth cup of coffee of the day and frowns when he realizes it’s empty.

Gale: “Coming up on three. We have you at 15,000 feet per second.”

Curt: “Lookin’ damn good here. 22,000 feet and a sky full of stars out our window.”

Gale: “Targeting good. How’s-”

Bucky: “Gale.”

The twisted, pained way Bucky cries his name is another icy stab to Gale’s heart, and it stops him cold where he’s standing behind his console. He rubs his hand over his face before pressing his wedding ring to his lips and closing his eyes. Breathe. He flexes his right hand, feels the scabs tug at the skin. This morning, Dr. Huston had tried to prepare him, telling him that the pain Bucky would feel during launch would probably be excruciating. That if Bucky could communicate that, it would rip Gale apart and make him feel like the worst person in the world for forcing him through this.

But it’s no one’s fault. It’s what has to happen. Gale just needs to breathe and work through it.

Gale: “I’m here, darlin’. It’s gonna be alright. Close your eyes and breathe for me.”

Rosie, listening in from Orion, jumps in.

Rosie: “I know it hurts, Bucky. I want you to know it’s alright if you pass out.”

Bucky moans in response.

Gale asks Dr. Huston about John’s vitals, and the flight surgeon reports that his heart rate is high but that’s to be expected from the stress alone. He’s not concerned yet.

Bucky: “Buck.” Softer now, but the scared and defeated cry is almost harder to bear.

Gale: “I’m right here with you… Four minutes. Go at four minutes.”

Curt: “Pringles can is stayin’ strong. Hear that, John?”

—

Liftoff from the moon is something Bucky used to dream of. He’d stand at the top of his swing set, like the little peaked canopy above him was the nose of his ship, and he’d pretend he was launching towards the stars. He’d pretend the ground below him was made of moon dust, his own footsteps visible on the surface as he ascended higher and higher and higher until the world was nothing but a speck beneath him. “We’re lookin’ good, Houston,” he’d say, mimicking his heroes of the Apollo and Shuttle eras. “Right on target. Oh man it’s beautiful.”

He keeps trying to look out the window now, at that sky full of stars. That infinity that leads to nowhere and everywhere at the same time. His vision keeps fading in and out, though. Curt’s trying to talk to him but he can’t think straight.

His leg hurts. He doesn’t quite remember why. He tries to say Gale’s name, but he can’t.

His head feels… bad.

It’s hard to breathe.

A sky full of stars.

He pretends he’s one of them.

—

Gale: “Go at six. Doin’ okay?”

Curt: “Good here. Coming up on ascent termination. Bucky?.... Bucky?”

Silence.

Curt reaches a hand out and puts it on Bucky’s shoulder, then his chest. He shakes him gently. He leans forward as much as he can and sees Bucky’s head flopped to the side, lax against the inside of his helmet.

Curt: “He’s out, Buck.”

Gale: “Probably better for him.”

Curt frowns, even though he agrees. He’d rather Bucky be unconscious than in unbearable pain. But he misses having his commander at his side, sass and all.

He lets his hand drop away from Bucky’s body, and he listens to Gale giving him a countdown to engine shut-off over coms. A job that Bucky should be doing.

Gale: “Three. Two. One.”

Curt: “Ascent terminated.”

—

Bucky pops in and out of consciousness over the next several hours, sometimes perfectly aware and sometimes confused and agitated. Sometimes he speaks, and sometimes he stares in silence out the window, wondering where he’d end up if he just kept drifting forever. Here am I floating ‘round my tin can, far above the moon.

When they hit zero gravity, their indicator floats up in front of their faces. Beary Egan remained on Orion. On Starship they have the little Earth plush that SpaceX often uses on their spacecraft. It bumps Bucky’s helmet, and he smiles the littlest bit. It makes Curt laugh as he watches Bucky slowly reach a hand up to poke the plush toy, watching it drift away. For a moment, there’s no pain, no fear, no worries. Bucky is just John Egan again. Mission commander. That same little boy who is just excited to be in outer space.

One time he glances at the trajectory displayed on the console in front of them, and in a moment of lucidity, he says “Good.” Curt gives him a thumbs up.

One time he looks at it and notices they’re angled the littlest bit off course, and he says “Curt,” as he tries to point at the screen.

“I know, bud,” Curt tells him as he works on adjusting their position.

One time he groans as bile rises in his throat and he has to close his eyes again, force himself to swallow the acid-tasting liquid and wash it down with a small sip of water. That happens a few more times on their journey, with varying levels of concern.

Sometimes all he does is pop his eyes open, cry out Gale’s name, and wait for his husband to tell him that he’s still there.

“Leg,” he moans at one point. Curt has to reach across and smack him to get him to stop trying to reach down to mess with his leg. Rosie tells him they’ll pump him full of pain meds as soon as he’s onboard Orion.

Curt doesn’t know if it would be easier or harder to shift Bucky from the lander to Orion when he’s unconscious. But it’s not his choice to make. Soon after Curt and Alex maneuver their ships into docking position and make contact, White Shift enters Mission Control. Gale discusses with Bucky at length – a mostly one-sided conversation – that he’s going off console for the night. That he’s going to go get something to eat, get some rest, see their dogs, and he’ll talk to Bucky again in the morning. No one knows if Bucky understands.

While Curt conducts his post-docking cabin inspection and prepares for transfer to the crew capsule, Bucky wakes up again.

“Gale?” he says. He doesn’t sound so pained anymore, but his voice carries a distinct fear and need for comfort that kills Curt to hear.

The voice that comes back isn’t his husband’s. It’s Helen, gently reminding Bucky that Gale is off shift now.

Bucky goes quiet. Curt watches his eyes drift closed, a frown on his face. Rosie and Alex have to help maneuver his unconscious body through the hatch.

—

Even when he was just an awkward teenager in high school, still growing into the good looks that made the girls swoon, Gale knew that he would become a military man. Not only was it in his blood, but it was the only way he could afford to get to college. The only way he could afford to get out of the town that trapped him in his father’s misfortunes.

He always imagined himself marrying some nice girl with a stable, predictable job. Someone who he could count on coming home to. Someone who he could love and who could love him just as much. Someone who could give him a family. Someone, somewhere, who he didn’t have to worry about staying safe, staying alive.

For a long time, everyone, including him, thought that was Marge.

But well into his teenage years, during that tumultuous time when everything feels like a big deal and you’re trying so hard to figure out who you are, who you were, and who you want to be, he realized something. He didn’t love Marge like that. He didn’t particularly like girls at all. He found himself more interested in the boys around him. The hot football player with the kind smile who sat next to him in world history and made Gale, just for half a second, try to vaguely understand sports. The lead in the school musical who sometimes asked Gale for help with his homework in calculus. The cute exchange student with the adorable accent in his French class, who would compliment Gale on his pronunciation.

Okay.

So, not a girl, then. Some nice guy, perhaps. Some nice guy with a normal, stable, non-military, non-perilous job who Gale could come home to. Who he didn’t have to constantly worry about being in danger. That’s what Gale wanted.

And then he started college, and an absolute whirlwind named John Egan crashed into his life with all the subtlety of a category 4 hurricane. Gale tried his best not to fall for him, he really did. But it was absolutely hopeless from the very first time Bucky smiled at him, bright as the sun. He held out for a while, refusing John’s advances for months even as he secretly hoped the cute brown-haired boy with the broad shoulders and the irresistible smile and the wild personality wouldn’t give up.

He didn’t.

Because both of them were a little bit in love from that very first day. And Gale had to admit that his plans for someone stable, someone reliable, someone safe, had to be thrown out the window.

Because Bucky Egan was the complete opposite of everything Gale had ever hoped for.

He knew the risks. He keeps reminding himself of that. He knew the risks, but he just couldn’t stop himself from falling anyways. Just two boys – young men – who looked danger in the eye and laughed in its face, saw it as something to conquer for themselves. Two people with stars in their eyes and the sky in their hearts, trying their best to ground each other even when neither of them can seem to keep their feet on solid Earth.

He’s seen John off into danger more times than he can count. It’s gone both ways. They’ve gone months without seeing each other, weeks without knowing where the other was or if they were safe. They’ve waited with bated breath for someone to show up on their doorstep with the worst news imaginable. But it never came.

They’ve always come home to each other, because there is simply no other choice.

So Gale stands outside in his front yard as the sun sets over Nassau Bay. It physically pained him to tell Bucky that he was going off shift, especially when he couldn’t tell if Bucky understood. Or if he’d wake up again in an hour and Gale would be gone and he wouldn’t know why. Wouldn’t know why he’d left, why he’d abandoned him. Gale sat at that console with his head in his hands, wondering if he should stay. He sat there well past the end of his shift. Well past handing Helen the headset. He sat there until Harding gently pulled him up, wrapped him in his arms, and told him, “You need to go home, son. We’ll take care of him.”

So he left, and now he’s here, still not convinced that it was the right thing to do. He ate half of the sandwich that Marge made for him but couldn’t stomach the rest. He paced his living room, fighting the urge to turn on the news, to watch the press conference that Marge had moderated earlier in the afternoon. He broke open the scabs on his hands once again because he couldn’t stop picking at them, smearing blood across his face when he rubbed tiredly at his eyes. Marge had to wipe it off. He chucked his phone across the room because he couldn’t bear the way that it taunted him, inviting him to scroll social media or stare obsessively at the wedding photos that he still hasn’t been able to look through. It scared the dogs when the phone hit the wall, and it strangled his heart in a way that made him collapse to the floor all over again, angry and frustrated and scared.

Things are looking up, so why is he still so damn scared?

But the dogs came back. They crawled up beside him, Pepper with her head in his lap and Meatball nudging gently at his bloody hand. And they sat there together, a family waiting for dad to come home, until Marge took his hand and insisted that he needed fresh air.

So now they’re here, in his front yard as night falls upon them. Marge stands beside him, holding him up with her presence alone, the dogs sitting at their feet. Across the road, a door opens, and Maggie runs towards them, her red curls bouncing against her back as she skips across the road. A broad smile is on her face, but she grows somber when she sees the sadness on Gale’s.

Carefully, she takes his hand in her own, little fingers gripping his, and all of them look together towards the horizon.

“Is John coming home soon?” the girl asks.

Gale closes his eyes and holds his breath. He feels Maggie squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. Marge wraps an arm around him, whispers the word breathe as she does.

“Yeah, Mags,” Gale finally says. “He’ll come home soon.” He has to.

As blacks and blues spread like ink over the sky, Marge points to a dim sliver of light above. The little hint of a crescent moon peeks out of the darkness, finally visible for the first time since Benny woke Gale in the night what seems like forever ago. It’s a moon that John is no longer on, just like he’s not on this Earth. Instead, he’s somewhere in between, floating in the beautiful, unpredictable void of the great infinity up above. A flicker among that sky of stars.

He’s somewhere up there, back aboard Orion once again.

Because he’s going to come home.

---

Part 15

Terms:

H-dot: time derivative of height (the rate of ascent) AGS: abort guidance system PGNS: primary guidance and navigation system (pronounced 'pings')

#“The fuck?”#“Gale?” “I'm here darling”#Gale “I'm fine” Cleven #spoiler: Gale is not fine #Bucky makes me cry #Marge is a saint and deserves the world #clegan astronaut au #clegan #mota #masters of the air #john egan #gale cleven #buck x bucky #clegan fic #bucky egan #buck cleven #mota fic

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https-furina · 1 year ago

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"your order is complete!" this order is for @nervocat:

"Thought I'd put in something for your event hehe :33 What about Neuvillette with a small latte and foam? I'm curious to see what you come up with.. 👀 (Sorry if I did anything wrong.. this is actually my first request for anyone 😭😭. I'll also probably read this when I'm back if you're done with it by then, but take your time!!)"

neuvillette + gn!reader | platonic, modern!au | 1.1k words notes. uuuuu nervo... this man would give the best hugs convince me otherwise... this is actually the second time i’ve ever wrote for him <3

thirsty? see our café menu before you order! | order receipts

throughout your whole life, there has always been only one man by your side. you never seemed to have any qualms with each other, fitting together like slotted puzzle pieces and sometimes your friendship even stood against the tides that was your families bombarding you with "you'd look so good together!" that you would both simply groan and roll your eyes in response to; his older sister furina was exceptionally good at bring this up every time you came over for dinner when you was kids.

as you grew older however the two of you grew in distance, finally entering that adult world you dreamt so much about when you hid together in forts made of blankets and pillows, snacking on your stash of sugar. neuvillette got into law school, making him much busier than you and you'd opted for art school, much more interested in the creation of theatrical props and stages. going to two completely different schools put a halt on how much time you could spend with each other.

it's the middle of winter and finally your schedules have cleared up enough to allow you both to meet under the roof of a local café, the large glass windows slightly steamed due to the temperature difference outside but the warm, golden lights creating the most comforting environment that you would never need to gaze beyond what is around you. the smell of coffee and freshly baked treats is strong and slightly overpowering but nonetheless a welcoming difference from the paints and glue you suffered with daily.

you've always claimed you wasn't heavily attached to your childhood best friend but the moment your eyes catch sight of the tall male entering the building, his long silvery hair tied back in a loose ponytail because it gets in his way - but heaven forbid you suggest he cuts it - and a pair of slim glasses perched on his nose, you raise to your feet so quick you go dizzy for a few seconds. the static wears off to reveal him stood before you, undoing the buttons of his trench coat and unwrapping that familiar scarf from around his neck; ah yes, it's the one you brought him last christmas.

his violet eyes glance at you, a pleasant smile decorating his pale face as he hangs his coat on the back of his chair before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into the fluff of his sweater. he's warm, dressed appropriately for the weather as always and you relax under his touch, your arms looped around his waist and you rest your head against his chest. this hug was very much overdue and with the stress of exams, it's exactly what you both needed.

"have you ordered yet?" his deep voice rumbles suddenly over the sounds of cups clinking and idle chatter. you shake your head in response, reluctantly pulling away from the broad-shouldered male and he lets out a content hum, pulling his wallet out of his coat pocket, "what do you want? my treat today."

a slither of a smile creeps onto your face as you settle back into your chair, unwilling to argue against the male as you tell him your preferred order. there's a mild grin on his face, your order hasn't changed at all since you were younger and you almost wish you could retort sarcastically but he says nothing, leaving to go to the counter. part of you feels willed to follow him, unhappy with the concept of him paying but you knew just how stubborn neuvillette could be, a small sigh escaping your lips as you take the moment to admire the dark oak aesthetic inside the café.

neuvillette returns shortly after holding a tray in his black leather gloved hands, placing it on the table as you flash him a thankful smile. he settles opposite you, unstrapping his aforementioned gloves as you focus on your drink, taking a sip of it happily and closing your eyes for a split second.

"how's law school been treating you?" you find yourself asking him the dreaded question first, your eyes watching how his minorly calloused hands open his bottle of water and you can't help but think he really hasn't changed a bit since you were kids, always much preferring water to any other drink people tried to shove his way. neuvillette almost groans, raising the bottle to his lips as he takes a small sip.

"i have so much material to revise at all times, this is the first time i've been out of my accommodation in a while," he admits with a taut frown pulled onto his face. he was always one to prefer the outdoors, granted the weather had to be nice, "and it is as ever dull outside as some of my lecturers are to listen to."

you can't help but laugh at his words, picturing just how boring law professors must be. perhaps you would fall asleep if you had to listen to their drawl but neuvillette was extremely academic so you imagine that despite this complaint of his, he listens intently in every class just like he did in high school. you have faith he'll pass law school with flying colours.

"what about art school?" it's his turn to ask about your academics, tilting his head in curiosity as he looks over at you and you wonder if this setting seems a little too formal for you both, "i've seen some of your works on instagram."

"the local high school's drama class is doing romeo and juliet for their annual play and they've hired us to design the set. we're being graded on it but people in my class keep re-enacting scenes whenever we finish a prop." you groan, resting your chin in your hand as you attempt to look outside through the window to your left, it's still fogged up but it was an attempt nonetheless. neuvillette lets out a deep chuckle.

"think of it as quality control," he comments playfully with a small smile etched onto his otherwise sincere face, it draws a smile onto your face too at your best friend's words, "they're just checking the authenticity of your works before they're used for the real thing."

despite months of not seeing each other after years of being inseparable, everything seems just the way the pair of you had left it, leaving you content and fuzzy inside at finally being able to spend time together again. even though the two of you have definitely matured a little, those two toddlers cuddled up and sharing a beanbag in the library are still very much present and as the stress of exams, revision and all nighters designing stage sets wash away, you both come to realise just how much you needed to see each other again.

#⌞a café on the sea front !!⌝#( sealed letters )#・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#neuvillette #neuvillette fluff #neuvillette x reader #genshin #genshin impact #genshin fluff #(love adding tags for reach oof)#genshin platonic #neuvillette fanfic

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blossomwritesthings · 5 months ago

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𝐚 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 | 𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫𝐬

⬷ 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞┊ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ┊ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 →

pairing: minho x felix (minlix)

genre: dancer!minho/artist!felix. brothers best friend troupe. college au. age gap (abt 4 years). minho pov. extremely dark themes throughout, including smut - MDNI, 18+ only.

word count: 3.2k

the playlist 🗡️

a/n: I've written sooo much of this recently, I'm literally on chapter 10 already!! 😭 I have plans to probably make it 15 chapters long, which I feel like is a good length for the type of story and narrative im fitting into once piece. I wanna make sure all of the loose ends are tied off in a perfect kinda way before I move onto the next project. ☺️ this is the first chapter where we get some TRUE backstory on what really happened between minlix during the time when they were growing up... there's some insinuations in this chapter that will make a lot more sense later on in the story haha... but for right now, I hope you guys are enjoying slowly putting the puzzle pieces together~ 💗

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ᴅ�� ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). do not copy, spin-off, or write inspired work based off of this fanfic without full permission to do so. ©ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

̶﹒⊹﹒ʏᴏ�� ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴜsᴛᴇʀ ᴀ ғʟᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴇʟʟ sᴏᴍᴇʙᴏᴅʏ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ sɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ！،، 🌌 𖥻 𓂃 ʙᴜᴛ ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ ɪs ᴀɴ ɪɴᴅᴇx ғɪɴɢᴇʀ ᴘʀᴇssᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴘs╰╮ 🌑

After the night of the party at Felix’s place, Minho never uttered another word about it. As soon as he had stepped into the door of his shared dorm with Chris, and his best friend saw the defeated grayness of his face — the stormy crimson rage in his eyes — Chris quickly figured out what had happened.

But Chris never dangled it over his head that he had been right the whole time. Instead, he just gave Minho a long hug and said goodnight to him.

Minho’s other friends acted similarly, pretending that everything was fine and that they definitely hadn’t heard rumors about the party that night and what had gone down at Felix’s Dorm.

So instead of focusing on the past and shit he couldn’t change, Minho threw himself into his studies. He and Hyunjin had a big project they were working on together for one of their fall semester exams, which took up most of his time. And when he wasn’t spending hours at the studio practicing on campus, he was at his apprenticeship gig, teaching young middle-schoolers classical and modern dance styles.

Lee Minho was a very busy man, that, everyone knew. And he also knew that the more cloudy his mind was with dark thoughts, the more he’d push himself. The more he’d work, work, work, until one day… he'd face an ugly burnout.

But for right then, he was completely fine. Surely, the burnout was very far down the road…

He couldn’t help but hear the rumors, though. About Felix and his crazy friends and the times he was caught having sex with all kinds of people around campus. Minho even saw it with his own two eyes once — when he stopped at the cafeteria to grab a quick bite for lunch before heading to his critical dance theory class. He noticed movement in the very back corner of the place, and there… Felix was.

Blond locks disheveled, immaculately dressed, and dripping in pearls and light violet hues. There was a girl with fire-engine red hair right beside him, seemingly resisting the urge to climb onto his lap at that moment. They were making out like there weren’t at least a hundred people around them and it wasn’t an open, public space.

Felix had his hands wrapped in the girl’s firey hair, and the purple against the red of their aesthetics caused a shocking display of colors in Minho’s mind. But mostly, he tried to ignore it all. Just like everyone else around him was doing. So he quickly grabbed his food and escaped from the cafeteria as fast as he possibly could.

There was no use sticking around to watch another person stick their tongues down Lee Felix’s throat. There was never any use in crying over spilled milk.

“Minho— what the fuck has gotten into you? You keep misstepping on this part when just a few weeks ago you were doing fine.” Hyunjin said a week later, frustratingly running a hand through his dark locks. They had been in the practice room on campus for most of the day, tirelessly running through the choreo for their routine. The exam’s deadline was in a week and they couldn’t afford to laze around until then.

Taking a long swig of his cold water bottle, Minho pressed his back against the practice room’s mirror, offering his friend a deep frown. “I’m sorry Hyunjinnie, I just— I don’t know, haven’t been myself lately…”

He let his voice drawl on into the silence after that. Because they both knew the catalyst for why that was. The practice room grew quiet after that since it was just the two of them what with it being so late on a Friday night. Everyone was busy partying outside the campus grounds or in their dorms sleeping off the stress of exams.

“Is it… Felix?” Hyunjin asked, slowly sitting down beside Minho and taking out one of his fidget toys from his gym bag. The guy always had at least five on him at all times — claimed it helped calm him down when he was stressed. Spinning the pink and black fidget spinner between one hand, he reached over and squeezed Minho’s knee in a comforting gesture. “You know, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But it’s just that… we’re all kinda worried about you. We just wanna help as much as we can.”

Turning his head to look at Hyunjin, Minho noticed the way his friend's dark brows were wrinkled with concern. The way his eyes sparkled as they searched his face, pulling for any answers he could find there.

“I know, and I’m really sorry. It’s just… I guess, I didn’t expect to see him again, after such a long time. Chris never talked about him or where he was planning on going after high school, so it kinda came as a shock.” Minho said slowly, trying to find the right words as he shrugged nonchalantly. But the feelings he had were anything but nonchalant.

“Are you mad at Chris for not telling you? I mean, it is kinda weird that he never really mentioned his younger brother, but I suppose that’s because he felt there was no need to. It’s not like you and Felix were best friends growing up, right?”

Even though Minho knew Hyunjin was right, his words still hurt. Hurt like ice picks digging into his heart, ripping it to shreds with each bit of truth and reality.

Even still, Minho could feel the wallowing sadness bubble up inside of him. “Y-Yeah… we had an… interesting relationship growing up. He was always seen as the annoying, little innocent younger brother. We didn’t hang out that much, but the times that we did— it was nice, I guess.” Minho found himself playing with the battered hem of his oversized t-shirt, completely avoiding Hyunjin’s gaze. Because Hyunjin was perceptive like that and could read anyone like a book with just a single glance.

Hyunjin let out a long sigh, slumping against the mirror behind them. “I think I understand, though. To some extent. It must feel weird, seeing him again after so many years, and to have him be so changed,” Minho watched, as Hyunjin’s long fingers spun the fidget in his hands over and over again. It was relaxing for Minho too, even if he wasn’t the one playing with it. “He’s the opposite of how you always knew him, you know? That’s gotta hurt in some way. I’m sorry, Min, that’s a lot to deal with.”

Minho’s eyes trailed over to the studio’s windows, noticing how dark it was. How late it was becoming. He could just barely catch a glimpse of the moon shining high up in the sky, already halfway across the sky. “It’s not just that, though… sometimes, we’d hang out without Chris. When he was out of town for a school field trip or some dumb shit like that.” Minho’s voice came out as quiet and soft as a dove’s feather. Almost like, if he said it too loudly, the whole campus would hear and berate him for details.

There was a long bout of silence after that. It felt like a confession that he had never made before. He could feel Hyunjin tense up a little bit next to him, just from knowing that this was extremely sensitive information and vital to the situation at hand.

“Does… Chris know about this?”

Of course, that’s the first thing Hyunjin would ask. Always putting others first. It was a sensible thing to wonder, too- since Chris was their best friend and Felix’s younger brother.

“Not really,” Minho whispered, swallowing against the dry lump that was starting to form in the base of his throat. He could feel his heart slowly constricting in his chest at the topic change. He was fine talking about their childhood and shit, but not… that part of it. “I mean, yeah— he knew we sometimes hung out when he wasn’t around, but I don’t think he realized how… impactful that shit was to us.”

He was still staring out the studio’s nearby window, still studying the half-crescent moon. And the more he looked at it, the more he was reminded of… his face. Milky, like the moon, shining always and—

“When you say impactful… what do you exactly mean by that?”

After Hyunjin's question, there was a long bout of silence. As Minho's thought paused in his head, and he weighed his options... tell the truth, or keep lying about the past once again? In the end, he chose the former.

“I mean like, we fucking fell in love with each other.”

After that admission, the air in the studio suddenly constricted. Like a bowstring, everything drew taught and frozen. And just like that, Minho was turning his attention back to Hyunjin. Studying the look on his face. For a moment, he was entirely surprised, and then that melted into gentle understanding.

“And I’m assuming Chris never knew about that part?” Hyunjin simply asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow as he spun the fidget in his hands a little faster.

Letting out a sardonic kind of cackle, Minho flashed his friend a fake, bright grin. “Yeah, because it’s definitely not weird that an eighteen-year-old was in love with a fucking thirteen-year-old.” He gave Hyunjin a thumbs up, trying to brush it off like it was simply a funny joke. But in actuality, it was a lot deeper than that.

Hyunjin stopped playing with his fidget then, reaching out with one hand and taking ahold of Minho’s. He squeezed it tenderly, forcing Minho’s attention back onto him. Hyunjin’s face melted into sympathy, eyes dancing with a myriad of emotions. “I’m sorry, that must’ve been a lot to deal with. But really, the age gap isn’t that absurd. I mean, I knew plenty of couples growing up that had even bigger ranges than you guys.”

Minho squeezed Hyunjin’s fingers back, noticing how the feel of human touch was keeping him grounded in reality at that moment. Helping to stop his heart from beating out of his ribcage and chest. “I know. But it just… it felt different between us. I don’t know, it’s really hard to explain. We just— we bonded over our shared depression and love for video games and art and—”

“Sounds like you guys had a lot of similarities.”

“Yeah. And now… it’s the opposite.”

Slowly, Hyunjin began drawing senseless shapes across Minho’s palm. And Minho knew why he was doing it — Hyunjin could always understand when Minho needed help, needed someone to guide him through returning his thoughts to normal.

“I can see that. I think, you probably liked Felix for who he was back when you were growing up. That innocence, and how it sounds like he looked at the world with rose-colored glasses on,” Hyunjin started in a quiet tone, tracing hearts on Minho’s skin and making the older man giggle a tiny bit. “But now, he’s changed a lot and it feels like a bucket of ice water was just thrown over your head. Even still, you have to remember that you’ve probably changed a lot too— you’re not the same young boy that Felix fell in love with. And five years is a big gap of time to have not seen each other, so you have no idea what Felix went through during your absence to have such a metamorphosis in his adult life now.”

And just at the mere thought of Felix going through such bad hardships in his past that he turned out to be so degenerate and crazed in university, Minho could feel his entire body tightening up. He squeezed Hyunjin’s hand, practically feeling his racing pulse in the pit of his throat.

“Oh fuck— I hope nothing like that happened to him. I don’t… I don’t know what I’d do if—”

Hyunjin squeezed his shoulder tightly, bringing him out of his reverie of panicked thought. “Min, stop. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But what I meant is… He’s probably experienced things that have made him change into the person he is today. Try to understand things from his point of view."

Minho leaned his head against the mirror at his back, squeezing his eyes shut. And as soon as he did, he saw visions of Felix. Of being in high school alone back in their hometown, suffering all kinds of shit at the hands of the cruel kids there. He didn’t want to imagine it, but he also couldn’t be naive. He knew the kinds of people that lived in their small coastal hometown in Busan. He knew how mean the kids at school could be, how merciless. And Felix probably had walked in there as a beautiful beacon of light. Minho didn’t even want to imagine the kind of shit he was probably put through at high school alone.

“He threatened me when I was leaving his place during the party. He told me to never come back to his dorm.” Minho blurted out, clearing his head of the depressing visions of Felix growing up. Instead, he focused on the way the younger man had looked at him that night, near the elevator. So full of rage and anguish. “He was so fucking angry with me— and goddamn it but I was so mean to him.”

“Having a shitty college house party be the first time you guys hang out in almost five years probably wasn’t the best idea,” Hyunjin said slowly, finally pulling his hands away from Minho and focusing back on his fidget. “It’s understandable why you two would be on edge with each other. There’s a lot of water and shit under the bridge.”

Carding a few fingers between his hair, Minho pulled at the roots as he held his head in his palms. “Hyunjin he was teasing me at the party with his friends— he was trying to fucking make me jealous, I swear to God.”

“Well… did it work?”

“I— I guess… I don’t know!” He burst out, throwing his hands up in the air in defeat. “Sorry, I just… I hate feeling this way and not knowing what to do about it.”

Hyunjin let them sit in the quietness of the practice room for a little bit after that, allowing Minho to collect his words and thoughts. Minho could slowly feel his breathing regulating again and his heart beating at a normal pace once more.

“So then does that mean… that you still love him, Min?”

Staring down at his clasped hands, Minho studied the way his hands were so calloused from dance practice. He did as much as he could to help the problem — exfoliated and moisturized — but nothing seemed to work except taking a break from dance. Which was never going to happen.

“No,” He finally said, shaking his head slowly. But even as the words left his mouth, they didn’t feel quite right. “I mean, it would be stupid for me to. We’re both so different from who we were during our childhood. And we're too far apart in age and maturity."

Hyunjin shrugged slowly before he shoved his fidget toy away in his duffle bag and took a long swig from his Pocari Sweat bottle. “I mean, it really isn’t that far-fetched. At your core, you guys are still the same people. You just hang out with different friends and lead different lives these days. But you’re still interested in the same things as before— art and video games and whatever other shit.”

“Hyunjin, no. It’d be fucking weird. I’m a senior and he’s a freshman. I'm going to be graduating in under six months and he just started. There’s no way in hell I’m dealing with that bullshit.”

Just then, Minho’s friend finally stood up from his spot on the hard, wooden floor. He gathered up his things and then offered a hand out to Minho. Taking ahold of it, Hyunjin hoisted him up and offered a slow grin as Minho grabbed his bag.

“You guys are both adults now. That kinda taboo shit you felt back in the day is irrelevant now,” Pulling out his car keys, Hyunjin started leading them to the front doors of the studio. Hyunjin shared a dorm with Changbin that was about a twenty-minute drive from campus. “So my advice on everything? Just go with whatever your heart and mind wants. If that’s to never speak again, great. But if that means something more… I’d say, do it.”

Minho offered him the best smile he could muster at that moment, completely depleted of all energy and emotion. “Thanks, Hyunjinnie. You’re the best and I’m glad you’re such a good friend and listener to my crazy problems.” He said, squeezing Hyunjin's arm just as they made their way outside into the chilly autumn air.

“Now we should both go home and get some rest. We need to replenish our energy for that stupid exam next week.” Hyunjin said, stepping over to the nearby parking lot and unlocking his electric Toyota Camry. “Oh, also— I’m gonna be gone all weekend. My family’s celebrating my grandma’s ninetieth birthday back in our hometown in Jeju.”

“Have fun and take it easy Jinnie. I’ll see you on Monday for another ball-crushing week of practice.” Minho shouted across the parking lot, giving Hyunjin a wave as his friend rolled his eyes sarcastically.

And then Minho was watching Hyunjin pull out of the lot and drive off. Suddenly faced with the silence of only his presence, he realized how heavy his shoulders had felt before talking about everything. Just like that, Hyunjin had helped him tremendously. Without Minho even realizing it, he had been holding onto a lot of shit for the past few weeks. Seeing Felix, and going to the party that night, definitely stirred up a lot of murky feelings inside of him.

Sure, nothing was solved and he still had a lot to process and work through. But the fact that he was even strong enough to get it out of his system accounted for something.

As Minho walked back to the dorm that he shared with Chris, he decided to fling himself into the work of perfecting the choreo for their exam. That way, once Hyunjin came back from his weekend trip, they’d be all ready to go for the final few practices.

Besides, distracting himself from everything with a long weekend in the studio would do Minho a lot of good.

Help him take his mind off of it all.

Take his mind off of thinking about Felix and what they used to be and what they could’ve been and—

Yes, dancing would suffice as a therapy.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

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