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munson-blurbs · 1 year ago

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Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Being a perpetual people-pleaser meant that you were constantly putting others before yourself--particularly your parents and the eccentric guests who stayed at their motel. But when a surly and mysterious musician checked in indefinitely, he flipped your whole world on its head. (3.1k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, drug use, parental conflict, poverty, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ A/N: Thank you to my numerous beta readers, including but not limited to @the-unforgivenn, @lofaewrites, @lokis-army-77, and @corroded-hellfire, and to @hellfire--cult for the divider. I am forever indebted to y'all.

chapter one: room for one more

It was always the quiet nights, wasn't it? The ones where the only sounds came from cars barreling down Queens Boulevard and splashing through puddles left by an earlier rainstorm, or from the clock ticking on the wall.

The ones where your mind wandered until you’d thought yourself in circles, overanalyzing every last decision you had ever made.

The ones where you allowed your guard just down enough that the slightest oddity threw you off-balance—something or someone out of place.

It was during the quiet nights like that night where you should have expected the unexpected, because New York City never stayed still for long.

The evening’s sluggishness was normal; tourism always slowed in the springtime. The newest shows on Broadway were already months old, not to mention the warmer weather brought both an uptick in crime and pollen count. If out-of-towners were going to schlep to the East Coast, they’d prefer to see the cherry blossoms hours south in Washington, DC than to get mugged on the 1 train.

Business picked up in the winter months when people flocked from around the world to witness the Thanksgiving Day Parade, the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, or Dick Clark’s Rockin’ New Year’s Eve, even though they were several bus and subway transfers away. Outsiders to the tri-state area struggled to differentiate between boroughs; it was unfortunate for them, but you counted on it to keep business alive.

The only guests who consistently frequented your family’s motel were junkies looking for a place to shoot up away from the NYPD’s watchful gaze or affair-havers who were considerate enough not to sully their marriage beds—just their vows. You were in no position to judge; their money was what kept the lights on, but it was impossible not to compare your clientele to the suits who stayed at the Marriott down the street. They wouldn‘t even allow homeless folks to sit within twenty-five feet of the building, let alone stay under their roof.

You leaned on the desk, wood grain pinching your elbows. You tapped your pencil against your textbook as you read, its margins cluttered with notes about different types of parent-child attachment styles.

Sleep prickled at the corners of your eyes, blurring the words on the page in front of you. Focus.

Secure attachment occurs when—no, you’d already read this line. Twice.

“Dammit,” you muttered under your breath, gently slapping your cheeks in a futile attempt to stay awake. Taking a full course load instead of your usual part-time was your academic advisor’s ill-conceived idea, bolstered by the prospect of an earlier graduation. In your haste, you’d neglected to consider two important factors: all of your studying now had to be done during your night shifts, and graduating meant telling your parents a truth they were unready to hear.

They were so proud of the motel, regardless of its reputation. It might as well have been The Plaza from the way your dad boasted about it. The three of you shared an unspoken understanding that you worked the front desk because paying an actual employee would put them under. Maybe if finances weren’t so tight, you could have freely admitted that your future plans didn’t involve taking over the business.

Your eyelids fluttered shut as your head rested on your book, a small puddle of drool pooling atop Bowlby’s theories.

Ping ping ping ping!

Time slowly stretched out before you, your conscious brain clawing its way out of its hazy fog. It took a beat for you to recognize that the incessant noise came from someone repeatedly smacking the tiny bell that sat on the desk.

“Hey, hello?” an impatient voice called out, jolting you from your impromptu nap. You blinked away the residual sleepiness and took in the sight in front of you: a curly-haired man, likely not much older than you were, a cigarette that had been nearly smoked down to the filter tucked between his lips. He had a patched guitar case strapped to his back and clutched a black garbage bag filled with what you hoped was clothing.

“Sorry,” you grumbled, wiping the moisture from your chin. “Need a room?”

“Mhm.” You could practically hear his eye roll: no, I just stopped by in the middle of the night for a quick chat. Fancy a cup of tea and a scone?

He plopped the garbage bag on the ground; its soft landing and the way it wrinkled told you that whatever was inside was, thankfully, not a body.

You nodded and turned around to the wall of keys behind you. There was no shortage of rooms; the only occupied one was being rented by Phyllis, a sixty-year-old self-described ‘entertainer of gentleman’ who paid double her bill in exchange for your silence.

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray on the countertop, grinding it into the base for good measure. “How much per night?” he asked, digging into his pants pocket and pulling out a wallet held together with duct tape.

“Fifteen.”

The man breathed out, his bangs fanning over his forehead. “Jesus.” He fished two twenties and a five from the billfold and placed them in front of you. “This should cover me until Friday, yeah?”

Nodding, you folded the bills and tucked them into the register kept under the desk, only accessible by key because of a series of break-ins during the late ‘70s.

The man lit another cigarette as you pulled out the ledger and a pen. “Name and date here,” you said, pointing to the ‘check in’ column. He took a drag before scrawling his name on the line: Eddie Munson, 5-4-93.

“All right, you’ll be in…” you scanned the assortment of keys dangling from their hooks. The walls were thin, and this guy seemed decent enough, so you decided to spare him the theatrical sound effects of Phyllis’s room 10 endeavors. “…room 4. Make a right down the hallway, and it’ll be the second door. Can’t miss it if you try.”

Your attempt at humor fell flat, both of you too exhausted to laugh. You strode past it, clearing your throat as if dispelling the tension. When you placed the key in his calloused palm, you couldn’t help but notice that the base of each fingertip is a half-shade paler than the rest of his skin.

“Thanks.” Eddie mumbled. He tapped the cigarette above the ashtray, the gray flakes falling into a neat pile. His right bicep flexed underneath his denim jacket as he heaved the garbage bag over his shoulder, careful not to bang it against the guitar.

He scuttled out of the tiny room masquerading as a lobby, shoulders hunched from the weight of the bag and of the burdens he inevitably carried. No one shows up to a motel in the middle of the night without a story or two.

After years of greeting guests at the front desk, you liked to think you had a decent read on them. Eddie was quiet, maybe even introspective, but not necessarily shy. He was tired; no, more than that: he was worn down, like so many other people who had come through these doors.

Most importantly, Eddie didn’t seem like he'd be much trouble. He didn’t stumble in wasted and reeking of booze or fidgeting as he awaited a fix. He wasn’t shouting or poorly concealing a wandering eye or making lewd comments. He’d made pretty much no impression at all besides being a bit gruff, which was just fine with you. Your personality wasn't composed of rainbows and sunshine at this hour either.

You looked at the clock and sighed when it only read 2:17. It’s already tomorrow, you thought grimly. Just under four hours until you could walk ten feet to your room, curl up in your bed, and sleep until it was time for your afternoon class. After years of balancing school and work, you were in the last two weeks of your final semester, and then…what? You casually inform your parents that you were leaving the family business–essentially forcing them to close it–to pursue a career in social work?

That was sure to go over well.

To their knowledge, you were studying hotel management and hospitality in order to “improve the business.” That was why they’d relented when you’d asked to start taking classes, switching you over to the night shift to avoid having to hire a new employee.

What they didn’t know is that your school didn’t even offer that as a major. Nor were they aware of the acceptance letter into NYU’s Masters of Social Work program that was stashed inside your dresser drawer, hidden from sight. That was a conversation for another day when you found the strength to face their disappointment.

Chaos waited to strike until the end of your shift.

Just as you packed your book back into your bag, a familiar, skunky odor wafted past your nostrils.

Ignore it, you thought. Let it be Dad’s problem when he takes over in five minutes. But if you could smell it, so could any of the cops patrolling the boulevard. One more citation and the motel was in jeopardy of being permanently shut down, and you couldn’t take that risk.

With a frustrated sigh, you yanked open the desk drawer and reached in for a pen, instead pulling out an unopened box of crayons. A twenty-four pack of Crayola—the good kind. You plucked a waxy cornflower blue from its spot and scribbled Be back soon on a Post-It note, sticking it on the front of the desk. Grabbing the pepper spray canister from its spot next to the register, just in case, you started down the hall. Marijuana wasn’t Phyllis’s drug of choice, though it might have been one of her various gentleman suitors’, but the scent was too strong to be coming all the way from room 10.

Maybe this Eddie Munson was trouble, afterall.

You knocked on his door, firmly but without aggression. It certainly wasn’t the first time you interrupted someone’s buzz, and it wouldn’t be the last. You knew better than to go in guns a-blazing; it’s easier to catch flies with sugar than vinegar.

Eddie opened it after a moment, cracking it halfway and revealing a lit joint pinched between his plush lips. One forearm was perched on the doorframe, showing off faded ink of a litter of flying bats and a dragon-esque creature. He was clad in only navy blue boxer briefs, but his lack of attire was no surprise. Many guests were shameless, not bothering to cover the holes in their Fruit of the Loom tighty-whities and showcasing faded yellow stains on the crotch. What confused you was the elastic waistband proudly proclaiming ‘Calvin Klein’ that cut off the soft hair trailing from his belly button. It seemed absurd that he would have been lugging around any designer clothes in that trash bag, but there was no other possibility.

“Can I help you?” he asked, shaking his curly bangs out of his face. Half-lidded brown eyes scanned your form, trying to determine whether you were a narc or trying to bum some bud off of him. His window was cracked open enough to let in fresh air, which also meant that the acrid smell could easily be let out.

“You can’t smoke that here,” you reported matter-of-factly, just as you had a million times before. When he cocked a challenging brow, you continued. “Cigarettes are fine, but no weed. The police will come after us and you.”

He looked around the room, unbothered, and absentmindedly scratched at his bare chest. A demon’s head was sketched just above a sparse patch of hair. Under different circumstances, or maybe in another life altogether, you would’ve asked him about his tattoos; if they had some philosophical meaning or were the products of spur-of-the-moment decisions. You could have blathered on about the ideas you had for your own future tattoos, if you ever worked up the nerve to actually get one.

“You mean to tell me that with all of the skeevy shit that goes on around here, the cops are gonna waste their time on a little pot?” He scoffed and took another defiant pull, holding it for a few seconds before exhaling away from you.

I guess chivalry isn’t dead, you mused, stifling an eye roll. “No, but they’re always looking for an excuse to ‘investigate,’’' you threw air-quotes around the last word, “so they can bust us for more serious things, and that is the perfect one.” You gestured to the joint only to be met with an eye roll. “Look, you can either put it out, smoke it somewhere else, or you can leave. Full refund, but you can’t stay here.”

His stare locked onto your steely eyes and clenched jaw, only breaking when you’d straightened your posture to stand your ground. “Whatever,” he huffed, but he snuffed it out. A glimmer of a smile danced on his lips, disappearing nearly as quickly as it arrived. Despite its fleeting nature, it managed to thaw you enough so that your arms weren’t held quite so tight to your body, your expression less rigid. “Just trying to relax and get some sleep, like you were while you were supposed to be ‘working.’” It’s his turn to supply the air-quotes, both in mockery and as a gotcha. A teasing lilt elevated his voice, smoothing out the edge he’d greeted you with earlier.

“I wasn’t sleeping, just…resting my eyes,” you volleyed back, your smirk betraying any semblance of the tough façade you’d worn.

Eddie crossed his arms and walked over to the garbage bag of clothes. He rummaged through it for a moment before procuring a pair of gray sweatpants, stepping into them hurriedly as though he just remembered his minimal attire.

“Maybe if you chose more interesting reading material, you wouldn’t be sl—resting your eyes on the job,” he amended, gesturing to the textbook in your canvas tote bag. “Ever heard of Stephen King?”

“I live in a motel, not under a rock.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You live here?”

Shit. That wasn’t information you regularly divulged. Sure, this guy seemed harmless, but looks can be deceiving. Prime example: wearing designer underwear while using a trash bag in lieu of a suitcase.

It was too late to double back, so you nodded. “Yeah,” you admitted reluctantly. The sole of your sneaker dug into the old carpet.

Eddie looked like he wanted to say more, lips parted and eyes wide like there was a follow-up question sitting on the tip of his tongue. Before he could ask it, your gaze landed on the clock radio: six AM on the dot.

“I need to go,” you said hurriedly. Shame at your sudden shyness burned a hole in your belly. Eddie Munson was a guest; for all intents and purposes, he was a total stranger. There was no reason to be intimidated by him. “Good luck falling asleep,” you added with a weak smile.

The easy banter that had been building between you dissipated in an instant, taking his good mood with it. His goodbye was a sardonic salute, the mattress springs creaking wearily as soon as you closed the door behind you.

Sure enough, your dad was in the tiny lobby, assessing some peeling wallpaper. “Gotta fix that,” he mumbled to himself, thumbnail picking at it aimlessly. He turned around when he heard the door open and smiled when he saw you.

“Sorry, I was helping out a guest,” you rushed to explain, hoping he wasn't too anxious to find the desk left unattended.

The wrinkles in your dad’s forehead became more pronounced. “Is everything alright?” The phrase ‘helping out a guest’ could range from unclogging a toilet to calling the police for a domestic dispute.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” you reassured him quickly, flashing an exaggerated thumbs-up. “No law enforcement necessary. Didn’t even need to use the pepper spray.” You waved the canister in your palm before placing it back.

He beamed, leaning in and pressing a kiss to your scalp. “It’s times like this where I just know I’ll be leaving this place in good hands.”

You swallowed the bile that crept up your throat and feigned a smile when he pulled you in for a tight hug. The mingled scents of Irish Spring soap and drugstore aftershave tickled your nose, and tears stung along your lash line.

If only you knew, you thought, giving him one last squeeze before you headed to your room. Disappointed wouldn’t even begin to cover it.

Your parents would never say the word aloud; they’d look at each other and heave identical weighted sighs. Their lifelong goal of a long-standing family business would vanish in the blink of an eye. Dad would pretend there was a chance that they could afford a new hire, even going so far as to fumble through the years of financial statements before inevitably throwing in the towel; Mom would force a pained smile and hoarsely encourage you to follow your dreams, even at the expense of theirs.

You shook the thought away as you trudged towards your room, sneakered feet like sandbags below you. Dwelling on this scenario had you teetering on the brink of insanity, so you’d willed yourself to focus on something else. Anything else.

Like the motel’s newest guest and his smile. The way it softened the hard lines on his face, offering you a glimpse of how he wore happiness. Something about it made you want to see him happy again.

You can’t even figure out how to make yourself happy, you thought, peeling back the starchy sheets and finally crawling into bed, much less a stranger. For all you knew, he was just relaxed because his high was starting to kick in, and not from some warming presence you’d supplied.

The sun cracked pink through the sky, visible through the paper-thin curtains hanging on the window. You had become accustomed to this backwards routine, able to fall asleep while daylight broke. It took a few extra moments this time; you were anticipating marijuana-tinged fumes to float through the vents when Eddie ignored your instructions.

It was that flicker of a smile that had you almost certain he would spark up once you’d left. The smile of someone who so naturally flouted authority that he no longer bragged about it. Yet time ticked by without a hint of evidence that he was smoking again.

Which begged the question: if the smile didn’t signify defiance, what did it mean?

Eddie Munson is definitely trouble, you surmised just before you drifted off, but nothing you can’t handle.

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phagodyke · 10 months ago

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I slept rly deeply last night even tho it took me a while to get to sleep but I think that was bc I had acid reflux and I'd been playing videogames too late not anything else.... still only got 6 hrs but doing pretty okay all things considered 😚

#and not feeling sick this morning so im sticking w the higher dose for one more day. my heart rate does feel a little uncomfortably fast #but its tolerable. just gonna make notes of how it goes through the day and ill submit my review form to my dr this evening #and hopefully she'll give me the green light to drop back down instead of continuing to titrate up #this is making me think of those heartrate fetishists... do u think i could make money selling tachycardic heart recordings online #i do wanna try to exercise this morning while i have energy. might take the bike out it looks like a gorgeously sunny day #maybe ill try to map my cycle route to work so i can consider cycling there instead of taking the bus in a couple weeks..#i cant atm thp cuz they have scaffolding up and its blocked off the bike racks sadly 😔#i think making myself eat + drink as much as i can has helped control the nausea too. just need a lot of fuel to process meds properly ig #and a lot of sleep.. its a bit stressful to think abt how rigid im going to have to be abt my daily routines if i want to stay medicated #but to be honest i have a pretty rock solid sleep/meal routine already bc its the only way i can function with the hours i work #so like. i dont rly need to worry too much. i think i reacted badly the first couple days bc my base anxiety was high #and then bc that feeling was heightened by meds -> made me not eat/sleep properly -> knock on sickness the next day #but yeah still the side effects arent very nice and i dont wanna take the risk of it exacerbating every difficult emotion i deal with #but fingers crossed bc 30 worked rly nice for me and i had barely any side effects so hopefully i can settle w that long term 🤞#we will see....#ANYWAY. sorry for making the same post over and over the last couple days. talking abt it on here has helped me feel a lot calmer #i dont wanna bother ppl irl w every thought and physical symptom i experience hourly. but this is my blog i can do what i want #hope everyone else has a nice sunday <3 #.diaries

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maxispixels · 14 days ago

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HANDPICKED

PART TWELVE.

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

3.9k words

You work at a flower shop in late 70s London and Hobie's being a menace. Slowburn? Probably will be around (more) 10 parts. Strangers to reluctant acquaintances to friends to something more. Maybe a lil' messy ? (very)

CW/TW: Panic attack description, kinda murder talk, lots of political talk, mention of state violence i guess?,, (Tell me if I should add something?)

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight. Part nine. Part ten. Part eleven. Part twelve. Part thirteen. Part fourteen.

The air felt thick, and heavy, clogging your throat, your lungs refusing to work right.

Your eyes fell on Hobie, at the other side of the room, back turned to you. Blissfully unaware. The world blurred around the edge.

You believed it. If you’d been able to convince yourself that it was just a vile lie, you wouldn't have felt so ill. You didn't know who this man was, what his problem was with you or Hobie, but his last words had the ring of truth.

You pushed yourself to your feet at once, and a violent rush of blood drained from your head, your eyes going black as you lost your balance. Your hands shot out blindly, gripping the back of the couch, anything to keep you upright. The squat swayed around you, voices distant, muffled like they were coming through water. It took a few seconds before you were able to slide along the wall towards an exit.

Ugly and unexpected, a feeling of inadequacy swept through you. You felt invisible, an overwhelming panic washed over you like waves, and no one had seen you.

You weren't the type to like being the centre of attention, but this was different. You were losing your footing. You were drowning and there was no hand on your shoulder to keep your head above water.

You let the current drag you to the first door, shuffling with the handle until you almost crashed inside. The bright blue light made your eyes hurt, and your nostrils twitched at the harsh, pungent smell of an unclean bathroom.

The tiles were shattered, the grout black with filth, and the sink stained with dark matter. You couldn't bring yourself to care as you turned the rusted faucet, letting the water run cold before splashing it over your face. It dripped down your skin, soaking the collar of your shirt, and still, you couldn't feel it.

You cupped your hands, took a quick sip, only to gag. It tasted wrong. Metallic. You spit it out, coughing, gripping the sides of the sink as a wave of nausea slammed into you. The mirror swam in front of you, you really looked terrible. Your reflection seemed to multiply, and when you moved, it didn’t move on beat with you, slightly delayed, like a record skipping.

The walls closed in. The bathroom wasn’t enough. It wasn’t open enough. You needed out, you needed air. You shoved your way back through the door, barely looking where you were going. The squat felt hotter than before, suffocating, your skin burning. You reached the front, pushed the door open, and stumbled out onto the street. The cold whipped your wet face, but you could barely feel it.

Were you ever going to be able to go anywhere with Hobie without breaking down? Maybe that was a bad sign, your body trying to drag you away from him, from the danger you might have been unconsciously feeling. Were you really just blinded by his smooth voice and golden brown eyes?

You were just starting to be okay with it. Hobie swiping food, nicking random stuff from corporations that deserved to lose more than they already stole from everyone else. That kind of theft didn’t hurt anyone.

But this? This was blood. Someone’s life. And the thought clamped around your ribs like a vice.

What if it was true? What then? Hobie seemed to be more than okay with it. You resented him for it. You were still losing sleep over that one time you didn’t say hello to your bus driver, and there he was, in your bed, in your arms— well, he did not sleep well, you’ll give him that.

Was it the reason? The reason why his eyes would get lost? The way he seemed to tense at sirens?

You didn’t notice anyone coming until a tall shadow loomed over you. Your eyes trailed up to Hobie’s worried face, and you wondered since when he was that tall, until you realised you were sitting down. His presence forced you to ground yourself, although his words still didn’t reach you.

You looked down, realizing you were sitting in a puddle. You let something between a breath and scoff, staring down at the soaked fabric of your trousers, watching the water seep in deeper. That was your luck.

When you looked back up, he had crouched in front of you. You saw his lips move but you couldn’t hear him over the ringing in your ears. When did the ringing start?

He was a murderer.

His fingers ghosted toward your cheek, and you flinched. Hobie pulled his hand back like he had been burned.

The sight made your heart ache. You wanted to tell him to go away. To tell him to hold you. To tell him to never talk to you again. To tell him to never leave you alone again.

You didn’t say anything.

His words finally cut through to you. And oh god, your name sounded so sweet in his voice, especially dripping with worry like that. It was intoxicating, how it made you feel special, precious. That couldn’t be faked.

“Oi, look at me.” Sweet like honey, each word stuck to your clammy skin. You tried to look in his eyes, his two, no, four, eight… Yeah, you couldn’t really focus your eyes. But you were conscious. Now that you listened, he knew you could hear him.

“It’s going to be alright, yeah? You take a deep breath with me okay?”

You let him guide you through it, each breath slower than the last, until everything stopped being blurry.

Your stomach still churned at the thought of everything, but it could wait just another moment. Especially as you came back to senses you didn’t realise you lost and was hit with an uncomfortable wave of cold, wetness seeping in through your clothes.

Hobie offered his hand, not daring to reach for you first. You looked away, plagued with the man’s words. You found it in yourself to push your body up, with the help of the wall behind you. Without another word, and in spite of both your instincts to speak, you made your way home.

The silence was heavy and uncomfortable, filled with bootsteps the distant clatter of conversations that weren’t yours.

“You good now?” He asked carefully.

You nodded, but he didn’t seem convinced. You felt the twist of nausea in your guts, but you kept it down, focusing on the feeling of your steps.

“I.. I know crowds can be a lot.” He murmured. “Shoulda noticed sooner.” He thought back to the concert, the way you grew overwhelmed to tears. Was that the same thing? “You’ve… done this before?” His words were tentative, like he didn’t want to assume.

It took some time to hit. Of course he’d think this was about the protest, or the people. In some way he reassured you. He wasn’t some kind of master manipulator that knew everything and could read your mind.

It gave him a certain innocence that was stolen from the way you looked at him. This felt better, more familiar already.

Faced with your lingering silence, he continued. “T’s okay you know. You don’t need to put yourself out there. Not if…” his words got lost in the wind.

You let him believe whatever until you reached your flat. He let you in your silence, although careful that you weren’t slipping back in whatever mental space got you there in the first place.

You struggled with your keys like a drunk, your hands shaking.

“Let me?” He offered quietly, still not daring to reach first after what happened. You gave in, handing him the keys.

Once he opened, you shuffled inside, the warm scent of flowers and leather making you feel just slightly better. It was warm and comfortable. It was home. Your shoes got kicked and you dragged yourself to your bathroom, familiar and clean.

You locked the door and stared at your reflection. You felt like you took ten years in one night. You quickly shed your wet clothes, the sensations barely bearable at this point.

Warm water felt like heaven’s gift, but it wasn’t enough to clean the filth underneath your nails, the man’s words lingering in every fold of your brain. You wished you could pull it out of your skull and wash it as well, use some scented products, get it squeaky clean, smooth and shiny. No thoughts at all.

You took your sweet time thinking everything over. Who cared it was probably 3A.M? Well, maybe Hobie, his worried words coming from time to time to make sure you hadn’t drowned in your bath.

You were more worried about drowning in your thoughts, especially when seeing Hobie's jewelries at your sink made you recoil. You weren’t sure how to deal with this.

You lingered in front of the door, scared of having to face him after everything. You closed your eyes and swallowed down a shiver before you finally stepped out of the bathroom.

You saw him sitting on the bed, waiting, almost sheepish, one of his legs tucked under his chin. You never saw him look so meek, it tugged at your heartstrings. You felt bad for even doubting him, but the seed had already taken root.

“Hey there.” He mumbled, watching you come out, relief obvious on his face.

“Hey…”

“You’re alright?” he asked softly, “can talk now?”

You paused. No, not really, you couldn’t when it was still eating at your mind like a parasite.

“Hobie…” you started, unsure, barely a breath. “Have you ever…”

He waited.

“Hurt someone?”

Your voice wavered, words hanging in the air as everything stilled. The euphemism was a little ridiculous, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be more clear. It’s as if saying anything more crude would burn your tongue.

Hobie didn’t answer right away, he was caught off guard. Your question didn’t make sense—hurt someone? You’ve seen him bruised, joking about getting in a fight, it never bothered you before, or maybe it did, but not like this.

Was that what got you all sullen tonight?

He didn’t deflect, didn’t joke, didn’t smirk. He just looked at you, at your shape barely held together against the doorframe. Your skin was still glistening from your shower, it looked raw, as if you scrubbed too hard, and your face looked so sulken and tired.

His eyes never wavered, but you saw something flicker. It was like he was testing the weight of your words, trying to be sure what you were really asking.

“I don’t like to hurt people.”

It wasn’t a no. You felt your knees go jelly.

“But sometimes,” he continued, “you just gotta make sure people don’t get the chance to do worse.”

You clenched your teeth. Part of you hoped he would laugh and make fun of you for getting weird ideas in your head. That he’d be offended by the implications. That he’d tell you how wrong this was.

“Did you?” you murmured, barely above a whisper, “did you…” the words wouldn’t come out, still trapped in your throat.

He knew what you meant. Part of him wanted to ask you how you found out, maybe beat the idiot who ran their mouth to you of all people, but he knew it wasn’t the right time for threats of violence.

He was reminded of the way you flinched earlier, how he tried to convince himself that you just couldn’t handle people at that moment. Were you scared of him? His stomach churned at the thought, the feeling familiar, like this was all inevitable.

“Yeah.”

You thought the walls were closing in again. He didn’t look proud, nor did he look ashamed.

He gave you no justification, no excuses, and the words of the man in the cowboy hat rang in your ear. Some people just deserve to go. You wanted to go back under the shower head, let the water drown out your thoughts.

“Why?” You tried, voice steadier.

He finally looked away.

“Cause I had to.”

That was all? Your ribs felt tight, like they constricted around your lungs to suffocate you.

You tried to justify it in your head, but it only led to growing self disgust. What you hated most was how the way you saw him didn't change.

He was just sitting there, on your bed, the moonlight pouring over his shoulder. You wanted to climb next to him and curl up at his side, but you weren't sure you could look at yourself in the mirror after that.

He let the silence linger, he let you sit with it, never pushing.

After a beat, he spoke up. “What now?...” His voice was quiet yet steady. “Should I leave?”

The thought of sending him out there in the middle of the night felt wrong. Did he still have a place to go? He had been there for a while.

But worse, the risk of him not coming back hurt more than anything else.

“I won’t be mad…” he murmured like he would to a wounded animal, like he thought you were scared to tell him to leave but wanted to.

Your words all got tangled in your throat and he stood up, slowly, grabbing his things, trying to appear as non threatening as possible. Sure it hurt to think that you could ever be scared of him, but he didn’t want to make it worse.

You watched him grab his jacket next, every one of his movements slow and careful. He didn’t look you in the eyes, not even in your general direction, not in a way that showed how much he wanted you to stop him. Like he had accepted it already. You pictured the room without him. Without his guitar.

His name fell out of your lips like it was the only thing that could make it out. His eyes met yours.

“Don’t go.”

That surprised him.

“Stay. Please.”

Your words stopped him cold, his jacket slipping from his hands like he forgot he was holding it. He sat back down, slower this time, shoulders drawn in like the weight of the night had finally caught up to him. He almost looked small. Not something to be pitied, but something to cradle and love.

With agonizing slowness, things settled.

He put his spiked bracelets on the nightstand, his jacket on the designated clothes chair and you eyed the way his shoulders rounded without pads or artificials angles.

And without a word, your tired bodies found their way under the heavy blankets.

The bed felt too small. Or maybe too big? Maybe it was the way you laid with your shoulder pushed against the cold wall, the way Hobie laid on the very edge, his arm dangling off the mattress like he was trying to take up less space.

Maybe it was the way your shoulders hovered inches apart, your breathing uneven, your heart hammering behind your ribs in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

You hoped this tension wasn't going to be your new normal. Your eyes were wide open, despite the fatigue. You weren't going to sleep easily. Your body was heavy and aching, but your thoughts were still racing.

You stopped breathing for a moment to concentrate on his. Too fast to be asleep, but you hesitated anyway. You needed to ask more. You inhaled deeply.

“Are you awake?” Your voice came out a tentative whisper, reminiscent of children trying to bypass their bedtimes with quiet late night talks.

“Yeah.” He answered after a beat too long.

You didn’t look at each other, eyes glued to the popcorn ceiling like it was a summer day’s sky. You looked for shapes in the relief of the ceiling, like you would in clouds. You were hoping to find a message, perhaps the right words to say, or just something to reassure you.

“Can you talk to me?” you tried.

“About what?” his voice gentle and quiet.

“I dunno. Everything.” you tried to be vague, but you only had one thing in mind. “The cop.”

“You wanna know what happened?”

You nodded. He couldn’t see you, but he felt it. He hummed, pensive. Your head turned to him just enough to see his brows furrowed from the corner of your eyes. He didn’t argue or try to run from an explanation.

“Was defending myself.” He confessed, but it didn’t sound like an excuse or a justification. Just a fact.

Your breath stilled in your throat. “Defending?”

He nodded. You had to be honest with yourself, relief started to course through your veins. You felt him shift. Not to look at you, just to prop his arms behind his head, just enough to ease the flow of words from his chest.

“Fighting a system that thrives on violence,” he murmured, voice quiet, measured, too tired to be anything but honest, “comes with its own share of violence.”

You swallowed.

“Pacifism isn’t great,” he paused, “not when they got a gun to your head.”

The words felt distant, like he was explaining to himself, not to you. Like it was just something he carried, something he had always carried.

"You ever notice how the only people told to ‘stay peaceful’ are the ones already gettin’ killed?”

His voice was still quiet, but the sharpness in it could cut through iron.

"That’s the thing, innit? They don’t need to play fair. Don’t need to follow no rules. But the second we start fightin’ back—" he let out a dry, humorless chuckle, shaking his head, “they call us the threat. Call us the criminals."

His fingers tapped against his side, restless, his mind already miles ahead, already thinking in movements, in battles, in history repeating itself.

"Not being violent never stopped violence. Never has. Never will. The world doesn't work like that. If it did, the state wouldn’t need cops, wouldn’t need prisons, wouldn’t need no weapons to keep us in our place. They got ‘em. They use ‘em. And then they tell us we gotta sit there, take the hits, and ‘wait for change.’ T’s just like the kids teachers told to ‘ignore their bullies’. Never stopped bullying.”

His jaw flexed, eyes dark, sharp.

"That's a luxury. Thinkin’ you can just… wait for things to get better. Not everyone gets to wait."

You listened to him, hanging to his every word. This felt much bigger. Bigger than him defending himself from a cop. Bigger than what you could conceive in your tired brain. Those words would stick with you for a long time, and you'll need to sit with them and process them. But right now, your stomach twisted, your fingers curled into the blanket, knuckles white.

And then, before you could stop yourself, before you could even think, “Some people just need to go.”

Hobie turned his head, not enough to see you properly, just enough that you could feel his stare. “That what you think?” His voice was suddenly shaper. Not angry. Concerned.

Your breath came short, shallow, unsteady, before you cracked. It spilled out, shaky and ugly. The squat, the man, the filth, the words, the way he had dug into you, twisted you up. The way he had looked at you, smirk curling slow and lazy as he dragged you through the dirt, made you feel less than. The way he had forced you to imagine Hobie like that, like a killer. Like someone who could take a life and feel nothing.

Like someone who could take a life and then come home to you, slip under your blankets, press a kiss to your temple like there was no blood under his nails.

Hobie listened, and the longer you spoke, the more his stillness became terrifying. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t react, didn’t even breathe too loud.

Finally, he sighed, not with frustration, just something heavy.

“Nah. That’s not how it works.”

His voice was quieter now, thoughtful, measured. He exhaled again, rubbing his knuckles over his jaw, thinking. Choosing his words.

“It ain't about who deserves what. It never was.”

He turned onto his side now, fully facing you, and for the first time since the conversation started, his eyes held you there. Grounded you.

“Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it. Everybody deserves to live. Everybody. That’s the fuckin’ point.”

You listened carefully, trying to understand, to comprehend.

“The problem ain't that some people need to go. The problem’s that some people decided a long time ago that they get to choose. That they get to pick who lives, who dies, who gets a roof over their head, who starves, who gets to grow old, who don’t make it past seventeen. That’s what we’re s’posed to be fightin’.”

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. The weight of it pressed down on you all the same.

“Ain’t about countin’ up sins and handin’ out punishment.” His voice dipped slightly lower. “It’s about stoppin’ the ones who think they can do it without consequence. The ones who’ve been doin’ it since before we were born.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, like you needed to chew his words, swallow them, let them replace whatever rotten seed the other man had planted in your stomach.

“So nah. I don’t decide who deserves to go.” He let that settle, watching you, making sure it landed. “But I’ll do what I gotta do to make sure the people I love get to stay.”

You nodded. Not because you understood, hell, you could barely process everything that happened today, you were exhausted. You nodded to promise you’d understand later, when your brain will be rested and his words would come back to you, and you’ll sit with them and maybe find it in you to either agree or find arguments compelling enough not to.

“I should’ve never left you alone.” He started again, his voice so much softer. “Should’ve looked after you better. Should’ve been the one to tell you.”

And something inside you broke completely. Because it should’ve. It should’ve been him. Not a stranger with a cigarette and a cruel mouth, it should’ve been Hobie. It should’ve been like this.

Your hands trembled and you rolled on your side to face fully. His face was partially hidden in shadow, but his eyes were open, tired, pained. He looked wrecked and you hated it. Hated that he felt guilty, hated that you felt guilty for making him feel guilty.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then, without thinking or really meaning to, your hands moved, tentative, hesitant. It was like putting your fingers on the glass protecting a work of art in a museum and expecting an alarm to go off on contact.

It was just the smallest brush, and Hobie finished the movement. His fingers caught yours, warm, before he shifted, his arm curling around you, pulling you in, gentle, slow, careful, like he knew you needed it but wouldn’t ask.

You let yourself sink into it. The weight of his arm over your back, the press of his chest, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing against your skin… It was grounding. It was the safety net you tried so hard to fall back into. You could breathe again too.

You stopped shaking.

Part thirteen.

i have books to recommend if anyone wanna

that feels way too heavy for silly fanfiction about flowershops

Tags: @hoe-bie @kittenjujusblog

#hobie brown #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown x gn!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #x reader #spiderpunk #handpicked

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ohgodthevoices · 2 days ago

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hey swaggy author, i would absolutely LOVE if u did a tsukishima fluff + angst 🤭 smtg like the osamu timeskip one with the themes of childhood best friends and development of feelings once they're like older 🙂‍↕️🙏

omg i never wrote for tsukishima and im scared it'll be ooc but here we go ill try my best 😭

Tsukishima kei x reader

tags : fluff , a lil angst , he’s not good with feelings , childhood friends to lovers , gn!reader

you and tsukishima kei had been inseparable since chilhood. you were there when he got his first dinosaur book , sitting cross-legged beside him as he rambled about prehistoric eras with excitement only a kid could muster. he was there when you scaped your knee falling off your bike offering a "don't be dumb next time" as he handed you a band-ai

your friendship was nothing too loud , sitting next to each other on the bus , sharing earphones and bickered over song choices or staying up on call when one couldn't sleep and the other was studying.

but somewhere along the way, somwhere between your first and second year of highschool , something shifted.

it wasn't obvious at first , maybe it was the way his gaze lingered a second longer when you laughed, or how your heart stuttered when he absentmindedly fixed your scarf on a cold day. small, almost imperceptible moments stacking up, like a slow-building crescendo neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

when summer was finally here, your joy was quickly met by confusion when tsukishima started leaving you on read longer than usual, it was the way he stopped comming to your place to pick you up for your weekly saturday morning coffee date , the way you'd see him with yamaguchi after he told you he couldn't go out today, the way he stopped answering you calls when you wanted to give him a haul of what you bought.

you decides to brush it off , ever since the start of your first year , tsukishima has been getting closer to his new volleyball teammates , maybe he had decided to change friendgroups , maybe you weren't enough for him anymore...but then days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and it was already the first day of your second year in highschool

obviously you didn’t know the way he felt about you, that him distancing himself only equaled to his realization of his growing feelings for you. he couldn’t accept it, him liking loving someone ? and that someone had to be you ?? that just couldn’t be good. so the only logical solution to him was to disappear, maybe that way the way he was feeling would disappear too…

but tsukishima only found himself seeking you even more, he was seeking your presence , your unfunny jokes , your stupid smile that he just loved to see , he tried distracting himself with practice and hanging out with his teammates, he thought he’d get used to the feeling of something missing when you weren’t here. but boy was he wrong.

now that second year tsukishima stood in front of you in silence, his arrogance was quickly replaced by vulnerability as soon as he locked eyes with you, his best friend next to him quickly got the notice and left the two of you alone in the school’s empty hallway , he suddenly didn’t assume all those unanswered calls and texts , tsukishima opened and closed his mouth as if looking for the right words “i know i acted like an idiot.” he was gonna put his pride to the side for this, for you.

he told you everything— from the reason to why he ghosted you to how he realized he liked you, and you didn’t say a word until he finished , you had known him for so long yet this was the first time you saw tsukishima nervous, actually expressing how he feels. when he was done , he looked at you with an intense gaze waiting for an answer , anything— but you laughed, not because you were going to reject him but because he looked so out of it. of course he got pretty mad at your reaction but you didn’t reject him.

tsukishima preferred to keep your relationship on the low, he didn’t want it to be private, he wanted people to know you were off limits, but he hates showing off. but that changed over time, he was glad you continued to grow up together.

tsukishima thought it was endearing that the person he played hot wheels with was actually driving a car now, that he went from eating pretend food you made in your play kitchen to actually coming back to you and savoring the nice warm meal you made him.

both your families were over joyed when tsukishima finally agreed to let them know you had been dating for 3 (almost 4) years , your families were already pretty close thanks to your mothers being best friends but now they were even closer, holidays were spent together and dinners that were actually enjoyable were hosted more often.

he’s the type of boyfriend to be very attentive, very teasing, his teasing isn’t as mean as it was back in highshool, but he liked how affective it was on you. he’d tease when you mess up a word and kiss you if you got annoyed. tsukishima’s way of showing his love for you is act of service omg he just does everything for you and if you dare tell him “i could do it myself yk” he will hit you.

he still has the stupid little playlist you made him back in your first year of high school that he listens to when he gets nostalgic or when you argue.

a/n : HEY I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG 😭😭🙏 i’m catching up on all the requests istg

#haikyuu #haikyuu headcanons #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu x reader #tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima fluff #tsukishima x y/n #tsukishima smau

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itzkingbo · 2 months ago

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butterflies & roses

chapter one.

Stray Kids ot8 x fem!reader

masterlist / next chapter

overview: you are one of their managers. you're tired, overworked, and sad. the last thing you want to do is worry your boys. but they notice everything. and the love and care for you, like you do for them.

word count: 1.8k

contains: cussing, mentions of pain, fluff, nicknames, use of y/n, mental illness

a/n: RAAAHH imma be so honest. this started off as a one shot drabble idea for anon and turned into whatever tf this is. but i love it? i fear ill have to make this a series 😔 lemme know if you wanna be part of the taglist! pookie out 🤪

Sure, you were one of the boys' many managers, but to them you were special. With the DominATE tour right around the corner, all of you were incredibly busy. You worked day in and day out to practically keep 3racha alive in the studio as they finished up any last touches to the solos they'd be revealing on stage.

You had barely gotten any sleep the night before, eyelids heavy with exhaustion as you dressed yourself for another tiresome day at the company. Many things went unnoticed by your usually trained eye. You left your quaint apartment in the sweatpants you had slept in, only mascara, and a coffee cup with only sugar because you forgot to pour it before you left.

Luckily you were smart enough not to drive yourself and settled on taking the bus. Several stops later you were waddling through the front doors of JYPE, one airpod in and a half-crooked smile to the doorman. The elevator ride seemed to take an eternity and you slipped into a daydream against the cold metal railing.

The loud ding snapped you out of it quickly, and you scurried past the other staff members entering the box. With a flushed face, you moved down the hall towards the dance practice studio, then shoved the door open.

Music harassed your ears immediately and you walked over to the counter to set your things down and cover your ears. It made your head pound. You hadn't even noticed your headache until now.

When the music suddenly stopped, you looked up to see Minho staring at you. "Y/n-ah? Are you alright?" His voice was calmer than usual, laced with genuine concern for his favorite manager.

You took in a deep breath and nodded, lowering your hands from your ears. "Just.. a headache. I didn't sleep well last night." You say honestly. This causes Minho to furrow his brows and step closer to you.

It was just you two in the practice room at the moment, as the rest of the boys were usually not this early. His hands move to cup your cheeks, and if they weren't already red, they would be now.

He moved your head around cautiously, looking into your eyes and then moving away to his bag. When he returned, he handed you a few pills. "Medicine. You need to take care of yourself like you take care of us."

You take it with a smile and reach for your cup. When you look down your straw, your brows furrow and you let out a low growl.

"What's wrong now?"

".. I must have been too tired. I didn't even finish making my coffee before I left." You grumble, handing him the cup to see for himself.

A hearty laugh escapes his lips and he sets it down and hands you his water bottle. "Maybe instead of managing you should take a nap in the studio."

This made you scowl, and you took the water and then plopped the pill into your mouth. "I can't afford a nap right now, Minho. There's too much to do and not enough time. The tour is right around the corner."

His snicker didn't go unnoticed and you shot him a glare. "You sound like Channie-hyung." He snorts, moving back to the laptop to finish his warm-up before practice.

When he unpauses the music, you notice he has turned the volume down and your glare softens. The sound of his sneakers squeaking on the floor fills the room as you make your way to the chairs in the corner.

It only takes a few short minutes for the practice room door to bust open, and the loud yapping of the boys makes you flinch at the sharp pain in your temple.

Minho stops completely and faces the boys, hands on his hips. "Hush! Manager-nim has a headache!" He whisper-yells, barely audible over the music.

Chris is quick to jog over to the computer to turn off the music. "Heh!?" Jisung harps, clearly having not heard his elder the first time. A hiss escapes your lips and you bring a hand to your head.

Felix turns to you and his eyes widen. "Oh! Sorry, Y/n.. we'll be quieter." He says, his puppy dog eyes causing your anger to vanish. "She has a headache, Ji. Please be less loud today."

Han's head snaps in your direction with an apologetic look, and he mouths you a quick 'Sorry' before placing his stuff down with everyone else's.

As they begin their warm-up stretches, their fearless leader dares to approach you, hands behind his back like he wants something. "Yes, Chris?" You ask quietly, trying not to upset your head while you wait for the medicine to kick in.

He bends down to your level, hands on your knees. "What time did you sleep last night?"

The question makes your chest tighten. You're HIS manager. The one who scolds HIM for late nights and no self-care. Yet here he was, looking at you like you had spit in his Cheerios.

You look down at your lap, pouting slightly. "Six.." You muttered, and his eyebrow cocks the way it does when he isn't too sure of something. "Y/n."

"Six. In the morning." This time you've said it louder, still refusing to look him in the eye. But he forces you to. He is older after all. "Christ, Y/n. We left the studio together at midnight." He scolded, tone stern yet filled with worry.

You huff and cross your arms. "I know. I just, couldn't sleep." You say, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. There had been so much on your mind lately. The tour, schedules, meetings, family, your boyfriend. Well. Scratch that. Ex-boyfriend. It was a sudden breakup that happened a few days ago. You hadn't had time to process the loss, the now empty bed, and quiet apartment.

Chris stares at you, watching as your eyes water. But before he can say anything, his name is called. "Hyung. C'mon." Hyunjin calls out.

You look down at the man, a small frown painting your features. "We'll talk more later." He says, now standing up after patting one of your knees and walking over to the group.

Throughout the entire practice session, you zoned out every other second. You were either falling asleep or in your head. Time after time, one of the boys would look your way with a frown or walk over to bring you water.

Once they finished up, Chris looked over to see you completely passed out with your head leaned back against the wall. He waved the others on, moved over to you, and tapped your shoulder gently. “Y/n-ah.” His voice was soft, and you hummed in response as your eyes opened slowly.

With a small smile, he grabbed both of your hands and pulled you up to your feet. Your eyes widened at the sudden movement and you grabbed onto him for support. "C'mon sleepy head. Let's go."

He grabbed your things, shouldering your bag after tucking your empty cup away. Then, he slung your arm over his shoulder and his hand found your waste.

Then he lead you out of the practice room, and down the hall to his studio.

When the door creaked open, Jisung's boba eyes met your tired ones. He felt like he could squeeze your adorable little cheeks at that moment, but he resisted and stood up to help you to the couch.

You didn't complain, far too tired to fight them at the moment. The moment your head hit the cushion, you were out like a light. "I'll go fetch her a coffee, keep an eye on her." Chris said, looking over at Jisung as he left the room.

"Yes sir." Han saluted, sitting in his chair and facing the laptop.

Your soft snores filled the room and created a comfortable silence mixed with the clicking of the keyboard and mouse.

Not long later, Chris returned with a few cups of coffee and Changbin behind him with bags. The aroma of something baked instantly flooded your nose and woke you from your nap. You grumbled and turned to face the boys with half-lidded eyes as you rubbed them. "How long was I out for?"

"Literally thirty minutes." Han chuckled, taking his coffee and breakfast. You groaned and sat up straight with a grumpy expression. It softened quickly as you were handed a cup with your name, and a turkey croissant. You licked your lips and bit into it with a satisfied hum.

The three laughed at your excitement for food and took their places in the studio.

The rest of the day was spent working on small projects, as well as the backing track for each solo. Then you were off to your office to finish the week's paperwork. You hadn't even realized how late it had gotten. However, this wasn't the first time you were glued to your chair by 11pm.

A subtle knock on your office door made you jump, and you looked up to see the familiar Aussie face. "Y/n." He greeted before moving over to your desk.

"Chan. What are you still doing here? It's late." You scolded, brows raised at him.

He scoffed and leaned against the wall nearest to him. "Says you. C'mon. You need sleep."

You shake your head and continue typing away. "Can't. I'm not finished yet." "I wasn't asking."

You look up again, stunned at the demanding tone he was using. Frankly, it pissed you off. "I'll leave when I'm done here." You say, tone slightly aggressive.

"You say that now." "Christopher! Get off my ass, would ya?" You didn't mean to snap at him.

"Y/N! Go home! Look at you! This morning you could barely stay awake, you looked exhausted. You're a mess!"

His words caused you to stop what you were doing and look up at him. You bit the inside of your cheek, saved your work, and slammed your laptop shut. "You have no room to talk to me like that." You huffed.

"Maybe not, but at least I'm trying here. You can't work in these conditions."

You began to stuff your things into your bag, then pushed past him out of your office. "Fuck sake. Leave me alone."

"What is wrong with you!? Why are you acting like this, Y/n?" He begged, following after you like a lost puppy.

You ignored him and kept walking. "Answer me."

"Nothing! Nothing is wrong, Bangchan! I'm just fucking tired!" You snapped again. You stopped walking and looked at him. That's when he realized you had tears running down your face, brows furrowed angrily.

You weren't mad at him. Your tears weren't angry. They were sad. He noticed the bags under your eyes. How much thinner and pale you looked. Your hair was greasy and tangled, very much unkempt like the rest of you. Why hadn't he noticed sooner?

"Oh. Y/N." He reached out to touch your cheek, but you flinched and turned away. "I'm just tired."

With that, you hurried away from him and left the company building.

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danistartt · 2 years ago

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Homesick- Jamie Tartt

pairings: jamie tartt x reader, roy kent, ted lasso warnings: none. ithink other than language about: request!! jamie tartt is homesick

Jamie has rarely been hesitant to leave for a game.

But there’s something sick at the pit of his stomach when he has to say goodbye to you today, even when you assure him that it’s for so, so little time that it won’t matter. That he won’t miss you with all the excitement of a match. You set your palms against his cheeks and urge his attention to you, tired determination widening your droopy eyes when you tell him that you’re proud of him, sadness angling your features as you apologize for not being able to be there in person to cheer him on.

He smiles and thinks that he believes you.

There’s a painful tug at his heart when he has to leave for real this time, treasuring the warm line your marriage finger grazes along the lobe of his ear. He kisses you, opening his eyes too soon when he pulls away and catching a glimpse of you at your sweetest: still half-submerged in his affection, face softer than he’s seen it.

You are raw in the morning, still a little rumpled from your bed and an inch away from sleep. You got up early for him today. Let your forehead bounce against the passenger window so you could say your farewells face-to-face. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a person care about him like that. Sacrifice even the little things with great pleasure because it’s him.

“You guys’re gonna do great,” you murmur, arms tight around his neck. You squeeze once more before pulling back, giving him a happy, sleepy smile that he takes with him. “I’ll have a celebration ready when you lot get back.”

“Can’t wait,” he tells you with a cheeky wink, watching the amusement in your eyes wake a little bit more.

“Roy’s giving me the stink eye.”

“That’s just how he looks, babe,” he defends. “‘Nd if he’s lookin’ at anyone, it’s me.”

“No,” you say. “He likes you now, Jamie.” The way you say his name is so lovely. All curved and soft and smooth with love. You stifle a yawn and pull him in again. “I’ll see you soon. Behave, okay? I promise I’ll be watching the game on the telly.”

“I always do,” he defends.

“Roy’ll tell me,” you remind playfully. “I think he might write complaints down when you get a little too cocky.”

“I promise,” he gives in.

“You’re going to do amazing,” you tell him again, fully believing it.

“You know it.” He pecks the skin below your eye, finally walking toward the bus.

Roy grunts at you in greeting once Jamie’s gone inside, arms crossed in front of his chest. Ted yells a hello. Beard nods. You wave, continuing to stand in the parking lot until the bus is gone.

Jamie worries he’s ill an hour before the game.

You’re busy with the seminar you couldn’t miss and he doesn’t want to tell anybody, but he doesn’t have to with the team he has.

“Jamie, wanna come on over and have a chat?” Ted asks him, smiling.

Jamie shrugs, feeling like lead weighs him down when he stands.

Ted leads him into a hallway and rocks on his heels expectantly. “Y’wanna tell me what’s wrong, or do you want me to guess?”

Jamie scrubs a rough hand down his face. “I dunno, coach.” Ted furrows his brows. “I’ve never…” He sighs frustratedly. “I dunno what it is.”

“Do you not feel well?”

“I feel off.” Jamie shrugs, frustrated. “Like I forgot to do something. I’m all tingly and shit.”

Ted hums. “You a little homesick? I felt a helluva lot like that the first few months I came here. Still feel it when I get into a car on the wrong side.”

“I’ve never missed it before. What’s there to miss? I’ve a bed at me hotel. I like leavin’ and seein’ all the sights.”

Ted scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe you don’t miss your house, Jamie.”

Jamie shakes his head in confusion. “I’m sorry, coach, what?”

“Home ain’t always a building, Jamie,” Ted explains, squeezing his shoulder before heading back inside the locker room.

Jamie stands, perplexed. “The fuck?”

“He’s fucking sayin’ you miss Y/N,” Roy barks out of nowhere. “You’ve never been at a game away from her. You miss her,” he explains. “It happens.”

“Why didn’t he just say that, then?” Jamie complains.

“Substance. Too obvious,” Roy shrugs. “Call her. Stop being fuckin’ ‘tingly,’ Tartt.”

Jamie is left alone once again, processing.

Ted called him homesick, which Jamie opposes. He couldn’t care less about the place where he lived. Everything in it was chosen by another person years ago, and the space is bland otherwise, with only one framed picture of the both of you hanging up on the living room wall.

Still, he damn well yearned to be back among his stupid, minimalistic furniture and monochromatic aesthetic. Why?

Roy said it was you and Jamie is inclined to agree. When he pictures his living room with his dumb couch, you’re laying on it. Your trinkets and colorful items allay impersonal corners. You’re making a wonderful mess in his kitchen. You’re softening clinical sheet edges. You’re the only warm thing that decorates his walls.

He misses you. He’s homesick for you.

He hates it when Roy is right (but he’s getting used to it), especially when it’s concerning something Jamie didn’t expect, something unfamiliar.

His phone pings, lighting up with your contact picture and a text message asking how he is.

He’s never had a home to miss, he thinks. He’s a little happy to have one. He’s elated it’s you.

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