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hyypnotix-writes · 1 year ago

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Part 2

~ hiya! I'm really nervous about posting this, but I couldn't not at least try to give you a second part after the response the last one got! ~

~ I really appreciate everyone reading it and enjoying it as much as you did ..I hope this one doesn't ruin it for you! ~

~ I think this one's around 13k words. so again ..it's a long one, if you have nothing else to do! ~

~ there’s quite a lot of story before Alexia makes an appearance, sorry ..but she does eventually show up! ~

~ I promise to put more of her in the next part if any of you end up wanting one ~

~ I’m really worried this will disappoint a lot of you, but at least you still have the first part to go back to, if nothing else! ~

~ I really hope you're able to enjoy it even just a little bit, and thanks again for loving the first part so much! the response was very overwhelming and I've loved you all reaching out to tell me that you liked it ~

~ good luck! good bye xx ~

~ Part 1 ~

________________

One night.

One perfect night.

That’s all it took.

One perfect night to throw your whole damn life into disarray.

One perfect night, that’s lead to endless subsequent nights, spent tossing and turning on your own, replaying the memory over on a loop in your mind. It’s only been about a month, but it feels like an eternity.

A never-ending, exhausting cycle of yearning and confusion.

It was the most welcome distraction from your ex-boyfriend’s evil escapades, you’ve not really thought about him at all since.

It should have set you free, broken you out of the chains of mundanity. It showed you a whole new world, a world of women. It gave you a new perspective on life. Unlocked a realm of brand-new possibilities all ready and waiting for you to venture, and yet, you don’t want to explore any of them.

It's not that you haven’t tried.

You’d have been an idiot to assume that it’s only her that can make you feel like this. That would be giving her an awful lot of credit. Yes, she was your first woman, but that didn’t mean that she needed to be your last. The way your mind and body reacted to her, maybe you could have been slightly gayer than you thought, but it doesn’t really look to be the case.

A pair of lesbian sisters always seemed incredibly unlikely to you, and your sister’s already called dibs on the label. Maybe it’s the mere existence of your younger sister that eradicates the possibility of any real queerness in yourself. That’s probably how the handing out of sexualities works, right?

It’s a working theory, and one that you seem to be proving the accuracy of.

You’ve been to a few more clubs since your entanglement with the Spanish mystery. Only returning back to that specific one, once. It gave you a headache just stepping through the door. She was still everywhere in the room, her spirit living in the walls. You barely managed to stay inside for even a second before it became too much for you, sending your heart and mind racing.

You took yourself back home, reminiscing every single kiss you’d shared with her on that fanciful journey back to her hotel together. Looking up at the floor she had been staying on, as you hastily walked past it on your own.

Even the nightclubs that aren’t haunted by her ghost, haven’t yielded much greater success with you.

You paid a visit to a smaller bar, a fair few nights after your perfect one, and had found a woman interested in you. More than interested. She was pretty, and friendly enough. She was flirty and bought you a few drinks. She didn’t try to play it weird by aiding you in your consumption of alcohol. There was no intriguing salt and lime foreplay. She was far more straightforward, far less irritating.

Maybe that’s why it didn’t work. Maybe she was too plain. Maybe she was too simple and easy for you to understand. Or maybe it’s the fact that when she pressed herself against you in search of a kiss, an alarm bell rang out inside of your head. You suddenly found yourself all too aware that she was a woman, and you simply no longer wanted to follow through with your curiosities.

It doesn’t help in your confusion, why the femininity of one woman can leave you feeling more certain of your straightness, while another’s femininity has you still helplessly pining after her.

It’s not like you were under any illusion with the Spanish woman. You were entirely aware that she was also a woman, and it wasn’t off putting to you at all. You enjoyed her being a woman. She smelt nice, she tasted nice. Her body was beautiful, and her lips were soft, and it doesn’t make any sense that she’s allowed to put a yearning in you that no other woman is able to satisfy.

That does seem very typical of her, though. She really was very cocky and frustrating.ﾠﾠ

Until she wasn’t, of course.

Then, she was just sweet and considerate. Cautious and careful. Flirty and undemanding. She took you back to hers and she still had no expectations from you. She was still willing to let you walk away. Maybe you should have.ﾠﾠ

You knew even then that you should have.

It was daft of you to follow after her. Foolish to lose yourself with her, spending the night together, giggling under the sheets. Sharing kisses as you drowned yourselves in each other. Learning her body, every mark, scar and freckle, and committing them all to your memory. Tracing her curves and her tattoos and discovering what it is that makes her tick.ﾠ

She was patient, and understanding, she wasn’t in a rush with you. She spent the whole night exploring with you. Studying your body, wanting to learn all the things you liked her doing, and the things you really liked her doing. She turned what could have been a terrifying, embarrassing, disaster of an experience, into the most incredible encounter of your life.

She brought you more pleasure than your pathetic ex-boyfriend had ever managed to give you in your whole 5-year relationship, in less than 5 minutes of her having your clothes off. She had the most unholy of noises spilling from your lips with her fingers and tongue inside of you, and she wasn’t exactly quiet herself, in letting you know when you were doing the right thing with her.

She was intoxicating, exhilarating. She was life-affirming.

She’s a far more dangerous addiction to you than alcohol could ever manage to be. You’ve never been tempted by drugs before, but you can’t even imagine the high from them being able to compete against what she’s done to you.

It was just one night.

It was one perfect night.

________________

Living back with your younger sister isn’t exactly where you saw yourself being at 26. Your London flat had started feeling a little too big for you, without a traitorous arsehole of a man invading your space. So, you invited her to move in with you, not wanting to have to give up your dream property just because he had decided to try ruining your life. You needed help with the rent, and she had gratefully accepted.

You didn’t necessarily expect her to also invite her idiot new girlfriend into your home with her. That wasn’t really part of the deal, though you didn’t explicitly tell her that she couldn’t. You can’t really blame her. If you were able to spend every waking moment of your life with ‘A’ right beside you, you’d jump at the opportunity headfirst.

It still doesn’t aid in the dispelling of your confusion. There’s no jealousy when you see them together. Her girlfriend does nothing for you, none of her girlfriends ever have. You both have decidedly different tastes in women. Your sister’s taste is entirely questionable, yours is perfection.

You haven’t mentioned your Spanish predicament to your sister. She’d probably laugh at you for it, call you tragic, and embarrassing. Tell you everything you’ve already been telling yourself on repeat in your head. She wouldn’t be very helpful; she very rarely is. She’s your very annoying, smart-arse of a little sister, who couldn’t possibly give you any decent advice. She’s 2 years younger than you and she's an idiot.

She’s not the one who’s still hung up on a stranger after over a month, though. It’s rarely taken her longer than 24 hours to get over someone she’s been with. She’s not the one who’s been questioning herself every night. She’s never questioned herself at all. You’re fairly certain her very first thought, straight out of the womb was about another woman.

She didn’t really have to come out to the family at any point, she kissed her first girl when she was 8. Always been a bit of a Casanova, your sister. A walking stereotype of a lesbian. Short, brightly coloured, undercut hair, quite a few piercings, heavily tattooed. She’s obsessed with women’s football, always watching re-runs of ‘The L Word,’ and overwhelmingly insistent in trying to prove to you that Taylor Swift is also secretly gay.

Your sister’s certainty in her own sexual identity isn’t something that’s ever irritated you before. Not when you were always so sure of yourself, too. You appreciated her confidence. It was admirable, given the way people can be with her. She’s your self-assured little sister, who isn’t great at confrontation. So, you support her whenever anyone tries to tear her down.

Now, however, this too-late-in-life existential crisis you’re struggling with, has you wishing she’d try to be a little bit more questioning herself. Her surety and cockiness about her sexuality is suddenly the most prominent attribute of her personality, and it’s really starting to drive you up the wall.

It’s a rare evening where it’s only the two of you at home together. You don’t really know where her girlfriend is, and you don’t much care. You only feel responsible for one annoying lesbian, the one who shares your surname.

She’s being rather antisocial with you, playing video games alone in her bedroom, and you’ve just finished tidying up the dining table after sharing the dinner you cooked for you both. You’re not exactly sure how you’ve found yourself solo parenting your stroppy little sibling when you’re really not much older than her yourself, but there you go.

Maybe you should try speaking to her. See what she can possibly offer you by way of sapphic guidance. If she’s going to continue having her nuisance girlfriend living here rent-free, she should at least try giving you something to make it worth your while.

You walk straight through to her bedroom and collapse your head onto her stomach on the bed. Making sure to do so with just enough force behind it to ensure you manage to leave her winded and interrupt her gaming. She grunts under you, and you earn an overly aggressive smack to your shoulder for achieving your goal. As, whatever other little child she’s playing her game against, has just managed to score past her.

“You’re a twat!” She scolds, and you backhand her face to shut her up. She raises her fist above your stomach, and you flinch, bracing for impact.

“I have a question!” You shout, before she has chance to attack.

She pauses her lifted fist above you, and reluctantly agrees to a truce, providing your question is of interest to her. “What?” She groans, and you fiddle with your fingers, trying to find the right wording.

“Why do you like women?” You ask, your face grimacing as you await her response.

It isn’t your smoothest ever phrasing, not your wittiest form of delivery. It’s honestly, rather annoyingly, not the most subtle line of questioning. Despite it not being entirely to the point, your sister isn’t stupid.

“What?”

Oh ..maybe she is!

That’s not going to be super helpful with your impending interrogation.

“Why not men?” You suggest, still trying not to be too blatant. “How did you know you liked women?”

“I looked at one.” She tells you, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Why?”

“Do you find every woman attractive?”

“No, but I find enough of them attractive to sense a pattern.” She explains. “Why?”

“And you’ve never been attracted to a man? Not even tempted?”

“No. Not once. Why?”

“Never ever?”

“Y/N!”

“I was just wondering.” You tell her quickly, drumming your fingers on top of your stomach.

“About women?” She queries.

“About ..why women. What it is about them.”

“Aside from the obvious?” She snickers, nudging your arm.

You quickly bounce your head back against her stomach winding her again.

“Stop doing that!”

“Stop being annoying!” You warn her. Your frustration at yourself getting the better of you.

She tries to push you off of her, but you mess with the analogue sticks on her controller, and she turns her focus back to salvaging her match. “You really are a twat! Get out!”

“I need your help.”

“I don’t care!”

“..I’m sorry.” You mumble, and she scoffs at you, pushing you off of her bed unceremoniously.

You can’t say you blame her, you’re a constant threat to her in that position, it’s too big of a risk. You enjoy bouncing your head and ruining her childish little game far too much.

“Why do you like men?” She counters, and you find yourself stuck for words as you sit on her floor.

It’s the question that’s been floating around your own head for a little while now. You’d never thought about it before. You just were. You had crushes on them all throughout your childhood, you’d had meaningless boyfriends in your teens, you met your bastard ex at university and figured that was it.

You didn’t need to question why you were attracted to them, it just always made sense.

“I don’t know.” You answer honestly, letting out a groan as you grab one of her pillows and bury your head into it.

“What’s going on?” She asks, as she prods at your shoulder with her foot.

“Nothing. I was just—”

“Thinking about women?”

“No!”

It isn’t really a lie, you’re not thinking about women, just the one. The one woman who’s been invading all of your thoughts for the past 30 something days. The one who won’t let you sleep properly at night, who won’t let you focus completely at work.

The one woman who refuses to leave your head for even a second just to let you rest, to let you breathe, to let you remember what life was like, prior to her entering it and recklessly setting fire to everything, before she ran away from you and disappeared into thin air.ﾠﾠ

“I kissed one.” You confess, trying to suffocate yourself with her pillow.

This really does take her by surprise. You can hear her movements on top of the mattress as she turns her game off and pulls her pillow from you with a rather startling urgency. There’s great confusion on her face as she looks at you. She really must think you’re very boring if that’s enough to render her speechless. Imagine her reaction if you admitted to all the other things you did to the Spanish enigma.

“You kissed a woman?” She asks, frowning at you.

You’re not entirely sure why she looks quite so cross about it. You’re not trying to steal her thunder here. You’re not about to start trying to catch up with her numerous exploits of female companions.

“Mhmm.” You mumble in reply, smoothing your hair back from over your face.

“Why? For a man?”

“No! I just wanted to ..I thought it’d be fun.”

“..and ..was it?”

“Mhmm.”

She looks at you with a very distinct air of incredulity. It’s a rather annoying look, weirdly condescending. She doesn’t believe you. Why she thinks you’d bother lying about it, you really do not know. You’re not that desperate for a story to tell her.

It’s almost offensive that she thinks you’re so incapable. You didn’t just kiss a woman. You went down on one, you had your fingers inside of her. You evoked moans from her, she scratched her nails down your back. You’re not some virginal prude. You’re not inept. It can’t be that shocking and inconceivable that you could share a single kiss with someone of the same sex.

You were right, telling your sister was pointless. She’s offered you no assistance and no support. She’s a useless little waste of space and her horrible girlfriend is an advantage-taking little freeloader.

“Thanks, very much! This was really helpful!”

Your words are laced in sarcasm as you slide yourself up away from her bed with a sigh, throwing your middle finger up back in her direction as you exit the room, and slam her bedroom door shut behind you.

You slam your own bedroom door shut behind you too, just in case she hadn’t picked up on how pissed off you are.

You’re not really pissed off with her. She doesn’t know what’s going on inside of your head. You’re pissed off with yourself, for still being all entirely far too consumed with a woman whose name you do not know. Who wouldn’t even bother sharing her profession with you. It isn’t fair.

You collapse headfirst onto your bed and let out a rather guttural groan into your duvet. You’re very frustrated. Your brain’s a mess, your sexuality’s up in the air, and you allowed yourself to picture, far too clearly, your memories of having sex with the gorgeous Spanish woman and now that ache that she’d put inside of you is back.

There’s a knock at your door, and you’re not in the mood. You grab your duvet and burrito yourself in it down to the foot of your bed.

“Y/N?”

You don’t even grace your sister with a response. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s a swine.

No, but she really is a swine, as you can hear her turning the doorknob and just walking right into your bedroom anyway. She’s really, unbelievably terrible at reading social cues.

“Do you want to come to Spain with me next week?”

See what I mean? What the hell?

That’s a very serendipitous little offer, though. You didn’t even mention to her that the woman that you kissed was Spanish.

Did you?

She can’t have worked that out by herself. That would be insane. She’s already proved herself to not be the sharpest tool in the shed. That wouldn’t make any sense. What an intriguing little invitation.

It’s very embarrassing that just the mention of the country sends a shiver down the back of your neck. All this instant adrenaline running through you, as if she’ll just be waiting for you there as soon as you land down in a random Spanish airport. Yeah, that seems likely!

Spain’s not the biggest country in the world, but it certainly isn’t small. You’re not going to accidentally stumble into her again on the beach, or in a marketplace. She’s definitely not going to be staying in the same hotel that you’d be in.

It shouldn’t have your heart racing like this. The chances of finding her again are so infinitesimally small, so extremely impossible, so overwhelmingly unlikely ..but you do stand a better chance, if you’re in the right country.

“Next week?” You mumble under the sheets, playing it incredibly cool, as you try to ignore the way your heart’s started thumping at a thousand beats per minute.

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were going away with your girlfriend?”

“..we broke up.”

Shit. She would make this all about herself.

You wiggle yourself free of your duvet cocoon and open up your arms for her to crash into you. She might be a useless little swine, but she’s your useless little swine. “Are you okay?”

“Mhmm.” She grumbles, as she starfishes herself on top of you.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You never liked her.”

“That’s not true.” You protest half-heartedly, kissing the side of her head.

“I am fine ..I broke up with her.”

“Well, thank fuck for that!”

“See!” She laughs, rolling off the side of you. “You hated her!”

“She was horrible!”

“You could’ve said.”

“You wouldn’t have left her if I told you to. You’d be getting bloody married to the girl. Twat.” She giggles defencelessly next to you on the bed, because you’re absolutely right. She has always been a contrarian little thing. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll find someone else tomorrow.”

“Unbelievable.” You chuckle, shaking your head as you push her away. “You can’t just give me her ticket. Did she not pay for it?”

The embarrassed little look on your sister’s face is all the wordless response you need. Her girlfriend never paid for anything. She really was an advantage-taking little freeloader.

“Where are you going in Spain?”

“Barcelona.”

“Why?”

“Football.”

“Oh! Give me a break!” You exclaim and roll down away from her back to the foot of the bed. “Why are you going all the way to Spain just to watch some football? You can bloody watch it here.”

“It’s the Champions League!” She informs you excitedly, and you can’t even pretend to match her enthusiasm. “Chelsea’s playing Barcelona.”

“Woo.” You respond flatly, rolling your eyes with a shake of your head. “You watched them play together today, didn’t you? Why are they so bloody obsessed with each other? Even I know there’s more teams than that.”

“It’s the second leg..” She starts explaining, but none of it means anything to you, and you really just can’t bring yourself to care.

Going all the way out to Spain to be stuck inside a stadium with thousands of screaming fans? What sort of holiday is that? You don’t care about Chelsea’s success or failure. Your sister’s dirty crush on their star-striker is just another one of her many celebrity infatuations that you can’t make any sense of.

You don’t want to sit next to her as she gets herself all hot and bothered watching women run around a football pitch. You don’t even enjoy watching men do it, you have no interest in watching women.

“No. I’m good, thanks.” You tell her, dismissively.

“Please? We can do more than just watch the football.” She offers, pouting pathetically. “You have to come with me! I’ve just been dumped!”

“No, you haven’t!” You remind her, laughing at her useless attempt at guilt tripping. “And you haven’t really left me much time to negotiate with work.”

“You work too hard and you’re due some time off! Your boss isn’t going to refuse you, just bat your eyelashes at him. The filthy pervert.”

“Hm.” You mumble, drumming your fingers over your stomach as you think.

She isn’t wrong, about you working hard, at least. You do like to bury yourself in your work. You enjoy your job, and the harder you work, the more you earn. You haven’t had time off in a while, and your boss is unlikely to say no to you, you are his favourite employee. You don’t agree that it’s because he has a crush on you, you get good results for the company, and attract lucrative clientele.

If batting your eyelashes could get you back in the arms of your Spanish one-night stand more easily, though, you’re not above flirting with him to get you there. You could take a few days of leave, go off to Spain, and possibly run into the woman who’s been living inside of your head.

It’s such an incredibly remote possibility. An absolute stab in the dark chance of finding her. She probably isn’t even in Barcelona. You’re not cultured enough to be able to pin her accent to a specific city. She’s just Spanish. There’s much more places in Spain than just Barcelona. Barcelona isn’t even the capital. Maybe she’s in Madrid, Valencia, Marbella. She could be a party girl living on the island of Ibiza, you had originally found her in a bar. You don’t get a body like hers drinking yourself senseless every night, though.

What if you do find her, and she wants nothing to do with you? There was only ever the promise of one night together. You already pushed your luck by spending the rest of the morning with each other, she doesn’t owe you anything more. It’s unlikely that she’s been spiralling quite as pathetically as you have. She’s not going to be fending off a sexuality migraine.

You undoubtedly won’t have been the absolutely mind-blowing experience to her, that she was to you. She’ll have had sex with countless women. She definitely enjoyed herself with you, that much you’re certainly sure of. You can’t fake every bodily reaction to someone, but the rest of it could have been for show. The display of heartbreak afterwards.

So, maybe she’s an actress, that would certainly make sense. It would explain why she had money, and why she had a company paying for her hotel. Maybe that was her little ‘business trip’. Perhaps she was in London promoting a Spanish movie. Maybe the entire thing was all a performance, and you fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker.

Either way, stalking her in Spain would be far too pathetic. Even if she does want you to find her, it’s so desperate and needy of you to go all that way, and if she doesn’t want you to find her, you end up looking insane. Travelling to Spain, to possibly just show up right there on her doorstep? What a terrifying thing for you to do to the woman.

But what if it’s a sign?

Your clueless little sister, inviting you all the way to Spain, with absolutely no idea that the woman you’re harbouring all of these confusing emotions for, lives there? Maybe it’s fate. Maybe it’s the universe trying to get you back together. Maybe she didn’t fake it, she does feel the same, you’ll find her in Spain and spend the rest of your lives together.

Please. Behave and be so goddamn serious with yourself. You sweet and simple, delusional little fool.

“The woman I kissed was from Spain.” You inform your sister thoughtfully, and she sits herself up on your bed to frown at you.

“You’re still going with that?”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

“You’re straight. Straight straight straight.” She points out, with such an incredibly annoying inflection to her voice, it makes you want to bang your head against the wall. “You’re also 26. You were in love with an ugly bastard for 5 years and you’ve never shown an interest in a woman before.”

“I hadn’t met her before.”

“Gayyy!” She giggles, and you give her an almighty clack on her arm with the back of your hand, to wipe the smug little smile from off her face.

“Go with the woman you’re hooking up with tomorrow.” You instruct her. “I’d be a nightmare to watch football with, you’d have to keep explaining things to me.”

“I don’t mind doing that.”

“Do you have no other friends to go with you?” You laugh and she pouts dramatically again, shaking her head. “You’re a lonely little loser!” You tell her with a smile.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” She asks, rolling her eyes at you.

You take in a deep breath and let out a very heavy sigh.

What’s the worst that can happen?

She’s already completely upturned your life. It couldn’t make things any worse for you. Whether you’re able to bump into her or not. You’ll either find yourself some peace, lounging in the Spanish sun, or you’ll be left in exactly the same position you’re in now, but with a much healthier glow to your skin.

You could even find yourself a Spanish man while you’re out there.

Mm.

It’s really not a good sign for your heterosexuality, that that’s no longer an appealing option to you.

“If I can sort it with work,” you reason, “yes. I’ll come to Barcelona with you.”

She lets out an embarrassingly girly squeal and crashes her head against your stomach, with just enough force behind it to manage to leave you winded.

“Twat! I’m making no promises about going to the game, mind. I’m just coming for the tan.”

“Maybe your ‘Spanish lesbian’ is also a fan of football.” She encourages

“Mhmm. I’m pretty sure she is.” You admit contemplatively. “Is that an entry-level of requirement for lesbianism, then?” You ask, rolling your eyes. “Because if that’s the case, I really can stop questioning myself.”

________________

Booking time off work really is as easy as your sister thought it would be. Maybe your boss does have an inappropriate crush on you like she suspects.

She’s very excited about having you for company, and she tries to educate you on all of Chelsea’s history, the players’ statistics, and their personal lives, all before you go on your little trip together. It really does just go right in one ear, and straight back out of the other. You’re not fussed on the facts and figures; it’s not why you’re going.

There’s not enough room in your brain to care about the ins and outs of Sam Kerr and Kristie Mewis’ relationship. You’re not interested in the fact that Chelsea currently have 6 WSL titles, and are going for their fifth-straight one, and you really aren’t bothered that the semifinal’s first leg match against Barcelona ended in a draw.

That is a fair amount of information for you to have retained already despite not being interested. Your sister really has been going on at you, you’re almost a footballing expert.

Touching down late in the morning in Barcelona, you can’t pretend there isn’t a tiny part of you that’s letting yourself get a little carried away with dreaming. You’ve played through enough countless scenarios in your head of running into the Spanish wonder again back in London, of course your mind’s racing with the possibilities in Spain.

You drop your bags off at the hotel your sister’s booked for you both, with the intention of heading back out to explore the city together. It’s a peculiar looking building, bright red, oddly shaped. She really never has been one for subtlety, it’s the perfect sort of accommodation for her.

She insists on wanting to have a look at the Olympic Stadium before the big match, as well as seeing the state of Camp Nou’s renovations, and you really can’t indulge her any more than you already have. You probably will end up joining her for the game tomorrow, but you’re absolutely not walking around the outside of football grounds for fun.

You’ve seen the exterior of Stamford Bridge more than your fair share of times, Wembley, the Emirates. There’s not that much difference between the lot of them, and they’ve never really been your favourite form of modern architecture.

So, you agree to go your separate ways for your first afternoon in the city, you’ll meet back up with each other tonight.

Playing tourist around the streets of Barcelona on your own, is quite an exciting little experience for you. You’re not very worried about getting lost, despite not speaking too much Spanish beyond the basics. Your hotel’s a distinctive looking building, it’s not going to be super difficult to find your own way back to it.

You get a taxi further into the main hub of town and you’re able to mosey about with a rather unrestrained confidence, turning down tight alleyways and strolling aimlessly along multiple cobbled streets. You manage to find yourself being comfortably led astray, by allowing nothing more than just the warm gentle breeze to guide you as it blows against your body.

It turns into a more casual exploration of the more authentic side of Barcelona away from most of the tourist hotspots. You have no real idea where you are, and you’re quite enjoying the small rush of adventure.

A coffee is what you start craving, and you’re not exactly limited by options. Every other building on the peacefully quiet backstreet you’ve found yourself on, seems to be a tiny café. You could start ip dip doo-ing all the individual offerings, but that’s putting far too much consideration into it. You decide to go for the smallest one, the most unassuming. The best coffees always come from the places that aren’t trying to market themselves to any foreign tourists.

A little bell rings out as you step through the door and the barista almost jumps out of his skin at the sight of you, he clearly isn’t used to getting anyone other than his regular patrons. You offer up your friendliest of smiles and a quick ‘hola’ to show him that you mean no harm, and you tap your finger gently on the countertop as you inspect the board behind his head.

Choosing the littlest coffee shop might have been a tiny mistake because absolutely everything on the menu is written in what you can only assume, is a rather confusing variation of Spanish. You can’t back out now, the barista already has an adorably excited look on his face at having someone new in his little shop, you can’t break his heart like that.

You study the chalk written on the board for entirely far too long, in the hope that the words will slowly start translating themselves for you. It doesn’t work, obviously. So, you take a punt at a random one of them, with the rather daring assumption that you haven’t just ordered yourself a troubling batch of Spanish poison.

“¡Dos, por favor!” Comes a call from behind you, from a woman you surely do not know. It’s recognisably ballsy of her, almost rude.

Her words echo in your ears, as time stands still around you. You’d recognise that voice anywhere, with that unmistakable, and entirely enchanting, cocky little tone to it.

You can’t really have found her so easily. Life’s never been that kind.

You can feel your heart clattering around in your chest instantly. Like it’s trying to escape from your ribs, to go off and say hello to hers, all by itself. Your chest’s rising and falling intensely as your breathing shallows and picks up pace.

It can’t be her; it can’t be. This city’s just absolutely full of Spanish women.

She holds out her card right over you to pay, gently resting her arm down onto your shoulder, and you’ve definitely seen that tattoo before. The ‘11’ printed on her wrist.

She’d refused to explain the meaning when you’d asked her about it. She wouldn’t give you the backstory behind any of her tattoos. It was too personal; you weren’t allowed to know.

She thought you might have really fallen for each other if you both started sharing too much information about yourselves, and you only had the single night to spend together.

“It would be too painful.” She had reasoned with you.

That was very clever thinking on her part. She absolutely managed to prevent you from having an awful lot of heartache and suffering about the whole thing, by letting you know absolutely nothing about her..ﾠ

You still can’t bring yourself to turn around and look. Even though you know it must be her. It can’t be likely that there’s multiple Spanish women that have branded themselves with that specific number on that specific part of their body. Surely to god.

“..gracias.” You manage to choke out very shakily, in little more than a whisper, still facing forward.

You have to turn around at some point. You can’t very well drink your coffee on the tiny little counter right in front of the barista when you can’t even have a conversation with him. Just staring at him, silently, neither of you able to speak each other’s language? That would freak him out! You’ll find yourself back on a plane headed for England before you know it, with a restraining order hanging over your head.

Grow up and turn around. Just turn around.

It’s her. It has to be her.

The barista accepts the woman’s payment method with a familiar little smile back at her, and she carefully retracts her arm from over your shoulder slowly. You can smell her perfume on her wrist as it wafts back past the side your face. You recognise the scent, and you find yourself following it round you like a lost little puppy, your knees almost giving way beneath you.

You didn’t accidentally stumble upon her at the beach. It’s not a Spanish marketplace. She definitely isn’t staying at the same hotel that you’re in.

You’ve found her, while getting yourself lost. In the tiniest little café, on an unnamed, tumbleweed backstreet, right in the very heart of Barcelona.

There’s a wide smile of disbelief on her face. Which is hopefully an indication, that she isn’t terrified of you being here, she hadn’t faked her feelings, and she, much like you are with her, is a little overwhelmed to see you.

“Hi.” Is all that drops out of your mouth, as your mind goes blank at the sight of her.

“Hi.” She says back, with the exact same breathlessness as you, her voice cracking ever so slightly.

“….Hi.”

“You’ve already said that.” She reminds you, and she’s clearly able to bring herself back to her senses far more quickly than you are, because there’s that charming little smirk tugging at the corner of her lips again.

You’re not really sure which one of you instigated it, you both just sort of ended up colliding into each other, gripping at the material of each other’s clothes. It’s a very desperate hug. Even more so than the one you shared outside of the hotel elevator. You melt into each other, merging yourselves together like two corresponding puzzle pieces.

It’s an embrace, holding not just the 12 hours of curious devotion between you, but over 30 days' worth of frenzied yearning. It has you both clinging to each other with everything you have, as it defies everything you came to accept as truly achievable, that heartbreaking belief in you, that this reunion would never really happen.

It’s an impossible hug, and it’s one that neither of you want to pull away from.

“What are you doing here?” You mumble against her, clinging to her shirt as she buries her head in the crook of your neck.

“I think it should be me asking that question.” She tells you, chuckling. “I have far more right to be in Barcelona than you do.”

“This is where you live?” You ask. “You’re from Barcelona?”

“Mhmm.” She murmurs. “Mollet del Vallès.”

There’s really no reason for that to be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. It’s only a place name. It’s a good job she didn’t spend much time speaking Spanish to you back in London, you really would have been like putty in her hands.

“What are you doing here?” She questions.

“I thought you might want your sweatshirt back.” You joke casually, and she loosens her grip on you slightly so she can face you.

“Do you not want it anymore?” She asks, furrowing her brow as she studies your face.

There’s a clear look of uncertainty in her eyes, a small sense of worry, and you do feel mildly guilty for teasing her. “I was hoping ..maybe I could swap it for another.” You smile. “It doesn’t really smell like you anymore.”

She doesn’t allow you to feel guilty for too long. That small air of arrogance that’s always threatening to escape her, does so, in a predictable little smirk at the implication.

“You’ve been wearing it that much?” She asks you proudly, and you push your tongue against the inside of your mouth as you roll your eyes at her typical display of cockiness. She carefully closes the small distance between you both again, gently pressing herself flush against you. “Does it smell of you?” She whispers in your ear, sending a ripple of goosebumps down the side of your neck.

“Mhmm.”

“Mm. Maybe I could be persuaded to make a trade, then.”

She’s impossible for you to resist when she’s like this. It’s still an intriguing talent she has, evoking such a physical reaction from you, by doing hardly anything at all. A quiet little whisper in your ear and your body’s immediately burning up next to her? You’re still so incredibly tragic.

You might no longer be certain of your sexuality, but maybe it really doesn’t matter. Why do you need to understand it? Why does it need an explanation? No one else in the world is important at all when she’s standing here in front of you. No one else would ever really stand a chance. How could you ever be interested in anyone else, when you know that this woman right here exists? How could any other person ever truly compare?

There’s a desire in you that’s clearly also felt in her, when she moves herself to look at you. It’s written all over her face, the twinkle in her beautiful eyes, and the fact that her lips are so incredibly close to yours.

You lean in, and so does she, but it’s like something quickly shoots through her body, as though she’s suddenly being brought back into the room. She does a quick scan of the café, and she collects herself before she lets you both get carried away.

“We can’t kiss in here.” She tells you quietly, and you frown at her as you pull yourself back.

“Why not?” You ask, doing your own quick search to try and find what she saw to put her off.

No one seems too interested in you, though there’s admittedly a couple of people discreetly watching her. She is very beautiful, so it’s not surprising, but you do sort of wish they’d stop their gawking. This gorgeous woman is here with you, and you’re not really in the mood for sharing.

“There’s not another bloody homophobe about, is there?”

“No!” She laughs, shaking her head. “Well, I don’t know, actually. I haven’t asked around, but we just ..can’t kiss in here.”

It’s curious. She didn’t have any issues kissing you in front of people before. Spanish people are very famously more physically affectionate with each other than British people are. So, it seems unlikely that the two of you would turn too many heads just by kissing.

“Okay..” you accept reluctantly, pouting a little at the rejection, “so ..should we just quickly nip outside to do it then, or?” You joke cheekily, pointing to the door with your thumb.

She chuckles with you, resting her forehead to your shoulder. “You’re still as straight as ever!” She grins, as she wraps you back up in her arms.

It’s quite nice just losing yourself in her embrace. Burying your head in her neck and holding her tight against you. Having her arms back around you, her perfume overwhelming your senses. The rest of the coffee shop fades into a blur with her in your arms. She’s comforting, reassuring. She’s real, and she’s here.

“Ale!” Is called out by the barista not a minute later, and you’d have very happily paid it no attention at all. The immediate flinch from the woman that you’re holding, in response to it, however, tells you that you might have just found out a very valuable piece of information indeed.

You repeat it under your breath, as she pulls away from you and goes to collect your coffees from the counter.

She says a quiet ‘moltes gràcies’ to the barista, and she narrows her eyes with a small grimace as she returns to you. There’s still a clear reluctance in her to give too much away, she’s not entirely grateful to her little coffee friend for unknowingly revealing slightly more to you than just her first initial.

Ale. It must still be short for something, you figure. You start reeling off name possibilities at her in quick succession. Alessia, Alex, Alexis, Alexa. You’re like a dog with a bone, because she makes it clear that you’re getting closer, but she still shakes her head at every guess.

It’s very frustrating, as she offers you absolutely no assistance with your guessing, but it can’t be as convoluted a mission as trying to discover Rumpelstiltskin’s ridiculous name. Thankfully, it isn’t. It’s on only your 5th attempt that you cause the same small flinch in her, and she smiles softly at you before looking down very quickly. You’ve struck gold.

Alexia.

It’s a beautiful name. Your favourite name, you’ve decided. It rolls off your tongue with so much ease, you want to repeat it again and again.

“Now you know too much.” She sighs whimsically, handing you your coffee as she walks past you to collect her bag from the table she was previously sitting at.

She gestures for you to follow her and leads you to a quieter area away from the other customers right at the back of the shop. She pulls out your chair for you to sit down, and you can’t not smile at the tiny act of chivalry. She really is very sweet. It’s a shame that she won’t let you kiss her.

You reveal your own name to her, as she joins you on the other side of the table and she repeats it back to you quietly. Whether it’s the sexy Spanish accent, or just the fact that it’s her saying it to you for the first time, you’re not entirely sure, but your heart skips a few beats after hearing it.

“Now we both know too much.” She tells you, and she takes a small sip of her coffee.

There’s the tiniest level of nervousness, that blankets itself over you both as you sit together. It’s a little absurd, you’ve seen this woman naked. She’s seen you naked. It isn’t technically a first date between you, neither of you asked the other to be here, but you both clearly have the little jitters of being on one, coursing through your bodies.

You find yourself just watching her a few times as you talk over your drinks together. You still can’t really believe you found her so quickly. So, you don’t want to risk taking your eyes off of her for too long, in case she just disappears into thin air while you’re not looking.

She’s also the most beautiful sight in the café. So, why would you want to waste your time looking at anything else?

You’re not being very discreet about your staring at all, and neither is she, really. You keep exchanging shy smiles over your cups as you catch each other looking. Both of you blushing and quickly averting your eyes as they meet, and then gradually repeating the whole thing all over again. You’ve definitely caught her gazing a few more times than she’s caught you. So, maybe she’s even more tragic than you are.

The little coffee you ordered by chance, is Alexia’s usual order, so she tells you. It’s not the most life-changing piece of information for her to share with you, but it’s something else for you to know about her, and you’re absolutely sure to make a note of it. It probably keeps you on an even tally too, she already knows that you enjoy drinking a tequila.

You’re still not allowed to kiss each other, for whatever obscure reason, but she has reached for you hand under the table. Interlacing your fingers together isn’t a new thing between you both, and neither are those tingles that immediately shoot up through your arm at even the most innocent of touches from her. She really does have an incredible effect on you, it should probably be more terrifying to you than it is.

“Why are you really here?” She asks after a moment, as she strokes her thumb over your knuckles.

“My sister dragged me here.” You answer. “It’s a very important football match tomorrow, apparently.”

“The one against Chelsea?” She asks, with an unmistakable look of interest in her eyes, that has you rolling your own lightly back at her.

“I think she’d say against Barcelona,” you point out with a sigh, “but yeah, that one.”

You had managed to work out that Alexia was probably a bit of a football fan. She has a little stick figure tattoo of a footballer on her leg, the outline of a baby being given a ball on her back, and you have exceptional detective skills. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

So, it isn’t a surprise that she’d be excited by your footballing interests, but it is unfortunate that you really don’t share the same passion for it as her.

“Unless you’re a very daring rebel,” you start, “I assume you’ll be supporting Barcelona tomorrow?”

“Mhmm,” she murmurs, with a small twinkle in her eye, “and you’ll be supporting Chelsea?”

“Not emphatically,” you admit with a smile, “but I’ll be in that section of the crowd, yeah.”

“You don’t really care about football at all, do you?” She asks knowingly, with an edge to her smirk that’s intriguing, as you shake your head at her in apology. “Maybe you should introduce me to your sister instead, then!” She winks, and you very quickly remove your hand back out of her hold.

“Don’t.” You tell her. “Please. Don’t even joke about it.”

It’s admittedly a little cute that she finds herself quite so hilarious for her disgusting little joke, but you are very unamused by the idea. If the childish look of mischief on her face wasn’t so entirely endearing to you, you may very well have got up and left her right then and there.

She rests the back of her hand on your thigh with her palm outstretched, and you roll your eyes at her before placing your own hand back into it. She raises it to her lips to place a lingering kiss to your fingers, leaving you with the faintest of blushes across your cheeks. So, maybe you can find it in yourself to forgive her just this once.

“I have a sister.” She reveals. “Her name's Alba. She’s a few years younger than me. I’m the older sibling, like you are.”

“Uh oh!”

“What?”

“Well, now I really do know too much.” You tell her with a wink.

“My sister’s Emily.” You inform her rebalancing the tally of facts you keep sharing with each other. “Though she’d kill you for calling her that. I think she’d change her name completely if she didn’t think it would upset our Dad so much. She just goes by Em these days ..so ..she probably would have enjoyed your silly little initial idea, actually,” you admit thoughtfully, frowning a little at the realisation, “maybe I really should introduce you to her instead..”

“Por favor.” She says quietly, quickly shaking her head at you and raising your hand to her lips once again. “Don’t even joke about it.”

“Will you be going to the game tomorrow?” You ask, a not-so-subtle attempt at finding out if you might be getting to see each other again so soon. “We’d be like star-crossed lovers in the stands. Very Romeo and Juliet of us!”

“I don’t know that we want to be comparing ourselves to those two! I don’t remember it ending very well for them.” She reminds you, narrowing her eyes at you as her intriguing little smirk returns to her face. “And no. I’m working tomorrow, I won’t be in the stands.”

“Boo. You can’t be that big of a fan, then!” You tut in disappointment. “I’ve come all this way to support my team!”

“Your team!” She chuckles. “Will you be there in a Chelsea shirt?”

“Absolutely not. I’ll be in very neutral colours.”

She smiles, nibbling at the inside of her mouth as she lowers her eyes to look at the table. She knocks her hand gently on it a few times before turning her attention back to you. It’s impossible to know what she’s thinking, but she’s definitely debating something silently in her head.

“I could give you a Barcelona one?” She suggests a little cautiously, and you have to smile at the idea. Your sister would certainly disown you if you took one of those back home with you. It’d be worth it, just to see the look on her face.

“You have a very weird habit of offering me your clothes.” You tell her slyly.

“Mhmm. I really like seeing you in them.” She admits sultrily, and your breath catches as her eyes darken looking at you. “I think I have one in my bag, if you want it.”

It’s a surprisingly sexy little offer, and you do quite like having her clothes on your body. It’s hard not to laugh at her peculiarity, though, even your sister isn’t that crazy of a football fan.

“You just ..carry it around with you at all times?” You ask, furrowing your brow as you chuckle at her. “That’s really weird of you! Do you sell them? You go round offering them to unsuspecting tourists? Is that your job? Is it a fake? Are yo—”

“You need to stop trying to know things about me.” She interrupts softly, shaking her head as she chuckles.

“And just ..blindly accept that you always have a football shirt on you?”

“Mhmm.” She giggles, and you narrow your eyes at her.

She really is very curious.

She pulls it out from her little duffle bag from under the table and hands it to you with a gleam in her eye as you take it from her. You push your empty coffee cup to the side and spread the shirt out over the table to study it.

They’re not exactly your colours, but you can probably make them work. You hold it up against you to check that it will suit, and she bites her lip as she watches you. There’s a name printed on the back of it, you realise, and you smile a little as you read it in your head.

“Don’t most adults keep it blank? Or just go for their favourite player?” You ask smirking. You turn the shirt around and rest it over yourself, and she gently bites at the skin around her fingernail as you trace the lettering over your chest. “I thought it was just little kids that got their own name on the back. Do you quite like pretending you’re also on the team?”

“Mhmm ..maybe.” She mumbles, stifling a giggle as she rests her head in her hand. She smiles at you fondly, as she continues gazing at your little shirt inspection.

“That’s really very cute of you.” You tell her, placing the shirt back on the table and leaning over it as you trace your fingers over the number. “Why ‘11’?”

“Hm?”

“11. You have it tattooed on you. You’ve chosen it for your shirt.” You point out. “Is it your birthday? You were born on the 11th? You were born in November? Born on New Year’s Day? Is it just your lucky number? Is it—”

“Stop, trying to know things about me.” She interrupts again quietly, reaching for your hand and meeting you across the table to rest her forehead to yours.

“But I want to know things about you.” You whisper. “I want to know when your birthday is. I’d like to know your surname. I want to know what you do for a living, how you got those scars on your knee, how much you weighed when you were born. The name of your first crush, where you went to school, the meaning behind your tattoos. I want to know each and every incredible milestone you’ve ever achieved, and all the unfathomably boring things that you got up to in between each of them. I want to know every single detail about you, and your life, Alexia. I really, really want to know you.”

It’s quite the thing for you to confess to the poor woman after only meeting her on two separate occasions, but the way her grip on your hand kept tightening as you spoke, the slight clenching of her jaw, and the fact that her lips are dangerously close to yours once again, probably means you haven’t just completely scared her off with it.

“We’d have to spend a lifetime together, trying to learn all of that about each other.” She whispers to you, her lips lightly brushing against yours.

“Is that a proposal?” You chuckle, gently bumping your nose to hers. Your eyes trail to her lips, and it’s really very hard to not act on your impulses. “Am I really not allowed to kiss you in h—“

It seems that you are allowed to kiss her in here, when it’s right at the back where no one’s watching. Or she’s allowed to kiss you, at least, because there's no doubt which one of you instigated this. Her lips move against yours, and your pulse reacts to her immediately.

It's a kiss harbouring an awful lot of emotion, for two people who still hardly know each other. It's slow, passionate, careful, and every confusing little worry that's been plaguing your brain since the last time you kissed, instantly melts away into nothing as her tongue slips back into your mouth. You're the only two people in the world when her hand's pulling you in by the back of your neck, and you’re tugging her closer by grabbing at her shirt.

It’s probably a good job she did decide to take you further away from everybody else, because it doesn’t stay an entirely family-friendly kiss for very long. It’s not wildly inappropriate, you’re not animals, and the bastard table’s in the way of you doing too much with each other. Thank goodness it is, because it’s been over a month, after all, and you’re both clearly quite a bit needy. You really can’t be doing that in public.

“I’ve missed you.” She murmurs against your lips, pulling you impossibly further into her.

“I really missed you too.”

Hours feel like minutes, in Alexia’s company, as you spend the afternoon roaming Barcelona together. She still refuses to tell you everything about herself. You don’t learn her surname, and she still won’t tell you what she does for a living, but you do both share other things about yourselves with each other.

It doesn’t matter how insignificant any of the details probably are. Every single one of them still feels important to you, because it’s another little glimpse into her. Every single fact, story and secret that she shares, is what makes Alexia, who she is, and she was absolutely right, you do find yourself falling more for her, with all of the little things you keep discovering.

She eventually agrees to tell you her birthday. Which makes the whole ‘11’ obsession even more intriguing to you, because the 4th of February ’94 does absolutely nothing to clear that little mystery up. It does tell you that the man in his twenties that you were looking for the night you first met, didn’t even turn out to be a woman in her twenties at all. She turned 30 nearly 3 months ago. She’s absolutely decrepit!

She gives you a tiny tour on your stroll together, bringing some clarity to the Catalonian streets you’ve been carelessly walking down. Explaining the extra confusing writing on the menu board, and casually revealing to you that she can speak 3 different languages. So, your drunken boast about your GCSE level German, probably wasn’t very impressive to her at all.

You’re both approached a fair few times by people asking for directions. You can never understand what it is that they’re saying, and you're not really of much use to them just standing there being awkward. So, you hang off a little to the side taking in your surroundings, waiting for her to help them out, before she excitedly returns back to you. You’re not at all bothered by the interruptions. Your patience with it keeps earning you a quick discreet kiss from her as she wraps her arms around your waist, and you return the same display of affection, for her unrelenting kindness to strangers.

Alexia insists that she isn’t a tour-guide, and she’s also not an actress. So, you are very slowly whittling down the options of what it is she could possibly do for a living. She asks you about your own career, which is incredibly cheeky of her, considering. So, you simply refuse to tell her.

Maybe it’s that competitive streak in you, but if she wants to play it secretive, you can absolutely match her for it. You only agree to give her the corresponding facts to the one’s she’s willing to give to you. That way, if she’s falling for you with each new piece of information the same way that you’re doing for her, at least you’re both crashing down for each other, at exactly the same speed.

There’s slightly less careless abandon with being too physical with each other, walking hand in hand around Barcelona. It’s arguably tame compared to how you both were back in London. Whether it’s the lack of alcohol that’s keeping her more reserved, or maybe just because it isn’t yet nighttime, you’re not entirely sure.

You’re still stealing kisses as you waltz along the streets, but you’re not pushing each other up against the walls of buildings out in the open. Maybe that would be a little indecent of you both. You’re pulling each other down quiet alleyways, instead, pressing yourselves together in secret coves.

It doesn’t feel entirely necessary, the streets you’re exploring aren’t particularly packed with people, but you don’t question it too much. You’ve really just missed having her lips on yours, and whatever capacity she feels comfortable doing it in, you’re more than willing to oblige.

You couldn’t really care less who sees you kissing her. You all but forget that they exist when she's pulling you into her and leaving her mark on you. It is arguably far more exciting, however, trying to be sneaky about it with each other. You're both almost actively searching for places that you're unlikely to get caught in. Finding hidden areas and seeing how much you can get away with together.

Your hands find their way under her shirt on more than one occasion. She really does have the most beautiful body. She jokingly reprimands you for it each time, but she doesn’t really discourage you from doing it. She does continually tease you, for your ever-decreasing signs of straightness, though.

Each newly shared kiss with Alexia, is somehow even better than the last. Whether she’s passionately throwing caution to the wind with you, by kissing down your neck, or trapping your bottom lip between her teeth. Even when she’s just being painfully frustrating, by giving you the quickest of pecks before skipping away. Every single one of them still sets your soul on fire, and they still manage to pull all the air right out from your lungs, every single time.

Alexia waits with you, as it turns to evening, on a bench by the road for your taxi back to your hotel. You try not to let the mild burning in your eyes ruin your final moments with her, but you can feel yourself starting to break.

She pulls out the football shirt from her bag again and holds it out for you to take with a shy smile. “I really hope you enjoy the game tomorrow.” She says, and you try to allow yourself to chuckle a little while nodding your head.

“Mhmm. Thank you, I’ll try.” You tell her, throwing her shirt over your shoulder and quickly rubbing the corner of your eyes. “I’ll have to get Em’s permission to wear this, first. She’ll be very unimpressed with me.”

“Just don’t let her burn it!”

“I won't.” You promise, interlacing your fingers with hers and placing a kiss to the back of her hand. “The other fans might throw tomatoes at it, mind!”

She chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple, and there’s that familiar sense of dread in your stomach, as you watch the road, knowing your time together is quickly running out again.

You catch her gazing at you as you turn to her, and maybe there’s a little butterfly or two in your stomach as well, at the way her eyes are watching over you. “Are you okay?” You ask.

“Mhmm. You haven’t even gone yet,” she tells you smiling, tucking your hair back behind your ear, “and I already can’t wait to see you again.”

“You’re really that certain that you will? You’re still sure you don’t want us to swap numbers?”

“We’ve already bumped into each other a couple of times now. I have no doubt we’ll manage it again.”

It’s nowhere near as reassuring to you as it seems to be to her, but there’s a certain level of romance in her conviction in fortuity. Maybe you are beginning to believe in the possible existence of fate, though you're not completely enamoured by continuing to leave your encounters with Alexia, entirely up to chance. She cradles your head in her hands and gently wipes the tears that are threatening to spill from your eyes with her thumbs.

"I'll never forgive you," you warn her weakly, "if this ends up being it for us."

"Trust me." Is all she asks of you, and she pulls you back into her, resting her head against yours as she runs her fingers over your back.

It feels like an unspoken promise from her, to keep at least trying to find you, and there's a power in her certainty that has you desperate to believe in it too.

It’s still a little hard for you both to say goodbye to each other, but she’s already told you she has a busy day tomorrow, and you can’t really bring her back to your hotel when your sister’s already sharing the bed with you. You share another long hug, and a few more secret kisses before your taxi pulls up, and you finally hesitantly agree to part ways. She places a kiss to your cheek, by way of goodbye as you clamber yourself into the back of the car, setting off without her once again.

You try to reassure yourself, on the taxi ride back to your hotel. You've ran into each other twice, in two separate countries, by pure dumb luck. It can't be impossible for it to happen again. Maybe there’s something connecting you both, an invisible string, an intangible little bungee cord, that's making sure that neither of you is ever able to truly stray too far away from the other. Alexia has ‘no doubt’ that you’ll manage another meeting again, and you take some comfort in knowing, that you still have 2 days left in the city, to do exactly that.

________________

Collapsing back down to lay on the bed in your hotel room, you have a sneaking suspicion, that you’ll have a far better night’s sleep than you’ve managed to have in a long time, tonight. Your mind isn’t spiralling with confusion anymore, and there’s no longer a gaping hole inside of your chest.

There’s an excitement in you, a warmth. An encouraging little hope that you really have found something special. Someone special. That once-in-a-lifetime connection with another person who’s also trapped in this world along with you.

It definitely isn’t the someone you expected to intertwine your soul with. Any younger version of yourself would be very confused about where she’s ended up. It isn’t a connection you want to keep questioning either. It’s not one you really have any doubts on the existence of at all. She’s just it for you, and maybe it’s okay that that’s all you can say to justify it.

You don’t need to be attracted to other women; you don’t really care about your weakening attraction to men. It just makes sense when you’re together with her. There’s no confusion, no uncertainty, there’s no warning alarms ringing out in your head. There’s just Alexia, and the existence of anything and anybody else, will always pale in comparison to her.

Your sister arrives a little after you, plodding back into the hotel room, clearly wiped from whatever individual Spanish adventure she got up to today, and she flops herself into one of the armchairs with a very heavy sigh.

“Long day?” You ask.

“Mhmm.” She mumbles, frowning at you suspiciously. “You look very happy?”

“I am very happy!” You tell her with a smile. You excitedly roll over and reach down the side of the bed to retrieve your souvenir of the day from its hiding spot. You launch it right into your sister’s face and she grunts a little under the impact. “Will you hate me, if I wear that tomorrow?” You ask, trying to contain your newfound enthusiasm.

She pulls it off from where it’s wrapped itself around her head, and she gives you a very unimpressed look. “You bought a Barcelona shirt?” She asks, clearly disgusted with your choice of fashion.

“I was given it.”

“By?”

“..a woman.” You tell her, gently biting your bottom lip as you smile up at the ceiling.

“Mm.” She mutters with a sigh, moving to join you over on the bed. She thwacks the shirt down over your stomach and lets out a huff next to you. “Well, at least she has good taste.” She tells you. “Or she’s just a bit basic.”

That’s a little rude ..and very confusing.

“What do you mean?”

“Going for the best player on the team.”

That’s less rude ..but even more confusing.

“..What do you mean?”

“Are you joking?” She asks, with a very clear tone of annoyance to her voice. She grabs the shirt and thwacks you with it again. “A woman gives you a shirt with a name on the back, and you don’t even care enough to ask who the bloody player is?”

Maybe your head is racing again. That’s incredibly confusing. It really doesn’t make any sense. It’s her name, not a player’s name. Maybe they just share a name. It’s not an incredibly rare name, that’s not impossible.

Your Alexia has a mild interest in football, she’s not playing it professionally. Who would keep that a secret? She’s reticent with sharing information, that’s for certain, but she’s not a bloody liar, and she told you she wouldn’t even be there tomorrow.

No.

She said that she was working tomorrow, and that she wouldn’t be in the stands with you.

Your mind has started racing, and so has your little heart.

“What. do. you. mean?” You repeat slowly, trying to keep yourself calm.

“Alexia Putellas.” She tells you, very nonchalantly, and your brain all but short circuits at the name.

“Who is Alexia Putellas?”

She thwacks you again with your shirt in dismay, and you’ve really had just about enough of being treated like a piñata. You sit up, pull it from her hands and thwack it across her face as you ask her to explain herself.

“She’s a footballer, for fuck’s sake!” She shouts, rubbing the palm of her hand against her eyelid. “She’s Spanish. She plays for Barcelona!” She pulls out her phone, to search for her Instagram and bonks you on the head with it. “That’s Alexia Putellas, you twat.”

You look at the profile, and the hotel room blurs around you. You can feel your heart thumping in your chest, hear the blood pumping around in your ears.

Your Alexia, is Alexia Putellas.

She doesn’t sell shirts for a living, she’s not an actress nor a tour-guide, she really isn’t even a spy. Though she’d probably make a pretty good one, the way she never gave this piece of information away.

Your unexplainable connection with another human being, and she plays football for a living? Clearly very well too, as 2 of her pinned photos have her holding a massive award for it right next to her face. Every other post on her page is about football. She’s Barcelona, through and through.

She’s verified, she has over 3 million followers. She’s been out here, existing on the world’s stage, all this time, without you ever knowing. Your own sister’s been privy to more information about her than you have.

She was in London a month ago for football, according to her Instagram posts. The cryptic little ‘business trip’ she was on, was a quarter-final match against Arsenal. An embarrassingly easy win for Barcelona, she must have been out celebrating it when she found you in that club.

She was back in London again last week for football. You could have seen her then. You missed a chance at an earlier reunion with her, because you refused to go with your little sister to watch her in the first leg against Chelsea.

Your breathing’s very shallow as you scroll through the endless stream of photos. Your mind is absolutely spinning. It’s all a bit much to take in. You lock your sister’s phone and place it back on her chest as you try to collect yourself. You really don’t want to risk learning too much about her. You want her to tell you everything, you don’t want to find it all out behind her back.

You’ve been waiting with bated breath all afternoon, savouring every little piece of information she’s given you, and your smart-arse little sister could probably tell you loads about her if you asked. Lots of the details you’re so desperate to know about Alexia are probably only a quick google search away, but you feel guilty enough just knowing her surname without her having been the one to tell it to you.

She hadn’t been super willing to even give you her first, and no wonder! It’s the single name that’s plastered on her shirt, it’s the name she’s known mononymously as. She’s women’s football’s answer to Beyoncé, Adele.

Of course, she didn’t want to kiss you in front of people in the café, out there on the streets. It’ll be why she only kissed your cheek in front of the taxi driver. She probably is a little liar, because she almost certainly wasn’t giving directions to people when they approached you both. She presumably isn’t old friends with the two men who wanted a photo with her. They all just know who she is. The whole damn city of Barcelona knows exactly who she is.

Maybe she was testing you, waiting for you to crack, to confess to knowing everything about her. How couldn’t you know about her? How unbelievably rude of you.

She’s a celebrity footballer, and you’ve treated her like she’s one of the most normal people in the world. You’ve flirted with her, teased her, kissed her, slept with her, and she’s welcomed it all with that adorable little smirk.

So, maybe she’s liked that you didn’t know, that you really had no idea about who she was at all. You can’t have had any preconceived thoughts about the woman when you’ve had no prior knowledge about her. Perhaps it’s been part of the fun for her, just being with someone who really couldn’t care about the noise surrounding her. Maybe that’s the reason she didn’t really want you knowing about it. Her fame could have changed things, pushed you away.

It wouldn’t have. She’d have to do something intrinsically evil to frighten you off. Especially now, after the afternoon you’ve just spent together, learning more, and falling deeper for her. She’s still just the woman that baffled you with a lime in a nightclub, wound you up by kissing someone else. Rescued you from a night of undeniable regret, and turned it into the start of something magical.

She’s your once-in-a-lifetime connection, your confusing, and frustrating, perfect one-night stand companion. She’s the woman that's turned your whole world on its head, and it just turns out, that she quite likes to kick a ball around, with a bunch of other women for a living, and people from all over the world, have been watching her excel at it for years.

She has to know that you’ll have found out already, you’ve told her your sister’s football obsessed. Even if your sister didn’t know who she is, there’s bound to be other people wearing her name on their backs tomorrow. Probably not many of them were given their shirts by the woman herself. There’ll be even less of them with one of her sweatshirts in their bag.

Maybe she’s excited for you to connect all the pieces together. Giving you her shirt was far too bold a move for her to still not want you to know. She’d have just talked you out of going to the game, if that was the case.

She wants you there, being a very daring rebel, with her name boldly resting between your shoulder blades, rooting for her and Barcelona, right in the middle of the Chelsea fans. You’ll probably stand out like a sore thumb with your red stripes in the sea of blue you’ll be standing in, and maybe that’s exactly what she’s hoping for. She had ‘no doubt’ that you'd see each other again, after all.

“She’s the best player on the team?” You ask your sister dreamily, collapsing back down on the bed and clinging to the shirt in your hand as you hold it against your body.

“Mhmm. Best in the world.” She tells you, and there’s that exhilarating little thrill shooting right up through your body.

“Oof. I’ll tell Sam Kerr you said that!”

She scoffs to the side of you and flicks your forehead playfully. You lift Alexia’s shirt, holding it out in between your fingers to study her name again in disbelief.

You're falling in love, with the ‘best in the world,’ and she seems to be falling for you, too. A little nobody from London, who’s spent the past month pining after who she thought, was a little nobody from Spain. She’s once again turned your whole damn world on its head.

She really is absolutely everything.

“I will hate you if you wear that thing tomorrow.” Your sister warns you, as she hits the shirt with the back of her hand. “I offered you a Chelsea shirt and you gagged at it!”

“I’ve not gagged at this one.” You point out with a grin. “It’s a shame you won’t be friends with me tomorrow.” You tell her, resting the shirt back out over your torso.

“You can’t wear it!”

“I bloody can, and I very much will.” You inform her. “You should rethink wearing a Chelsea shirt. You’ll be very disappointed when we beat you tomorrow.”

“‘We?’ You really are a twat. You’re Barcelona’s biggest fan all of a sudden?”

“Too bloody right, I am!” You tell her decidedly, hugging the shirt against you. “I’ve always loved football, me.”

#woso x reader #alexia putellas x reader #woso imagine #alexia putellas imagine

916 notes · View notes

keigo-chan · 4 months ago

Text

I Don’t Know Where To Put My Hands

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Keigo comes home, just for a bit, in the middle of spying on the League of Villains. He needs you, he needs this. And you love him. What else is there to say?

Word Count: 6.7k

Warnings/Tags: Pro Hero!Reader, No Gendered Pronouns for Reader, Reader Has a Vagina, Extremely Dubious Consent, Unhealthy but Loving Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Emotional Masochism, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injury from Sex, Fluff but Evil

FULL TAGS/NOTES ON AO3

Communication from Keigo had all but disappeared after the battle in Kamino. He didn’t even text anymore. He certainly didn’t call. He didn’t even send mail, or notes, or anything. Civilians spotted him, even around the very city they lived in, as the tags you had alerts on for notified you, but he didn’t make any effort to contact you.

You tried to be calm about this. He was still alive. That’s what mattered. If he wasn’t trying to talk to you, it was because he couldn’t.

But that was a scary thought, too.

You thought about asking the Commission for a short leave. It was the Holiday season, so many other heroes were beginning to stagger out their own leaves. But that only made you more hesitant to do so in turn. Your agency- Hawks’s agency- was always close to reaching ‘understaffed’ numbers. You wanted to be there to help fill in the gaps. Especially with the biggest gap right at the helm of the agency. What was important these days, as the voice in your mind that sounded a lot like Keigo reminded you, was how the public saw the heroes. The best thing they could do was bring hope- so you kept busy making public appearances, trying to just keep up with him.

When you finally got home at the end of that week, the end of your set of patrols, you were exhausted. You were distracted by your phone when you unlocked your door and went in. You tripped over the threshold of it, barely catching yourself with your wings. You looked back at your stoop for what had made you fall, and saw a red book waiting for you.

Attached was a note. “From: K”.

Your heart dropped. You lunged for the book at once, picking it up and flipping through it. Just like you suspected, there were many highlighted portions.

You and Keigo had been working side-by-side for years, and though actual partners for longer, you knew a couple of the more intimate details of what the Commission dragged Keigo through. You’d known for a long time that skills associated with espionage would be necessary. The two of you had made up your own.

You flipped through the book, barely registering what it was even about, as you hurried to shut the door and locked all the locks behind you. You fluttered about quickly, drawing the curtains and blinds while opening the book with one arm. There was nothing else written not in code. You settled in on the couch and began to decipher.

You used a cipher, always based off of a word or phrase or date only you would know. The cipher that worked would correlate to the level of danger they were in or amount of secrecy they needed. You worked your way up three levels, to the day of your anniversary.

‘Being watched by LOV.’ Reading that alone had made the ever growing anxiety worse. Is that what he was doing? Something involving the League of Villains? ‘No big danger now. Keep ear to ground. Lay low. Attack in four months. Hope to come home for New Years. Miss you. Love you. Be safe. Keigo.’

You sighed out a long breath you didn’t know you were holding, shutting the book and resting your forehead against it. He’d held this book, had written in it with care. You wished he had left anything else, though the messy handwriting on his note was nice.

All of the feathers you’d had from him had faded, gone a very dark, dull red- a sign that they had died. Keigo no longer had control over them, and could no longer hear or feel through them.

If they were going to attack in four months, did that mean that he would be away until then?

You tried to clear the thought from your head. He was on a mission. Clearly one that even he took seriously. For now, you needed to take over as the cool-headed hero that everyone wanted. For now, you needed to take care of the Agency. Keigo’s image as a hero didn’t need to suffer, even if he was away.

You could do this. You would wait for the next couple of weeks, until you might be able to see him again. Keigo wouldn’t have mentioned it if he wasn’t decently sure that he’d be able to come back.

He’d be alright on his own. He’d be alright on his own. You set the kettle on to boil and made his favorite tea. It gave you an idea.

Over the next couple of weeks, you left things out for him. Boxes outside with small notes, assurances left in code. Sweaters and smooth pebbles and old trinkets they’d collected over the years, so that wherever he laid his head to rest, it would feel a little more like home.

He took them. Sometimes it was overnight, sometimes days or a week went by without them being taken. But he always did, and he always left something in return. A shiny, pink shell. One of his feathers. One of the silver rings he always wore, too big to fit anywhere but your thumb. You took to wearing it around at once, rubbing it when you were nervous or overwhelmed, thinking of him, thinking of his hands.

New Years came limping around the corner. You sent everyone in the agency home with warm smiles and their much-desired bonuses. You went back to your own home alone, shuddering under your coat. The Christmas tree had already been put away- because it had never gone up. You and Keigo always took it out together, decorated it together.

You hadn’t spent a Christmas without Keigo before since you’d met him. Even before you were dating, when the two of you found out you had no one else to spend it with, the agreement to visit each other came almost immediately. That very first time, you’d waited to put up the tree until that very day, and you hadn’t managed to finish decorating until he’d gotten there. You were ashamed- but he was just excited. He asked you, stars in his eyes, if he could help. He confessed, words rushed and still half-flying, that he’d never gotten to before. You didn’t ask and he didn’t offer. You handed him a box of mismatched ornaments gladly.

That night, you’d sat around the tree, the sight of threadbare branches and two gifts perhaps looking pitiful to anyone else, but there were lights. Keigo had gone and gotten lights mid-way through, saying he’d been struck by inspiration, and he hadn’t come back for quite a bit since most of the stores were closed, but they were beautiful. You’d turned the rest of the lights in the house off and just basked in the warm glow of them. They reminded you of Keigo’s eyes, a bit. That was the first time you’d rested your head on his shoulder. He wrapped his wing around you.

You couldn’t help but be upset that he hadn’t even mentioned Christmas, much less apologized for missing it, even if it felt a little childish. You felt homesick more often than not. All you wanted to do these days was lie in bed, lounging around in his baggy clothes, twirling dead feathers between your fingers.

You left him a gift before Christmas. When you saw that he still hadn’t picked it up the next day, all you could do was sigh. By the time New Years came around, the gift remained by your doorstep. You began leaving less and less, just to stop crossing that threshold.

You baked cookies that night. You lit candles and dimmed the lights and listened out for sparkles and fireworks all over. You’d started hating fireworks when you started dating Keigo. He’d made a joke once about having to fly through them and it made you sick to your stomach just thinking about it. He was as flammable as a bundle of dry straw. The heater was on, but you still wore one of his old, tacky Christmas sweaters around. You popped open a bottle of Champagne and poured yourself a glass.

You had a bad feeling, but you pretended like you didn’t. You glanced at the clock. Keigo wouldn’t have given you false hope- no matter how optimistic he was. But eventually, the clock struck eleven, and you were two glasses of champagne and batches of cookies in, and there was no sign of him.

You groaned when you finally heard the clock mark the hour, resting your forehead on the cold of the kitchen table.

Why were you so miserable without him? You obviously could never know, but you were willing to bet money on the idea that Keigo was not nearly as shaken up about it when he was away. In fact, the more dangerous a task he was about to embark on, the happier he seemed to send you away. A familiar coil of bitterness rose up in you. After all this time, he didn’t trust you. He didn’t think you could hold your own, not next to him.

But maybe he’s right, You mused, munching miserably on your cookie. After all, he goes away and I spend all my time sick and moping and thinking about him. God, I really am useless.

Maybe you should get a cat. Keigo was never their biggest fan, and they didn’t do well around his wings, but you really wanted one for times like these. And if he was going to spend this much time away from now on, what did it matter?

You were idly scrubbing a dish when the clock went off at midnight. Screams erupted from every direction around you, the sound of illegal fireworks, the cheers of loved ones celebrating with one another.

Honestly, you thought you’d be more sad, and angry, and disappointed. But you weren’t. The hour passed and it was the next year and Keigo wasn’t there to celebrate- like he always was- even though he said he’d try to make it and it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as Christmas. There was no one to call, no one to text. You finished washing the dish and downed the last of your glass, before pouring yourself another.

You settled onto the couch. You weren’t ready for bed yet, not with the sounds outside. You scrolled through a million shows and movies before settling on one you’d seen a million times, like white noise. It was past one am, and you had finished up your millionth game of Sudoku when you heard someone at the door.

Fear rang through you, at first. You were alone, you were tipsy, and your hero brain whispered that nobody would hear your screams with the din of New Years around you. You jumped to your feet the best you could, setting aside your glass and phone at once, preparing to defend yourself when you heard keys turn the lock.

It was Keigo. Of course, of course, it was just Keigo.

All of the resentment, all of the bitterness, all of the anger you told yourself you’d take out on him softened at once when you caught sight of him. Not only because he looked more tired than you’d seen him in a long time- with uncharacteristic bags under his weary eyes, slumped shoulders, and wings noticeably smaller than usual- but just because…

Because it was Keigo. Because, miraculously, he looked like he needed you more than you needed him.

“You’re awake.” He sounded surprised. He didn’t look it. Maybe he was too tired to even look surprised. He locked the door behind him, but didn’t move from across the room.

”I was-” You words caught around the lie. “I was waiting for you.” But he beamed, and you were glad you hadn’t told him the truth. Oh, Keigo. Always the optimist.

“I’m home now.”

“Yeah,” you walked to him, pace increasing with every step, until you were flinging yourself into his arms. Keigo, for his part, was more than ready. He caught you easily, and no more conversation was needed. When you kissed him, his face and nose and mouth were all cold, and he held you like a dying ember. The way you fell into each other reminded you of the moment you’d managed to catch him after the battle in Kamino, behind the alley, a moment you had been unable to stop yourself from replaying and replaying and replaying.

There was no thinking to be done while you were kissing, your mouths opened immediately for each other’s. You wrapped your legs and arms around him, indulging both of you in the kiss. He turned the two of you, pressing you flat against the wall. His kisses fell against your chin and neck, and then all at once-

“Keigo!” You gasped, which was the only thing saving it from being a scream as Keigo sucked at the skin on your neck hard. You squirmed, thrashed really, in his arms, trying to push him away, but it was fruitless. “What are you- Keigo, oh my God-” Your voice was just a whimper by the end as he barely even reacted to you. “W- wait, you can’t-”

The Commission had strict rules involving appearance. Some were obvious: no alterations may be made to the uniform without going through one of their designers, heroes must appear at the scene relatively kempt (unless coming from another battle), tears or rips must be mended by next appearance. But there were other, unwritten rules, pertaining to the professionalism of the costume. No hero could be caught drinking or smoking in their uniform. No hero should be seen doing non-heroic activities in their uniform. And, of course, famously, hickeys were not allowed to be showing while they were in uniform.

Everyone claimed to have a friend of a friend who had gotten in trouble for it, to the point that it was just something heroes knew to avoid while participating in… more illicit activities. But it had happened closer than that to the two of you. In fact, Keigo had once gotten in massive trouble when the Commission caught him with a hickey that you had given him. It was (mostly) an accident, and they hadn’t suspected where it actually came from, but he was put on night patrol with no breaks for the next couple of weeks.

You were extremely apologetic, but not enough to accompany him out all of those times.

Ever since then, you were both careful about it. After all, they really didn’t need the scrutiny that the Commission was trying to protect them from in a roundabout way. Not only would Hawks’s fangirls go ballistic if they thought he was actually seeing someone, but it would invite people to speculate on who. And nothing good would come of that.

This was to say, it wouldn’t be good if either of you showed up to your job with a lovebite visible on your necks, and concealer could only last for so long in a job like yours. The two of you whined and bitched about it, but for the most part, you reserved your marking for things below the collar, even if the ‘claiming’ of it all was half the fun.

Until tonight, apparently. Keigo was still sucking and biting at your neck like a man starved. “Sorry- sorry,” It sounded genuine, he sounded almost hurt him, but he didn’t stop. “Need- Need something permanent- need it to last-”

And it did hurt. You weren’t prepared for the sharp heat of it- but it was good. It was so good, Keigo’s lips wrapped around such a sensitive part of you, making you feel a mind-numbing pain derived intimately from his own mouth, his face buried into your neck, while he was holding you close together. And he was marking you. He was marking you and everyone would know you belonged to someone and entirely irrationally, for a split second, you hoped they would know it was Keigo.

He growled and pressed open-mouthed, sloppy kisses to your neck, before licking a stripe up your throat and swirling his tongue over what must have been the forming bruise. your head was going fuzzy from the abuse of your neck. You barely recognized the usual care he treated you with, even in their most morally bankrupt moments of fornication. Instead, he bit down on another part of your neck and started the process again.

You threw your head back and gave in, moaning and bucking your hips against him. This only seemed to egg him on, as his kisses grew more frantic and messy, and a heavy sort of note joined his panting, like he was moaning with every breath.

Your neck was starting to feel wet at this point, but you didn’t care. You could feel every move he made down to your pussy, and it was leaving no room for anything to go to your brain.

Several marks later, Keigo finally seemed to remember that there were possibly other ways that he could have you- though he didn’t give you any warning of this thought at all before he pulled you away from the wall and fell to his knees. This would have been alright, hot even, if you weren’t still attached to him. You yelped as they dropped, performing a clumsy combination of your arms flailing and still clinging to Keigo as he went down.

But you didn’t collide with the floor, you were simply on his lap now, nails digging into his clothes and back. He took the second of your confusion to tear off his work jacket and reveal the compression shirt underneath. You dearly loved the eyeful of his lithe muscles you got through the tight fabric. You ran your hands over his chest and shoulders appreciatively.

”You know, you could have given me a heads up,” You meant to scold him, but it came out more as a sort of pout. But Keigo didn’t laugh like he usually would have, didn’t even smile. He sort of frowned distantly as you spoke, staring only at your lips. “Keigo?” You brushed a lock of flaxen hair behind his ear. “Are you oka-”

”No,” He shook his head, his voice thick with something you couldn’t name. He took an unsteady breath and shook his head, looking somewhere just past you. “N- no, I’m-” The glint in his eyes wasn’t right. You were contemplating it when he sprang back into action. He lunged, pinning you under him on the floor, but his arms had broken the worst of your fall. Still, you cried out in surprise, Your world suddenly in an entirely different orientation. Keigo licked and nibbled at your ear as he pulled off your- his- sweater roughly, the friction of it burning for a second. He tossed it aside carelessly before returning to his position right on top of you. His hands squeezed and groped at your chest painfully- and not in a good way.

Your head spun. What was going on? This was nothing like Keigo. Even when he was rough, it was usually only because you had asked for it, or confirmed it was what you wanted at least once. Every once in a while, you even had to egg him on. But this- this felt careless and crude, bouncing between the two extremes of him being too intense and not there with you at all.

“Ow,” You hissed, but it was really more of a whisper. You were almost afraid to snap him out of the trance, even as he bruised you in places you weren’t accustomed to. “Ow-”

”Please,” He whined. His mouth was against your chest, he had begun to work his way down. He sounded… truly pitiful. “Please, I- I need- I can’t-” He sat back up and away from you, running a hand through his hair, only for half of the strands to fall back into place right after. You finally got a good look at him, closer now than across the room. He was frantic, searching. His eyes darted around your face wildly, but he didn’t seem to find what he was looking for. “Please.” He slumped down again on top of you like his strings had been cut, all at once, landing hard onto you.

“Are you on something?” You wondered aloud. “It’s- it’s fine if you are, but you should tell me, Kei-chan-”

”No, no.” He shook his head frantically. “No, I swear, I just-” He tugged at your pants. His eyes grew pleading, beseeching. “Please-”

This wasn’t how you pictured their reunion. But he was looking at you with those desperate eyes, and you could only ever be the personyou were.

Keigo was hurting. You could help him. As always, you could do your service by helping him, by being at his side.

You didn’t speak. You just nodded. Keigo breathed out what could only be a sigh of relief and tore your pants off. You were wet, your moments of hesitation unable to strip that awaym especially not when Keigo spread your legs and dipped his fingers into the place that you had wanted him for weeks. Thankfully, he didn’t finger you. You shuddered a bit to think of what his thick, rough fingers would have felt like inside you in this state. Instead, he pressed a kiss to your knee and then tapped you gently on the ass. ”Flip over.”

He didn’t need to tell you twice.you turned and assumed your position, ass in the air and face against your arms on the floor. There was a second where it was just ou, in the dark, your face warm with your breaths and the sound filling your ears. Maybe- maybe it would be easier this way, unable to see his face.

There was no preamble before Keigo slammed in.

”Oh my GOD!” You shrieked, nails digging into the hardwood floor in front of you and leaving gouge marks in their wake. “Oh my fucking God,” He took you with a speed and strength that truly belonged on a battle field. Every other stroke or so hit your cervix, entirely bottomed you out with that thick cock of his, a Russian roulette of pain that entirely cleared your mind.

”Fuck,” He cursed. He gripped your hips brutally, but you didn’t even feel it over the flood of sensation below it. He pulled you back and forth against him like you were an to for him to use, something small and thoughtless he could move as he pleased. “Fuck, yes,” He hissed through his teeth sharply. “Holy fuck, you take it so good, look at you- taking my cock so fucking good.” He babbled.

”Please,” You choked out, eyes rolling back so faryou couldn’t see anything other than stars. “P- please,” A broken gasp wracked through your chest like a sob. In fact, you rather thought you were sobbing. Your fingers and hands jumped and convulsed, just trying to hold on, to regain any sort of footing as he fucked you into the floor. you didn’t even know what you were begging for. For him to stop? For more? For him to hold you, just hold you, so you could sit in the silence and look at the Christmas tree?

Your safeword danced on the tip of your tongue. You wished you could say that you hadn’t used it to be a good girlfriend, that you’d suffered through it all silently because it was clear he needed you, that you were kind and benevolent- but the truth was that you simply couldn’t even string enough of a thought together to control your tongue enough to say it.

”Please-” He panted, pleaded, “Baby, say my name-” His voice broke around the syllables. “I- I need to- pl- please, saymyname-”

“Kei- ei- go- oh-” Each sound was broken up by the bounce of you against his cock. You couldn’t speak properly even if you wanted to. You slurred his name, your tongue too heavy in your mouth, too confusing to move properly. “Kei- go!”

“Yes, yes, yes,” He whined, bending over your body. His chest pressed against your back. He was all over you, inside you, above you, all-encompassing. Each thrust sent your body back and forth against the floor, scraping against the skin of your face and arms. Your knees ached from holding yourself up on the hard surface. Your legs trembled, weak with the strength it took to even stay up. “So tight, so fucking tight-”

”Keigo- w- wait, please-“ You gasped out, but the words were unintelligible to even your ears, too breathy and muffled and confused, too pierced through with your moans. Instead, all Keigo heard was ‘please’. The next couple of thrusts were even harder.

Your mind and body couldn’t take it any longer, you tensed, trembled so much your limbs began to hurt, and came so hard you saw white. The scream you let out was guttural, and gave its way into sobs. Your whole body gave out, but unfortunately, Keigo’s grip didn’t relent, he hardly even noticed. “Pleasepleasepleaseplease-”. You keened pitifully. “Keigo-”

His grunts and noises had become animalistic. There were no more words or pleas from him. Instead, he moaned his own release, slamming into you with absolute abandon, finishing inside you by using his body’s weight to pin you all the way to the floor. You were squeezed between the two unrelenting surfaces, as Keigo came as deep as he could possibly go, gravity assisting him in his terrible mission.

Finally, finally, he was still.

He breathed heavily above you as you shook and trembled and just tried to do the monumental task of catching your breath or moving your limbs. Your hands shook so hard it looked like you had tremors when you tried to draw them back into yourself.

Every body part that you could think of ached in one way or another. You tested different parts of yourself, operating them like a puppet who had just gained control of their own body. It was a long while before Keigo let up, long enough that you had almost forgotten it was him on top of you. You lifted your own face from the floor. It was wet. You hadn’t even realized you were crying or drooling. Your hair stuck to your face with tears and sweat. you took a deep, shuddering breath.

Keigo pulled out. You felt his soft cock slip out of you and were astounded that the now-feeble part could have done what it just had. You remained on the floor, little will to move, no capacity to consider what he might think about it.

He laid his hand on your hip. ”Hey, do you wanna-” But you jumped. You hadn’t meant to. But it was a motion so sudden it startled him. He blinked. And it came to him. The scene, the house, his love- it all finally appeared in front of him. “Oh my God-” He breathed, expression stricken and horrified. “Oh my God, baby bird, I- oh my God-” You tried to push yourself off the ground, but your arms gave out underneath you, and it looked downright painful as youfell. Keigo pulled you up at once and flipped you over, as gently, but quickly, as he could.

Keigo hoped, prayed, that it wasn’t as bad as he suddenly remembered it all was-

When you turned, something in the back of your head warned you to school your expression into a more neutral mask, but it was too slow and quiet. But every bit of the shock and confusion you felt must have been evident on your face, because when Keigo turned you around, he shattered.

He dissolved into sobs, curling and melting onto you, into you. It only took a split second before you, too, were crying, until you were both wracked with it, holding each other. Clinging tighter than ever before.

There was nothing else to do.

*****

You woke first the next morning- and you woke in pain. The way your insides ached made you feel like maybe the phrase ‘rearrange their guts’ wasn’t as fun as it was before. You realized, when you went to the bathroom, that you had been bleeding. A wave of sickness. You put on a pad and walked carefully back to bed.

The noise of the bathroom alone had woken Keigo. He locked eyes with you as soon as you came out of the restroom. Your heart sank. You immediately tore your own away. You were really hoping he wouldn’t wake for a while. He sat up as you got into bed, back towards him. Neither of you said anything for a long moment.

You gave in. You flipped over towards him, tossing an arm around his lap, your forehead against his hip. He rubbed a hand down your back, almost on instinct. You hated the way his hand jumped away once he realized what he was doing like nothing you’d ever experienced before.

You gave a gentle demand, ”C’mere.” He obliged at once, shifting down to rest next to you. You were careful not to make eye contact, even as he stared at your face, watching your expressions like- well, like a hawk. You adjusted until you were lying on his chest, arms curled around him. He was sleep-warmed. Comfy. Smelled familiar.

It was still Keigo.

Just Keigo.

Always Keigo.

Only Keigo.

”I’m bleeding.” You said softly, shutting your eyes. You didn’t know why. You didn’t want to guilt him. You didn’t really even want him to know. But you felt like he needed to. Deserved to, even. You listened to the sharp breath he took.

”Fucking shit,” He breathed, and that was it for a moment. You pretended like you couldn’t hear him crying. He pretended like he couldn’t feel you do the same.

”Will you make me some tea?” You asked quietly, when you had both gone still and silent again. Keigo jumped up at once. He was just in his boxers, the ones he had pulled on last night when you had finally gone to bed in a daze.

”Yes. Yeah. Of course.” He nodded, looking grateful for something to do. He hurried off to the kitchen at once. You laid on in warm space he had left on the bed. You tucked yourself in and sniffed the pillow he’d been lying on deeply. It smelled like him- like the man you knew and loved. In the kitchen, pots and pans moved around, water ran, the stove clicked to life.

It wasn’t long before the smell of food filled your nose instead. It smelled like grilled fish and rice. After another couple of minutes, he walked in, holding your favorite mug.

”What kind?” You asked, pointing for him to set it down on the bedside drawer.

”Your favorite.” He didn’t even let you react before he hurried out, “ButIcanmakeyouadifferentone! I just- I thought that I- I guess I could have asked-” He winced at his own words, and you sighed.

”It’s fine, Keigo.” But your voice sounded tired, even to you, and his name rang cold. ”Thank you.” He hesitated. You buried yourself deeper under the covers. You just… didn’t want to hear it right now. Thankfully, whether he got the message or simply couldn’t decide what to say, he walked out of the room once more. After another ten minutes, you finally stood and came to the kitchen, wincing as you did so. He smiled when he caught sight of you, but the worried furrow in his eyebrows didn’t unknot.

”H- Hey, good morning. I made breakfast.” He gestured around at the spread. You eyed it over. “I- um- there’s fish and rice and miso soup and a rolled omelet- I made coffee, too, just in case- or we could- we could always order takeout or-”

”Hey.”you put your mug down on the table and walked towards him. His wings drew up, somewhere between fear and shame. He seemed to balance on a knife’s edge as you stood in front of him. You leaned forward and rested your forehead on his bare chest. “It’s okay.” You said softly, wrapping you arms around him and stroking at his back, between his wings.

Keigo nodded shakily, before finally hugging you back.

”I- I just- I didn’t feel like me when I came in last night,” He babbled against the top of your head, “And I’ve- I’ve felt really lost in the mission, all of my interactions are being watched, I could only step away last night because-” He took a breath. You felt the shudder in his body. He was tense, like he wanted to hold you tighter, but was too afraid to. “I wanted to come back and feel like me, I wanted- I-“ You hushed him. Keigo buried his face deeper into your hair. ”I’m…” Keigo started. You tensed. “I’m so-”

”Don’t.” You snapped.

You had an unspoken agreement- the two of you never apologized. You were almost proud of it, your ability to move on from mistakes and stupid things the other had said. You gave each other space any time you had an argument, and came back with level heads and open arms. This was the first real thing either of you had, they were both bound to make mistakes. You were happy you both knew that, and found something that worked for you guys, even if other people didn’t understand it.

Hearing him almost do so now made your throat tight and eyes burn.

”No, really, what happened last night-”

”Takami Keigo.” You wrenched yourself out of his grip, instead grabbing him by the arms, pinning them to his side. The cruelty in the sneer and look and touch and name shocked him like ice water. “It’s fine. I said yes. I could have used my safe word. I ask you to be rougher all the time. It-“ You cleared your throat. You removed your hands. “It is fine. I need you to drop it.”

Keigo stared, face to face with bared teeth and anger. “Okay.” His voice was just a whisper.

You stared for one last minute before letting go and turning away, back to your tea.you took a long, deep draught, before something caught your eye. He looked where your gaze fell. It was a mirror, in the hall. You touched your neck. “I forgot about those.” You hummed, looking thoughtful. Keigo couldn’t discern anything else from your expression, so he said nothing.

He turned away and grabbed a couple of dishes and began to plate everything up for the two of you. Before you sat down, he grabbed a pillow from the couch and placed it under you without a word. For this, at least, you were grateful.

You ate in silence for a while. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. He found it a little hard to look at you, now, close up. He wished he could have been pleased to see you all marked up, but instead, you just looked… bruised. Battered. The way you did after a battle didn’t go your way. There was an exhaustion in your eyes you couldn’t fake and you didn’t bother to hide.

“When are you leaving?” You asked, your voice carefully free of any inflection. He bit his cheek. Usually this question would be asked with the clear wish that it wouldn’t be for as long as possible. But today, he was unsure.

“I was-” Any strength in his voice broke. “I need to leave tonight.” He admitted. You were entirely still for a moment, but just a moment. You resumed eating, without even looking at him the whole time.

“Alright,” Was all you said, soft and small and sad. Your utensils clicked, but otherwise, it was silent.

*****

The first day of the New Year was difficult. For once, you found yourself glad that Keigo was leaving. No matter what you did, you couldn’t get rid of the silent stiffness that permeated all of your interactions. Perhaps the distance would do you good for once.

When night fell, Keigo had to leave. He stood by the door and you came to say your goodbyes. He held his arms out tentatively, and you fell in at once. He squeezed you tightly. You squeezed back.

”How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know.” He answered honestly. ”…Probably at least another three months.“ Your heart sank. You knew that, but to hear it was another can of worms. “But I will visit before then, I promise.”

”Okay,” Your voice was hollow with unshed tears. As he made to pull away, something desperate in you woke at once, and you held on tighter. “I- I miss you so much when you’re gone.” You rushed out, like he didn’t know that already. “This mission was so sudden, I went from seeing you all the time to not at all, and I don’t know what you’re doing or how dangerous it is, and I don’t even have anyone I can talk to about this because you’re who I talk to about things, please don’t leave me.” Your pathetic plea rang in the air for much longer than was comfortable.

He spoke, “I’ve been seeing you online again.” Picturing him seeing all the embarrassing headlines and memes and photos from your recent appearances made you groan. “You have no idea how proud I am of you, or how much I miss you, too. I’ll tell you all about it the second I can.” He pulled away a bit, cupping your cheek in his large, warm hand, lifting your chin to look at him. “I don’t- I don’t want to do this again, okay?” His gaze was loving, and sincere. You nodded, tears beginning to stream down your cheeks silently. “I don’t like it either, I promise.” He kissed your forehead. “Be brave, okay?”

“Okay.” You nodded, but the lump in your throat and chest hadn’t gone away. He hugged you again, and you both rocked back and forth and back and forth.

”Hey,” He said seriously. “I love you.”

That was another thing you didn’t say. Or, at least, it was very rare. You really only said it when you didn’t have to actually… say it. You wrote it in notes in code or texts. Occasionally, during a very intimate moment, or if you weren’t sure you were going to see each other again.

You swallowed, wondering which one of these things was true now.

”I love you, too.” He wrapped his wings around you. Their hold was soft and strong, and you felt like you could breathe easier, even if your chest was tighter.

Finally, finally, you pulled away. ”I’ll see you soon.” He promised, and your lips met for one last kiss.

”See you soon.” You repeated throatily. You waved with a miserable little half-smile as he slipped out the door, taking his bright red wings, all the color, and your heart from your world.

When you went out the next day, you remembered Keigo’s present and groaned unhappily, having forgotten to remind him of it- but when you went to check it, you saw that he had taken it, and left something in its stead.

It was a tiny box, covered in shiny, red wrapping paper. You stepped right back inside your place and tore it open, finding a ring box inside the first. Inside was a silver band made of metal feathers widing their way into a ring. Your mouth fell open at that alone, only to realize that there was an extra slit in the box.you checked the larger box it had come in. Inside was two photos- one that must have been of the advertisement, with your ring and a thicker-banded version of it- and the other was one of Keigo.

In the photo, he was somewhere far in the sky during sunset, pink and purple and orange and lovely all around him. He was beaming, always so handsome, but glowing with the halo of the sun and his smile. His wings were a blur behind him, but in front of him, his gloveless hand was fanned out, showing off his own ring from the matching set.

You laughed through tears, sliding the ring onto your finger. It seemed he hadn’t forgotten about Christmas, after all.

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gothic-thoughts · 8 months ago

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OFC I Don't Mind

Toji Fushiguro x Black Fem Reader Smut

MDNI, Roommate!AU, Friends2lovers, Drabble

CW: sending nudes to the wrong person (nightmare fuel), Toji has a job (😭), Toji intimidating you, some smashing at the end

Not proofread

Toji was still at work, typing on his computer when he was slightly startled by someone blowing up his phone, the ringtone repeating over and over in the quiet room. He rolls his eyes and stops typing, initially giving his fingers a break as he picks up his phone to see his lock screen now covered with messages from you, his roommates. They were all photos.

"The fuck…" Toji squints, typing in his password, "I swear to god if it's a bunch of memes…"

He opened the messages and his heart nearly stopped when he saw multiple mirror selfies of you in lingerie, then braless. His eyes were wide, unable to take his eyes off the screen, the only part of him moving was his thumb when his phone dimmed from lack of activity.

You: SHIT! You: FUSHIGURO DON'T LOOK AT THE LAST MESSGE You: *MESSAGE

He snaps out of his trance for a second to read the new message only for his eyes to roam back to the cluster of pictures in his inbox. His eyes look over every intricate design in the blue lace in the first pictures then to the dark brown areolas and smooth-looking skin of your tits in the next ones. A smirk slowly creeps across his face.

You: Im sorry they were meant for my fwb You: Ik ur mad his name is right next to yours on my phone and I clicked too fast. I'm so sorry You: Istg I didn't mean it Toji: Bullshit. You: Im being deadass,im sorry You: Just delete them

He takes a few seconds to read before a smirk creeps across his face.

Toji: I'll be there in 20. You: What, wait don’t hurt me! You: I said I was sorry. I swear it was an accident Toji: I said I’ll be back in 20 minutes. You: Bro relax! You: Just delete them and I swear it’ll never happen again Toji: Apologize in person. I will be there in twenty minutes.

Exactly 20 minutes later you hear the front door unlock and open from your bedroom upstairs, causing you to freeze in fear. His heavy footsteps climb the stairs. His footsteps sounded like thunder as they got louder and louder with him approaching your room. Finally, you heard him stop and knock on your bedroom door. You hold your breath. He waits outside the room for a few seconds and then you hear him knock again. You can hear his evil chuckle echoing throughout the hall. You take a breath and step closer to the locked door. “....Yeah?” "Open the door." “I feel like you gonna swing on me when I do so--” "Just. Open. The door." “Not if you gonna hurt me.” There's an angry sigh and he knocks on the door again. "You have ten seconds before I kick this fucking door in." “Toji, I told you it was an accident! You're doing a lot right now!” There was a short pause, as it became eerily quiet outside the door.

"Nine." “Wha- stop!” "Eight." “Fushiguro, you don't think this is an overreaction!?” "Seven." “Nigga!” "Six." “Alright, alright, fine!” You say unlocking the door before running back to the opposite side of your room. “It's open…” You hear his footsteps on the other side of the door as he walks in. He rolled up his sleeves as he made his way across the room, tossing his jacket onto your bed before he finally reached you with an exhausted sigh.

He sighs and reaches to hold your chin but instead, his thumb traces down your jawline and he tilts your head up to look into his eyes. His expression was no longer angry as he looked you up and down. You let out a shaky breath, finally breathing at the feeling of his surprisingly light touch. A few seconds pass as he stares at you, his thumb continuing to trace around the edge of your lips before finally he speaks. "I enjoyed ‘em a lot. Only thing pissin' me off is the fact they weren't for me." “Oh… oh…” "If you want to take away my anger, I have an idea of how you could do that." “You… you serious?”

He picks you up and tosses you onto your bed, the swiftness knocking the wind out of you before he even mounts you. You look up at him with wide eyes and lick your lips as he grips your wrists, pinning them about your head.

"You ask too many fuckin' questions. Now, lemme see those tits again."

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Half an hour later, you were both sweaty as ragged grunts filled your room. One hand had your fingers hooked into the messy bedsheets while the other held his shoulder as if he'd go somewhere. His hands were firmly planted into the mattress as he continued moving with jealously-driven fervor. Your phone suddenly rings, showing your fuck buddy's number on the screen.

Toji freezes at first, the movement stopping when hearing the phone. He stares down at you for a few seconds as he tries to process all of this as you hear your phone ring again and again. "Answer it." “What?” "Answer. It." You slowly pick up the phone. “H-ello?” Toji is still staring intently at you as he hears your friend on the phone. He lifts both of your legs to his shoulders and begins to move again, uncaring what your friend could hear. The friend laughs over the phone. “You with someone right now?” “Wh-what? N-no, I'm fine, just… in the shower.” “Oh yeah?” The friend chuckles, “That shower must be packing then." “F-uck you.” Toji smirks when he hears your friend laughing in the background before you hang up the phone. “Sh-shut up, you're… acting like you didn't decide to go as deep as possible, you bastard.” He laughs and lifts your body off the bed, holding you in his arms as he pushes you against the nearest wall. "That a complaint?" “No”

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(a/n): sorry if it felt rushed i literally noticed its been a week since I last posted 😅😅😅

#toji x black reader #toji x black y/n #toji smut #jjk toji #x black fem reader #x black reader #black writers #black reader #jujutsu kaisen x black reader #black fem reader #jujutsu kaisen #toji x reader #fushiguro toji #toji fushiguro

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taesanluv3r · 4 months ago

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in through the window

kim woonhak x reader

established relationship! reader breaks into woonhak's house <3 i think i wrote this idea years ago for a friend of mine but i'm not sure where tht fic went whoopsie (it's in the depths of my google drive somewhere) filled with silliness. a single cuss word lmao, lowercase intended, pls ignore any spelling mistakes/grammatical errors! enjoyy

wc: 2,008

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖

"seriously...how do i have this many clothes and nothing to wear?!"

yn ln groans as loud as humanly possible as she slumps down onto the pile of clothes she had thrown shamelessly atop her bed. it was seven in the morning on a saturday and the girl had been up from five getting ready- or at least trying to- for her eight o' clock job interview. she wanted to look put together, being that the interview was for a gig as a writer for the local pop-culture magazine that she was quite the fan of. however, it seemed that the ten outfit choices she had come up with the night before, and the twenty more that she had tried on just a moment ago didn't go the way she envisioned it to.

now, laying on her back in just a sports bra and her pink pajama pants, the girl stares at her ceiling frustrated. 'if i have nothing to wear...and no time to buy anything new...whatever shall i do!' you know it's a big problem when yn ln's thoughts start rhyming. she sighs loudly as she picks herself up from the slump of tops and jeans that laid below her, turning her head around to glance at the heart-shaped alarm clock that stood on her bed-side table to make sure she wasn't running late or anything. in doing so, she spots the photo-strips that hung on the cork-board on her wall. the girl smiles at the four-cut style collage of herself and her boyfriend, posing all cutely with stupid animal head-bands. yn stops herself mid giggle, a brilliant- or at least she thinks it is- idea popping into her head.

"if i don't have anything to wear...surely woonhak does!"

the girl pats herself on the shoulder, thanking herself for coming up with such a stellar idea. and so, she grabs a sweater from the pile of clothes, stuffing all her things in her cream coloured tote bag and putting on her black mary-janes before running out the door. it doesn't take long for yn to get to her boyfriend's house, being that he, and coincidentally all of their friends, lived in the same neighbourhood as she did. the girl is excited. for one, she finally found a solution to her stress inducing problem, and two, she gets to see her boyfriend for a brief moment before she was off to her interview. however, there seemed to be a flaw in her plan. it seemed that the girl completely forgot that no one in their right mind would ever willingly be awake this early on a weekend, especially her beloved kim woonhak; how could that slip her mind?

yn sighs, staring up at the quiet kim household. she didn't dare to ring the doorbell, not wanting to disturb the poor family that were probably getting their well-deserved rest at the moment. she's about to give up, disappointed as she turns on her heels to walk back to her own home. a breeze flew through her hair in the process, a breeze that lead her to another one of her spectacular ideas.

"okay...it should be over...aha!" the young girl whispers to herself, eyes lighting up as she spotted the old and rusty ladder she knew they kept in their backyard. menacingly, and as quietly as she could, the girl props the ladder up, aiming it to end directly at his room's window. yn snickers a little bit, feeling kind of evil in the moment, before beginning to climb up the not-so-stable steps. once she gets to the top, she carefully presses a hand against the glass of the window, trying her luck and seeing if the sleeping boy inside was stupid enough to leave it unlocked for the night. the girl gasps when the glass slides, the cool air-conditioning of his room hitting the tip of her nose, threatening to make her sneeze. she holds it in though, making the opening bigger for her to make an entrance.

letting out the breath she was apparently holding in this whole time, yn carefully closes the window behind her. her eyes move to scan her surroundings, giggling quietly as she looks over at her slumberous boyfriend, all sprawled out on his bed, his long legs peeking through his weighted blanket. cute, she thought. yn drops her bag on the floor near his bed, stretching her body out like she was just about to start a gym session before she fully turned to face his closet. a wide grin makes its way over to her lips, her eyes growing big at the large collection of pretty clothes he had tidily hung up in the cupboard. her hand grazed softly against the different textures of each piece, skimming through everything to find the perfect outfit. she grabs a couple articles of clothing she thought would work well together and puts them to the side, not caring to look or be careful when she shuts the closet door, accidentally making the loud noise she had been trying to avoid this entire time.

"WHO'S THERE?!" (the boynextdoor! haha sorry i had to)

yn freezes, trying her best not to laugh as her sleepy boyfriend rose from where he was lying on the bed. his hair a nest-like mess on his head, his eyes barely opened, and his fingers in a gun shape pointing towards her direction. "what...YN?!" woonhak's eyes get big, his eyebrows knitted together at the surprising sight of his girlfriend. "morning, woonhak" she says, a smile that reached her eyes painted over her complexion. "what are you doing here? it's seven in the morning, yn. how did you even get in here...DID YOU BREAK INTO MY HOUSE FROM MY WINDOW?!" the girl winced, the sound of his voice way too loud for the time. "mhm! i have nothing to wear for my interview...so..." she replied in a tone so nonchalant, as if her actions weren't somewhat criminal. the boy sighed in disbelief, watching as his girlfriend began to take his clothes off of their hangers. "couldn't you have like- i don't know, called me? or knocked at least? i thought you were a robber!" his distress made her laugh, "you know..." she began, hands on her hips as she faced him.

"you should probably start locking the window when you sleep...in case of robbers!"

the kim boy couldn't even come up with a response, far too tired to have to deal with his girlfriend's silly antics this early in the morning. unbothered, yn begins to remove the pajamas she had on. she catches his gaze from the corner of her eye, turning her head rapidly in his direction with furrowed brows. "close your eyes, perv, i'm gonna change!" he rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he lazily pressed the palm of his hand over his eyelids. "why do you feel the need to borrow my clothes again?" woonhak asks, his words slightly muffled as he let out a yawn. "because i have nothing to wear and your clothes are better than mine" she states and he scoffs, "you know...with your slight over-shopping issues you'd think you- ow!" the hand covering his eyes move to rub the side of his head she had just struck with her sweater.

"thoughts? does it scream star magazine number one article writer?" the boy didn't respond, his mouth slightly agape as his eyes scanned the girl that stood before him. yn had her hands on her hips, her lips puckering out of habit as she awaited an answer from him. woonhak's pale blue jeans fit a little baggier on her, his white shirt and his red knitted vest hugging her figure in ways he could not describe. her hair was freshly washed and laid untouched against her shoulders, the usual make-up look she did complementing her features just the right way to enhance them. the boy didn't understand it at all. how could someone be so beautiful without even trying so hard?

"hello~ kim woonhak? i asked you a question, babe, answer please!" her voice shakes him out of his trance, "huh? oh! you look pretty...you always look pretty" his voice quiets down coming to the end of his compliment, a blush taking over the girl's cheeks and a giggle escaping her lips. "yay!" yn cheered, taking a few steps forward before tackling her boyfriend down on his bed. "oh my god...okay, babe, it's too early for this" woonhak whined in annoyance when she began to pepper light kisses all over his face. she stopped for a moment, looking down at him with a big pout. "do you not love me?" he rolls his eyes at her baby-like tone and his frustration makes her smile. "my woonhak! you're so cute" she squeals, grabbing his arms and using all her strength to prop him back up to sitting position. she stretched her arms out, inviting him into a hug that he- though his face didn't show it- gladly accepted. she draws imaginary paintings on the small of his back, breathing in the scent of his hair the same way he did the smell of her perfume.

"babe?" woonhak asks with his head still incased between her shoulder and neck, earning a hum in response. "don't you have an interview to go to?" his inquiry makes the girl widen her eyes, snapping her head around to check the time. "fuck! okay i gotta go" yn pushes him off of her, tumbling slightly as she hopped off of the bed to grab her things from the floor. the boy laughs, watching as his girlfriend checked frantically to make sure she had everything she needed. she lets out a breath, but the stress left her body momentarily as she catches a glimpse of herself in his full-length mirror. "wait..i look so cute" she says, smiling at her own reflection as she pulled her phone out to take a mirror selfie. a shiver runs down her back as two long arms wrap around her from behind. she catches his cheeky smirk from the mirror, rolling her eyes as he dips his face into her shoulder. the girl's finger taps lightly against the white circle on her screen, capturing the sweet moment to be saved forever.

"okay, i have to go before i miss the bus, i'll see you later, woonhak" the boy nods along to her words, pulling her into one last hug before giving her a loving kiss, the gloss on her lips staining his own ones pink. "see you later, babe. good luck!" he says, following her to his window that she was beginning to slide open. "careful..." he warned, holding onto one of her hands as she climbed out, watching closely as her feet shakily landed on the first few steps of the ladder. and he continued to watch, making sure she had safely made it back onto the grass of his back-yard. yn rubs her hands together, getting rid of the dust from the ladder. she looks up, smiling brightly at woonhak who stuck his head out from the window. "bye! love you! thank you for providing me with your clothes this fine morning!" she yells out, waving her hands at him. he rolls his eyes for the hundredth time, waving back at her.

"be safe, yn. good luck at the interview!" the boy says, earning a nod in response. "and i expect to have those clothes back in my closet by the end of the day...please" the last bit of his request sounded a bit more like he was begging. the girl laughs out loud, not giving him a proper answer before turning to walk away. "BYE WOONHAK! love youuu~" yn ln calls out a final time, skipping away so that she wouldn't miss the bus. kim woonhak shakes his head, laughing to himself as his girlfriend disappears into the distance. before he retreats back into his bed, the boy says with his voice no louder than a whisper...

"i love you too, yn"

the end.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖

this was so silly 😓 F in the chat for woonhak getting woken up by his own gf breaking into his house TT anyways hope u enjoyed, feedbacks n reblogs r greatly appreciated!! love, kona.

#kona's work ♡#boynextdoor #boynextdoor drabbles #boynextdoor imagines #boynextdoor x reader #woonhak #woonhak x reader #boynextdoor woonhak #bnd x reader #bnd woonhak #kim woonhak

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still-a-morosexual-help · 2 years ago

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So I'm pretty sure general MC's Sin is Gluttony

Hear me out;

It's 100% not Sloth. They're very active and hard-working - both mentally and physically.

It's not Pride either, specially considering how blunt they are - how they feel no shame or hesitation when expressing their feelings/emotions/wants. They're not too proud to accept help (though they may hesitate to ask), to do and say what they want, to be as goofy and dumb as they want etc

It's not Greed either as they have no problem lending money to Mammon. And even though they're good at gambling it isn't an often visited activity. And even though they like material items and want money it's in a more general manner than in one associated with Greed.

It's not Envy because they're awfully self-assured and know they can do things or get good at things without being envious of others. They're also highly adaptable to different situations so they won't feel Envious of others while in a new situation. They do feel jealousy over their partner(s) but it's not that regular of an occurrence.

It's not wrath, they're incredibly patient and are able to tolerate most things. When they do get angry, though, it tends to be pretty explosive but it's also very rare and they calm down soon after. They do have a really evil glare though.

MC's level of Lust depends totally on the individual players and their choices and so can't be considered.

Gluttony on the otherhand?

• MC hides sweets in their room.

• They always have food on hand to give Beel.

• They're very good at cooking.

• They're able to eat food from both the Celestial Realm and Devildom with no alterations done to said food, something regular humans can't do.

• Beels notes that they loose weight whenever they come back from the human realm.

• In S4 Levi notes that they tend to pile food at the buffet instead of taking a little and going for seconds

• Beel assumes they'll be able to eat a 20(?) layered sandwich and is in no way suprised if they agree

• In the parfait memory card with Mammon, Asmo & Levi one of the choices the players are given isn't really a choice at all since both boil down to MC saying "can we just eat now"

• In the memory card with Lucifer, Mephisto & Diavolo as compensation for helping Lucifer with his paperwork they ask to get treated to dinner (and no not in "take me on a dinner date" way, it was the not romantic option and was said in a "then buy me food asshole" way)

• They seem to actually enjoy the Devildom's food which all sounds very....um.....yknow

• They were willing to forgive Lucifer trying to purposefully poison them because he offered them Barbatos's cake

• There's another 2 or 3 incidents from recent devilgrams/events I unlocked but I can't remember what they were other than me going "oh! I should add this to the gluttony list!" so y'all are just gonna have to trust me on this one until I find/remember them

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kiryoutann · 3 months ago

Text

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy what I do, please consider donating to my Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

CW: skin picking/dermatillomania.

[Please read while listening to this.]

Swan Lake wouldn't exist without its complexities. The intense pressure put on a prima ballerina to perform two entirely distinct roles with perfection. Odette, the graceful beauty, as pure as her white wing. Her softness, her vulnerability. The cursed, sorrow as her undercurrent. Odile, the Black Swan—everything Odette is not: sensual, cunning, sharp, and determined in her selfish way. The sinister doppelganger.

A tale of duality. It is this very aspect that makes it one of the most celebrated classics of all time.

The final chords of the coda sounded as you paused in your final pose, chest heaving in labored breaths. Beads of sweat dripped from your jawline to your neck before dyeing your gray leotard dark.

Henri's sharp clap echoes through the studio, snapping you to straighten your posture. You turn to him once more, hoping this time to see approval on his face. However, his forehead is still furrowed, lips are pressed thinly, remaining silent. His dissatisfaction is palpable as he gently shakes his head. You feel your chest tighten.

“Non, it is not Black Swan enough,” he said, waving his hands in the air to emphasize his point. “Where is the bite, the seduction? You dance her as you would Odette – too soft, too pure. We are talking about the evil twin here!”

Under his tone was impatience, a hint that his reins were starting to come loose. The pressure in the room had been building steadily over the past few weeks; everyone was nearing their breaking point. Only two weeks and a month until production week, and production week meant one week before the big day. The entire company was walking on eggshells. Your new problem of not being able to unlock the Black Swan had become a cherry bursting atop the weight of it all.

“Should we run through it again?” Jacob asked.

Henri’s scowl deepens. “Do you see the time? No use staying if you’ll only repeat the same error.”

Your stomach twists as Henri dismisses everyone with a sharp gesture. With heavy feet, you follow the others as they disperse to their belongings, preparing to leave the studio. But instead of closing your duffel bag, you follow your hesitation and move your feet in Henri's direction.

“Henri?” you interrupt his conversation with the coaches. He whirls to face you, and you continue: “Please, let me try again. I’ll try to do better—”

Henri stops you with a firm index finger. “No, I do not want to hear it again. There is nothing more to be done tonight, so just go.”

The dismissal he gives you stings like a slap, and you bite your tongue to keep the tears from forming in your eyes. Henri turns back to the conversation he abandoned, his back to you, indicating he doesn’t want to be interrupted again. You hang your head low, heading for your duffel bag and vacating the studio like the other dancers did.

Pushing the heavy door, the cold night wind penetrates your bones despite the coat. Just as you were about to follow your usual route to the subway, your gaze is drawn to the unusual sight of a silhouette in front. A lone figure stands by a dark car parked at the curb, back turned as he exhales smoke into the air. His tall, broad shoulders stir recognition in your head. Before you can think further, the name spills from your mouth slickly.

“Simon?”

At the sound, he turns, cigarette dangling between thick fingers. He locks his burning gaze on you. You watch as he takes another drag of the cigarette before tossing it to the ground and grinding it beneath his boot.

“Sent you a text, didn’t I?” His hoarse voice replies.

Hearing that, you quickly reach into your coat pocket, your fingers closing around the cool metal. You pull it out with trembling hands. The screen lights up, and sure enough, a notification appears: “Back in town.” One hour ago.

“God, I’m—I’m really sorry,” you wince. “I must’ve missed it during practice.”

Simon remained silent, his expression hidden behind his black medical mask, studying you intently for a moment. You said nothing, used to the prolonged stares by now.

Nodding to his waiting car, he said gruffly, "C'mon then, I'll give you a lift home."

At his invitation, your chest warmed as a smile spread across your tired face. You nodded, stepping into his car as Simon held the door open for you. He waited patiently as you slipped into the passenger seat.

The scent of leather mixed with the strong scent of tobacco surrounds you, so quintessentially Simon. Your eyes take in the crumpled receipts of groceries discarded carelessly in the empty cupholder and the faint scratches on the dashboard. In his rear view mirror, a skull charm dangling, and for some reason, you smile at it. It’s so Simon, but you wouldn’t guess he cared about such small details.

Simon enters on the driver’s side, filling the seat completely. As the engine rumbles to life, you try to lean back in the seat, dissolving that tension that’s been building since the practice started.

The car pulls away from the curb, along with the crackle of the radio.

The rain falls heavily outside as predicted, providing a soothing backdrop to the sound of the television hosting a rugby match. Both your coats are hung up, their presence creating a cozy and domestic atmosphere within the room.

Simon sits in the living room, basking in the glow of the television that occupies his attention, while you are busy taking care of your little business. Swapping your dark-stained jeans for looser pants, you approach him reluctantly, suddenly self-conscious. Your monthly flow has arrived, on the very day you would've least wanted it to. No doubt it's the stress that has thrown off your usually predictable schedule.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur an apology, feeling like you’ve let him down. Now that sex is off the table, you expect him to stand up to take his leave—unless he’s the type to indulge in such things.

“’S alright,” he said, turning his gaze to you. He put his hands on your hips, pulling you gently towards him.

Your anxiety slowly dissolved as you surrendered to his touch, your arms loosely curling around his neck. The soft glow of the television cast a gentle light on his face, dancing in his warm brown irises like a miniature reflection. He gazed at you, a mixture of intense focus and a newfound tenderness evident in his expression. However, the sudden roar of the crowd quickly captured his attention again, and his gaze shifted back to the ongoing match. You followed his gestures as he restlessly tapped his fingers against the ashtray. Three old cigarettes, one more ready to be added to the collection.

You slip from his grasp, and he trails your movements curiously as you kneel before him on the floor. He raises a blond eyebrow.

“What’re you doing, love?”

You spread your knees slowly and settles between his thighs, meeting his stare shyly. “I want to help you relax.”

“You don't have to,” he rasp.

However, the half-heartedness of his refusal is quickly exposed when your fingers graze against his thigh, causing his body to tense involuntarily. Simon silently watched your every move, his breath hitched in his throat as you slowly unzipped his pants, uncovering the sight of his gray boxers. From beneath, a prominent bulge was visible, straining against the fabric, thick cock begging to be released. So you did.

“Fuck, baby,” he grunts. The sound sends a jolt straight to your cunt.

You’d always known he was big—the unfailing fullness he’d always pushed into you whenever he was buried inside you was telling enough, but sitting here now, it seemed almost overwhelming. The heat radiating off him, his muscular thighs spreading wider, and the way his cock jutted out and up like it was seeking your attention. Pink, with the delicate blue of prominent veins running around it. You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. He was… different from this perspective, and a thrill of excitement mixed with nervousness coursed through your stomach.

Wrapping your fingers around his length, you couldn't miss how awkward it looked. But when you started to stroke it, Simon stiffened with a hiss.

Meeting your panicked gaze, he said, “Spit first, darling. Make it wet.”

Nodding in understanding, you feel your cheeks growing hotter at his instruction. Your saliva gathers beneath your tongue before you spit awkwardly on his pink tip. Simon watches as your pretty lips glisten in moisture—the sight makes his cock twitch impatiently. You run your fingers down his entire length, covering him in wetness. He follows your movements with heavy-lidded eyes; his body leans back relaxed—a sign that you’re doing a good job so far.

You look up, seeking another approval. “Like this?”

Simon acknowledged with a hum. “You can grip a bit harder, darling. And,”—he envelops your hand in his larger one to lead a demonstration—“move your fingers up and down.”

You wrap your fingers around him with slightly more pressure, following the motion he’s demonstrated. The feeling of his soft, silken skin stretched taut around your palm sends heat to your lower stomach. He lets out a groan when you sweep a thumb over his tip.

“That’s it, darling, you’re doing good.” His praise comes easily, encouraging you to do more.

Simon inhales sharply as your warm lips brush his sensitive head, pressing a small kiss and opening and closing experimentally around it. Fueled by your confidence, you lean in closer, then lick and dip the crown of his cock into your warm mouth. He groans, and you grow bolder—your tongue curling around his shape. His jittery hands aim for your hair to push himself further in, but he settles for your jaw instead, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

Sliding your lips further down, you taste the bead of salt gathered heavy on his skin. The feeling of fullness in your mouth is foreign, yet in the unfamiliarity, you find the desire for more and more. You try to reach deeper, but when his tip hits the back of your throat, you start to cough, your eyes watering from his size triggering your gag reflex.

“Easy now.” He reminds you, gently gripping your chin.

You must be such a try-hard girl. His eyes soften, filling with a warm, chocolaty hue as he observes you, almost as if he feels a bit sorry for you. Your cheeks heat up, and you consider just stopping and leaving it to him to finish.

But you are desperate—guilty and desperate. Guilty for having him come over when you can't fully satisfy him. Desperate to give him something new, something that he has never experienced before, something that will set you apart from his past flings, lovers, and the exes he keeps close. Something that will make you irreplaceable, even if he tries to fill that role with ten future women. You are very guilty and desperate.

(Ways to make the unlovable, lovable.)

You relax your jaw and throat, taking him deeper but slower now. One hand strokes what your lips can’t accommodate, while the other grips his thigh for balance. He releases a low, guttural grunt as his hand grips your jaw more firmly, his fingers tracing a path up the back of your neck. Goosebumps spread across your body. Your cheeks hollowing as you suck on him, and the hand behind your neck is gripping tighter.

Simon’s chest rose and fell as gasps and moans escaped him. “That’s it, darling, fuck. You’ve got the right of it,” he mumbled, voice breathy and heavy.

You hum contentedly as his fingers card through your hair. Sliding your lips further, you try again to get more of him in, saliva leaking and dripping down your chin. As you take him deeper, your teeth graze along his sensitive flesh. He hisses, and you draw back immediately.

“Watch the teeth.” He says.

You nod, heart racing with embarrassment. “Right, sorry.”

Restarting, you take him into your mouth once more. Gently. You lean in even closer, your hair falling and veiling the sides of your face.

A gasp escaped you when you felt his fingers gather your strands and hold them away from your face. You looked up, meeting those dark brown eyes. A faint rosy color on his cheeks, and you were sure you weren’t much different. His lips fell open to release little pants and moans—evidence of the pleasure you were giving him, and fuck, if that didn’t send a tingling sensation to your aching core.

Lengthening your reach, you try again, carefully. He lets out a groan as his cock slides in further, feeling the head touch the tip of your throat. Saliva glistens on your chin as your eyes water.

“Fuck, love. Feels so good..”

You set a steady rhythm of slow, long bobs. Your tongue swirls around the shape of his tip, making Simon tighten his grip on your hair. He shuts his eyes, moans and grunts escaping his lips, blending with the sounds of the rugby match playing on television—fuck, you want to turn off the television, need to smash it with a baseball bat just to hear his beautiful voice, but your rational head says no.

Simon’s voice came out in a staccato as he got closer. He pushed your head up to accommodate his length, and your eyes widened. Tears streamed down your cheeks as your throat contracted. His calloused fingers clenched tightly around the back of your head, guiding you hastily to his pace. Your moans were muffled—his size filling the entire space in your mouth—and they ended up coming out as a faint hum.

The physical signs of the effects of your ministrations on him are becoming more pronounced. His breathing grew shallower, coming out in short pants. You feel the pressure building in his muscles, the trembling in his thighs. His cock begins to twitch inside your warm wetness.

“Darling…” His voice is hoarse, cracking with the last bit of control. Lifting his heavy lids, he meets your eyes, placing one hand on your cheek. “Love, fuck, I’m—I’m close.”

The series of pulses grows stronger, and before you can register, hot, thick ropes of seed sprayed into your mouth. You cough, your eyes burning. Though, his satisfied expression is clear even through the blurriness of your vision. The salty tang against your tongue is unfamiliar, but you willingly swallow it all, leaving no trace behind. You release him slowly, gazing up through wet lashes at his flushed face.

Simon leaned back on the couch, feeling the pleasure slowly drain from his system as the world came back into focus. He fixed his gaze on you, taking in the details of you: your clumped lashes, the slight mess of hair, and your dewy, swollen lips. Lowering his gaze, he noticed the mess staining his pants and chuckled.

“What a mess we’ve made, darling.” He joked as he fixed his pants.

A giggle escaped your sweet lips. Rising on shaky legs, you took your place on his thigh. He wrapped one strong arm around you to keep you balanced.

The rain has softened to a gentle patter on the window, the rugby match has ended, and the show has switched to a soap opera that you both end up ignoring. You watch him withdraw a cigarette pack from the side table, pulling and lighting one with practiced ease. The smoke curls up lazily, short-lived as it disappears again, leaving the scent of tobacco in the air.

Nestling closer, you stare into his heavy-lidded eyes. “Did I do alright?” you ask softly, almost in a whisper.

“More than alright. Think you’re a pro.” He says, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips.

When you shift in his lap, he hisses softly. “Steady now.”

You frown, but the confusion is quickly replaced with a teasing smile when you realize what he means. Giggling, you shift again just to tease him, eliciting another hiss through his teeth. You feel his grip tighten around your back.

A hummingbird trapped in a cage—your heart throbbing in long-lived excitement, butterflies fluttering restlessly in your stomach. The desire to touch more, to have more. Lifting your arms, you hesitate for a moment before wrapping them around his neck, his nape warm and firm beneath yours.

Simon took another long drag, holding the smoke in his mouth for a moment before releasing it. The cigarette dangling lazily between his digits, you plucked it gently from his hold.

Turning the slim white cylinder between your fingers, you examine it curiously. The ash at the tip ignites with a stroke of a small flame that spreads slowly. You glance at him, finding that he has already been staring at you questioningly.

You brought the cigarette to your own lips, clumsily holding it between your upper and lower lips, mimicking the way you had seen Simon do it. The weight and texture of the cigarette were foreign. You take your first drag, then cough at the unfamiliar burn. Hurriedly, Simon snatched it away from you, as if that single drag held more peril than years of his own addiction.

“These ain’t good for ya.” He scolded, face unimpressed.

“And it’s good for you?”

“S’not good for yer pretty little mouth.” He replied, taking another long pull. Exhaling slowly, he leaned his head back against the couch, spreading his thighs apart. “Ain’t nothing to reserve from this ugly mug.”

Your lips curved into a slight frown. "Don't say that."

“Just takin’ the piss, darling,” he says gently, then extinguishes his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the table. You watch him struggle to find a spot for the newest addition among the sea of his past stubs. “S’full.”

You glance at the overflowing contents, looking back at him while ignoring the burning sensation that crept up your neck. In truth, it had been full for weeks—four cigarette butts including the remnants of his last visit, which you had left untouched.

“I’ll, um, throw it out later,” you manage to say, voice faltering slightly as nerves take hold of you.

Simon says nothing; he just wraps both strong arms around you, enveloping your smaller form completely against the warmth of his body. Outside, the rain has come to a complete stop, leaving dew and droplets of water that settle on the window like transparent beads. You look at him, and he looks at you. Those smooth, warm swirls of deep coffee brown hold their gaze on you, acting as gravity and pulling you closer to him.

Your lungs feel like they are tied in knots, afraid to release the oxygen within, as if the air itself must be held captive to avoid tipping Simon off to the tingling nerves coursing through your body in this proximity. Your fingers itch with the desperate urge to touch him, to trace the lines and contours of his face—the slope of his nose, the planes of his cheeks, the firmness of his jaw, the alluring curve of his lips.

The nervousness drips with sulfuric acid—burning, creating a pit in your stomach. It slips easier than your morning coffee, than your worn pointe shoes on your feet. You want to kiss him, and against logic, you hope he thinks the same.

In a moment of impulse, you bridged the gap between you and Simon, pressing your lips upon his. He froze for a split second before returning your kiss. You felt his fingers beneath your ribs, securing you firmly in his lap. He swiped his tongue over yours. Rolling. Hooking.

The taste of tobacco and the lingering essence of his release mix together in a heady blend. It is messy, raw, yet you savor it just as if it were the sweetest honey. He places a hand under your jaw, leading to a deeper kiss as he tilts his head to access more of your space. Each touch of his seems to weave itself into your very soul, the drums of your heart forming an orchestra that taunts your greed for more—a recompense for the gnawing hunger that only Simon can alleviate.

Before you grow old and bitter, you yearn to be cradled like this. To betray your loneliness with a kiss, to have your being deciphered through his touch like an unspoken language. Often times, you hold the things you love in your mouth; now you find his name and the gentle curl of his tongue pressed within the sanctuary of your lips.

As you broke the kiss to catch your breath, your legs found their way between his waist, pressing your hips against his once again-hardened bulge. Simon's lips released a faint moan, and his hands slipped down to squeeze your ass through the fabric of your sweatpants. Your head was thrown back as you sighed, baring the long column of your neck to his kisses.

Simon's name escaped in a breathy cry, it felt like prayer and sin woven into one—heresy spoken with the silver tongue of an open heart.

Simon's embrace of you strengthens, his arms encircling your form closely, drawing you against the solid mass of his chest. The soft lighting casts a warm, dreamlike veil over your senses. A major-key melody courses through your ears, resonating in your eardrums and creating a pleasant hum. You hear the echoes of your own distant dream—that notion you once dared not even think of: love. Mother had condemned it as mere folly, something repulsive; but, held in his arms, your soul was made so full.

And you surrendered completely.

Pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, you lift a trembling hand to cup his cheek. The scruff of his stubble prickles your palm. You can't help but be caught off-guard by the striking contrast between his pale blonde lashes and his warm brown irises despite the familiarity you've shared over time.

“Stay,” you mutter. He furrows his brows, and before he can make excuses, you add, “please?”

Simon shift in his seat, trying to relax his posture. “Sure, if that’s what ya want.”

At his answer, you held back your smile. “In my bed this time. Not the couch.”

“Why?”

When the question comes out, he tries to keep his tone gruff and flat as usual. But, you detect the slight tilt that lifts the words that follow. You chuckle, shifting on his thigh. He squeezes your hips in response and sighs.

“Because the couch is uncomfortable.” You spoke in a singsong.

He huffed out a laugh. “Last time, this couch seemed good enough, if I remember right.”

You avert your eyes, fighting off a smile while looking for another excuse to convince him. Tracing idle patterns on his chest, you begin, “Well, after your... disappearance, I think you deserve finer things.”

Despite aiming for lightness, an oppressive weight settles upon your chest, as if attached to an anchor, pulling it down. The fact that he was absent from your world means he was in his world—a world that is crueler, bloodier than sprains and torn ligaments.

Lifting your gaze again, you ask in a hushed tone, “Another deployment?”

The absentminded patterns you etched upon his shirt come to a halt as Simon captures your finger, holding it still for a moment. He falls silent, his tongue seemingly paralyzed, and his vocal cords reluctant to make a sound.

“Yeah,” he answers even quieter.

After he confirms your fear, you feel your smile slip away, though you try to hide it. His secret military life is one you’ll never fully grow accustomed to, no matter how many times he comes back safe and sound.

Retracting your finger, the absence of warmth from his bigger ones feels foreign. You cross your arms in a subtle, self-soothing gesture. Preparing your question, the words come out even more fragile than intended: “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Simon’s hands fall to his sides, as if not daring to touch you for reasons unknown. It feels hollow, but it’s probably better this way. Being under his touch before his answer feels too much like bribery—him telling you to stop worrying, to stop questioning.

“Not even bumps or bruises.” He replies curtly, but with the conviction in them that you’re sure it’s not a lie.

"Okay." You said. Getting up from his lap, you then add, “I'll grab us some drinks.”

You walk into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses from the cabinet before filling them with ice. This is enough for now, you tell yourself. Another breath. This is enough for now. Glancing back towards the living room where Simon has resumed watching television, its flickering glow showcasing a late-night program. You look down at the two glasses, their rims now covered with condensation.

This is enough for now.

It was 8 a.m. or something when you stirred in your sleep and opened your eyes to the recognizable confines of your bedroom. Everything is meticulously tidy and unchanged—nothing out of place, nothing different. Yet, a nagging voice silently whispers that there should be. The other side of your bed remains empty—an expected sight. As you turn over, however, your gaze fixates on the second pillow and you notice a subtle identification where it was never there—evidence of a head resting there.

As wakefulness sets in, memories swim like restless aquatic organisms into your brain. Your eyes widen as you realize what’s missing. Simon was here the whole night.

Throwing off the covers, your feet meet the cold hardwood as you pad through silent rooms looking for him. But, the dim living space is as empty as your bed. There’s no sign of him moving to the couch or his tall, imposing figure in the kitchen. The bathroom is devoid of the scent of your shampoo that he possibly used because he “didn’t have much choice” like last time.

Simon is gone again.

Sinking onto the couch, disappointment washes over you in waves so thick you can hardly breathe. It was expected—it was always expected because it was Simon—yet the blow never softened, and your insistent heart didn’t know when to stop waiting. You press your shaking fingers to your lips, clinging to the fading ghost of his kiss. Last night felt so far away, like it was some kind of illusion you let yourself believe in for a brief moment.

Your mind spins chaotically as you peel away the dry skin on your lips. Last night, I thought… you think. Faintly, the scent of iron is caught by your nose, and you taste blood as nails find softer blesh beneath.

A click startsles you, pulling you back to reality, and you whip around to see the door swinging open slowly. Your body froze as Simon entered, completely unaware of the state you were in. He drenched in sweat, his chest heaving as if he'd run for miles. Or maybe he did.

He turns to you with a simple stare. "Thought you'd still be asleep."

Before you can stop yourself, your muttering slips out: "You’re still here."

Simon’s eyebrows creased in confusion. “I am,” was all he said.

Now, you realize how your words might have landed in his ears. He might have interpreted your disbelief as you thinking it was presumptuous of him to spend the night until morning, when in reality, you were relieved he hadn’t really left you again. Perhaps last night wasn’t that far away; it was real.

Risking looking up, you stammer out: “It's good, uh… where have you been then?”

“Just a quick jog around the block,” he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Remembering something, he reaches into his pocket, fishing out a battered envelope before handing it to you. “Found this outside your door, looks like it's been there a while.”

“Oh,” you murmur, taking it hesitantly from his outstretched hand.

Only a few people know your address, and most of them communicate with you through phone or email. You've become somewhat lax about checking your mail and the doorway. Every time you return home from work, your mind habitually takes the quickest route straight inside. Thus, unexpected deliveries have a high chance of going unnoticed.

Tearing it open with care, another envelope peeks out from inside—this one thicker, made of finger parchment decorated with swirling ink. You pull it free, curiosity overtaking confusion. Breaking the wax seal, the heavy cardstock inside is exposed, with the edges embossed with gold-leaf lettering. You search for the sender's information and settle on a familiar name.

Your eyes lift to meet Simon’s waiting gaze. “It’s... it’s from my cousin.” You pause for a moment before continuing, “She’s getting married.”

Simon stands there, looking perplexed as he studies the wedding invitation clutched in your hand. His eyes return to you, unsure of how he should respond. “Well, congratulations, I s’pose.” He says.

Yet his voice failed to reach you, as if spoken from a distance, muffled beneath the strange ringing that filled your head. It was no sweet wedding bells chiming, just blaring alarm bells warning of danger close at hand. A wedding. Your cousin is getting married—she has found her happy ending and wants you to come celebrate at this friends and family reunion.

And that means one thing: she will be there.