#not entirely sure what was going through my head with this one

[thecoochiefairy]

soon az i get home. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 6.8K word count. blackfem!reader, r&b artist coded! onyankopon, grumpy! onyankopon, sweet!onyankopon, dominant!onyankopon, size kink, black woman, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, lil bit of aggressive talk, creaming, oral [f], choking, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, squirting, riding, condomless sex, kissing, spanking, minors aren’t welcome!

━━ 𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤��𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ reference to the title, this song did inspire this fic. teehee.

𝓐ᥫ᭡ :: onyankopon pays you a visit when he touches down in the city.

visual. visual. visual.

SHINE N’ JAM LATHERED YOUR FINGERS AS YOU TOOK A FINAL SWIPE TO YOUR CLIENTS HAIR. Bohemian box braids had been the style of choice, 613 the full color from her permanently dyed scalp. It wasn’t a color you would’ve chosen for yourself, but it looked beautiful along her chocolate brown skin. She pulled it off flawlessly.

“Niggas wouldn’t know what to do with me if I could pull off being a blonde,” you sigh, giving a light smile as you’re on the final braid, your fingers moving effortlessly against the hair being pulled between your knuckles.

“They barely know what to do with me as it is,” she playfully rolled her eyes, “How much longer to go?” 

As she held her phone up, you took a peek in the mirror, able to tell she was on FaceTime. No doubt with her man again.

“I’m on my last braid, babe. Promise,” you reassure, knowing you’d said that before. You had a habit of creating more spaces along your clients scalp, unable to finish your work until you felt that the hair looked entirely full.

“You sure?” 

She smirked at you through the side view mirror, her brown eyes twinkling, “The last time you said that, I had to call off work.”

It had only been about six months since you began doing house calls, meaning you were more relaxed in the comfort of your condo—but that didn’t mean you had to drag with your appointments.

“I’m sorry, okay? I know I went over my time a bit. I just want you to feel…” you turn her chair towards the illuminating mirror, mahogany brown wood wrapped along the outside of the LED lights, “Pretty, hm? Tell me you like it since you wanna complain so much.”

“You want to hear that I love it so desperately,” she smiled, standing up from the chair to inspect herself. She didn’t bother with a cape anymore, her black tank showing off her collarbone and arms. The braids fell just behind her shoulders, “You know I love it. Always do.”

She glances back as you begin sweeping strands off the floor, raising an eyebrow, “You’ need help cleaning up for the night?”

“No, no—you’re fine,” you shake your head, “I got one more client coming. Asked me to squeeze him in,” you briefly explain. 

You can feel her gaze against you, raising your eyes to a smirk as you say, “What, girl?”

“One more client, huh?” she folded her arms over her chest, the smirk still there, “Girl, please. It’s after ten,” she lightly laughed, “Who is it?”

You roll your eyes with a sigh. She was one of your regular clients, and you talked like sisters. You couldn’t help but be honest. 

“Look, don’t go opening that big ass mouth. It’s Onyankopon, okay? He still comes back down to get his hair braided by me.”

Everyone in New Orleans knew him—he’d actually been successful in making it out of the city, becoming a world renowned R&B artist. You’d been braiding his hair up for years, keeping the relationship you had with him extremely private as he didn’t want anyone ruining your privacy.

“Onyankopon?—You lying right now,” she gawked, slapping a hand over her mouth, “Nah, I got to take a picture—I promise you I won’t tell nobody,” she bit her bottom lip, “I promise!”

You rolled your eyes, “Girl, no. He doesn’t want people to know his location in the city—he hates that,” you take some Lysol, spraying down the chair.

“Just one picture, beloved, please? I’ll give you—I’ll pay you,” she took her wallet out, shuffling through her cash, “I know the man is finer in person. You be trying to be so secretive with these Niggas—“

She pauses, “Hollon’—y’all got something going on? That’s why I can’t get no picture?”

“Girl, what? No,” you scrunch your nose, “I just do the man’s hair,” you began pulling out the products you needed for the upcoming appointment, now hiding your face from your client.

You wouldn’t say you had a thing with him. Your relationship started the moment he DM’d you. He said he remembered you from high school and asked you to be his braider—he also mentioned you were pretty—but that wasn’t relevant to the situation. With each appointment, you never treated him as if he was some celebrity. He was just…Onyankopon. He liked that about you.

“Aht, aht,” she shook her head, “If it isn’t nothing with that man, lemme’ get a peek then!”

You rolled your eyes, “Now you ain’t getting shit. I’ll see you in five weeks,” you shooed her behind with your hands, pressing the elevator within your condo.

“Whatever, hoe.” 

She stepped on the elevator, looking back at you with a smirk, “You can kiss that tip goodbye!” 

Then she was off, the doors closing behind her. You finally had a moment of peace. You allowed the instrumentals of Brent Faiyaz’ Wasteland to thrum along your living room as you cleaned, suddenly feeling a sense of anxiety. You don’t know why you feel yourself becoming so nervous due to the previous conversation you had—but you felt your stomach bubbling at the thought of the elevator doors opening with him on the other side. You’d never felt like this before.

Then, your phone rings. Your eyes glance down—ONY—it reads, and you have to swallow down the racehorse running within your mind as you mindlessly answer, “Hello?”

“You know I’m coming, right?”

 A deep, monotone voice that’s smooth like butter spoke through the phone.

You almost roll your eyes, “I’m aware, Onyankopon. C’mon, boy. I’m getting sleepy.”

A deep chuckle fills your ear from through the phone, “I bet yo’ ass gon’ stay up for me though.”

You hear the elevator ding and a slow creak as the two metal doors begin to open, the phone and your hand slightly falling as you glance over to the tall figure entering your condo. He’s dressed in a sable jersey with cargo pants, the oversized top still able to show the silhouette of his muscular frame. The tattoos that litter across his arms pop under the lights of your home, silver chains along his neck that match with the watch on his wrist. He smells like a mixture of musk and tonka bean—his fro is sprawled around his head, jaw locked as mint gum is trapped in between his full dark pink lips. 

You sigh in reply to his words as you hang up the phone, “Imma’ do what I need to do to make my money, you know that.”

He shut the elevator doors behind himself, “I know your ass finna’ charge me extra for me being late,” he chuckled, walking towards the chair. He paused in his steps for a moment, eyes raking over your body, “What’s up, baby?”

Baby. It was a simple term of endearment he used, an accent prolific with that specific word. Your eyes run over him—the ink on his face, the goatee and facial hair along his jaw and cheeks, even with his hair sprawled everywhere— he still looked good. 

“Hey,” you give him a faint smile, “Was getting here okay? No paparazzi?” You tease. 

“Nah, not tonight, at least. They been on my ass though,” he huffed, “A nigga can’t even go get a carton of milk without somebody following me.”

“They’re just excited, Ony,” you give a soft laugh, reaching into your drawer of supplies as you pull out a rat tail comb, “Did you wash your hair already?”

He nodded to show you he had, sitting down on the forest green chair. You never understood how someone like him could be so intimidating, his gaze being enough to make you crumble on the spot.

On the other hand, sometimes he wondered if you knew what you looked like. Strawberry red hair falling in layers down your back, no middle or side part within the style—it just flowed wherever you went. Your army green baby tee and matching drawstring yoga pants that clung to your body, and you always scented bergamot with a milky vanilla. The cute way your black square glasses always tipped at your golden nose ring, it made you so— pretty. 

“Why are you in town anyways? You got’ a show or something?” You ask him, going over to your kitchen island, washing your hands of the previous grease and hair products used on your last client.

“Doing a lil’ sum’ at the Smoothie King center, nothing too crazy. I’m surprised you ain’t hear about that,” he glanced towards where you’d been, only able to see the back of your head along the mirror, “But you stay under the rock. I ain’t even gon’ hold you.”

You come up behind him as you shake your head, “I’m sorry. I ain’t mean it like that— I just hadn’t checked your socials since you texted me asking for an appointment,” you apologize, not trying to seem indifferent to his status, even if you knew he didn’t care about that.

His head tilted, his eyes narrowing as he looked at you with a small smile, “You always apologizing,” he muttered, reaching his hand into his pocket, “You needa’ stop doin’ that. I know you got me when I come here. I ain’t tripping on that.”

Your dark lashes flutter, your reflexes pushing your glasses closer up against your face as you feel your cheeks becoming warm. You instinctively dig your fingers into his scalp, pulling at the soft coils to assess his hair, “You’ still tender headed?”

He smacked his teeth before giving a small wince at the sting, “You’ don’t see me about to cry?” He glared, “You a pain,” he huffed, tilting his head to look back up at you, “Why you always tryna hurt a nigga?”

You roll your eyes, “Ony, please. It’s only been two months since you last saw me,” you stare blankly through the mirror, mentally preparing for the fight he always gave before you actually started.

“I don’t like you no more. You hate me. You tryna test me,” he began, going down a small list of your wrongdoings, “I’mma’ find another braider. You want me to feel pain.” 

He saw the look in your eyes, his large hands already gripping the handles of his seat. Every appointment was like this, and you knew it. He got comfortable around you—more than he should’ve—maybe it was because you grew up around each other in high school. He knew you—and you knew how to be patient with his ass.

You flip the rat tail comb in your fingers, “You need the teddy bear I give my babies that can’t handle getting their hair braided?” You raise an eyebrow, “You’ getting on my nerves already, boy.”

“I ain’t no damn boy,” He gave you a stern look—but it only got you to smirk. He grumbled under his breath, turning his head back towards the mirror, “Do yo’ thang.”

You begin parting his hair into six straight backs, PARTYNEXTDOOR 4 now playing each song throughout the album, humming quietly in the background. You were always efficient with your fingers, swapping product in between his scalp the millisecond after you parted. He was sensitive when it came to his head, but after about ten minutes, his jaw clenched as his eyes closed, relaxing under your touch. Sometimes he’d even fall asleep, and you’d just adjust to how he laid in that moment. 

You ask him, “You’ excited for the show?”

Though his eyes were closed, he nodded his answer, a low hum in his throat. You honestly loved when he got like this—his head would drop to the side, allowing you to braid easier. He trusted you. 

“They gon’ go crazy,” he mumbled, the corner of his lip lifting up in a smirk.

“I’m sure,” you muse, “The women love your big headed ass.”

“The niggas fuck with me too,” he smiled, opening an eye to look over at your reflection in the mirror, “You don’t like me?” 

You glance at his opened eyes through the mirror, still continuing to perfect the parting spaces in his head, envisioning the style as you softly reply, “I like you. You know that.”

He was always able to see the way you held back your smile, but his grin only widened as he looked at you. 

“I know yo’ ass love me,” he began, “All up in my hair, touchin’ me and shit.”

“Not too much,” you laugh, “I touch you cause you pay me to. Them’ girls outside would braid you’ up for free, I don’t play like that,” you smack your lips, “You’ seen your family since you been here?”

His grin faltered in the slightest, the question souring his mood. You’d grown to learn it was a sensitive subject—especially for a young man who wanted the world, but only had a couple people in his corner. You could see the way his facial features turned stern, Onyankopon chewing on the gum in his mouth before he opened his eyes, looking in the mirror to answer. 

“Yeah,” he muttered, “Spent some time with momma before she had to go to work. I got to visit my grandma for a little bit too. She always askin’ about you.”

“Bout’ me?” You raise an eyebrow, “I thought you ain’t tell nobody you came over here?” 

But that wasn’t what you really wanted to say. It made your face a bit warm to know he’d mentioned you to his family. So you clear your throat, knocking the warmth of your face away as you correct, “I ain’t know your mawmaw remembered me.”

“‘Course she remembered yo’ ass,” he grinned at the sight of you blushing—he always did manage to make you do that. 

“Always said you was built like a grown woman, pretty in the face. Real smart, she knew you’ was gon’ be somebody.”

“She’s sweet,” you giggle, “I’m sure she thought I was one of them’ fast tailed girls tryna get your attention.”

“She knew better than that. When did you ever try to get my attention?” He challenged, staring you in the eye. It was a question he’d always had on his mind, but the fact that it finally came from his mouth made the words almost feel tangible.

You think about the question for a moment, beginning to work on the braid closest to the shell of his ear. You pull his head back a bit to start at the root, your scent wafting along his face as you hum, “Mmm, I always thought you were cute. But you know you’re cute, you didn’t need another girl in line to tell you that. I wasn’t tryna’ be a groupie. But you always had a nice voice, and loved the spotlight. It was meant for you.”

He was a grown ass man—nearly nearing thirty, which had passed the age of embarrassment. But you could see the slight tinge on his cheeks, his ears flushing red for a moment before his mouth curved into a grin. 

“You like me, huh?” He raised a brow, looking down into his lap to hide the smile on his face. That’s when he noticed the time on his phone, glancing up into the mirror, “Damn,” he huffed, “I’m bout’ to be here all night wit’ you. You needa’ get faster.”

“If I go faster it’s gonna hurt,” you remind him, looping the hair in your fingers just a tad bit tighter, watching as he grimaced in response.

"Ayo!" He flinched, reaching back to try and pry your fingers off his head. You were quick to let go in response, but it proved your point. 

“You don’t got’ to pull like that…” he groaned.

“You gon’ let me do my job?” You raise an eyebrow, “You’ being irritating. I’m not the one who came over ten at night, Onyankopon. You’ got somewhere to be?”

He smacked his lips again, “I was just sayin’...“ 

In truth, he wasn't trying to leave your place immediately—he wanted to be around you. You always seemed to know exactly where to touch him. That, and your perfume always made his head spin.

"You gon' tell me who you dating, or you got a line of niggas?" He countered, his gaze meeting yours through the mirror.

“Nobody at the moment. I’ve been too busy with work,” you reply shyly, finishing up his first braid with a tight end, moving on to the second patch of hair, “My male clients usually have girlfriends—who want to be on the phone the entire time to watch me,” you chuckle.

“So that means you ain’t gon’ give me no love?” He grinned, reaching a hand behind him to press against your thigh, squeezing it gently. Your entire body shivered at his warm palm along your skin, the hand nearly wrapping against your entire leg. 

"A nigga just want to talk to you, be on you. You be’ all shy and shit," he grumbled, "Maybe I will find another braider for real, yo' ass stay bein' mean to me."

You giggle at his touch, even if it makes you nervous—maybe a little horny. You smacked his hand away, “So you flirt with all the people that work for you? That’s what I’m getting from this.” 

“Nah. Just you,” he replied without missing a beat, a confident smile on his face. “C’mon, say somethin’.”

You didn’t even need to look into the mirror to know he was staring at you—that alone made your insides twist. 

A loud sigh left your lips as you shook your head, “You’re gonna mess around and get yo’ feelings hurt. I’m just doing your hair, Onyankopon. You’ll have thousands of girls to choose from at your show tomorrow.”

“We ain’t talking about them. We talkin’ about you.”

He wanted you to look at him. But he knew you wouldn’t do such a thing until you finished his hair. 

So he relented, pulling out his phone to check his messages—there wasn’t much to see, though. A silence had become between the two of you, comforted by the music playing in the back. His fans had been bombarding his team for the past few days, ever since the news of his new album came out. And, sure, he’d be surrounded by girls tomorrow. But those girls weren’t going to be you.

“You gon’ be at my show since you know about it now, right?”

You were now on the fourth braid, pulling his head back a bit to look at his face. Your eyes narrow, almost having the urge to roll them as you say, “You know I don’t have a ticket, Ony. I’ll watch it after it’s posted.”

He looked up to see the scowl on your face, a laugh escaping his lips, “Don’t even worry about all that. I don’t want you watchin’. I need you there.” 

When you reach out to knock the side of his head, he catches your wrist, bringing it to his lips to plant a sloppy kiss there. Your heart hammered beneath your chest, an unsteady thump resounding through your ribcage.

“You smoked before you got here?” You question, “You’ real touchy—feely today.”

He grinned in reply, “Nah I didn’t, maybe you’ just real fine today. Every day.”

He was laying it on thick. The worst part? That it might’ve been working. You’re now on the final braid, your body unfortunately hot, and a throb between your legs at the sight of him. He was murmuring the music to himself, his deep voice now ringing in your ears.

“You want me to line you up after I’m done braiding, or are you gonna do it yourself? I bought new clippers,” you ask softly, fingers swiftly pulling his hair into a neat bind.

He looked at your reflection, watching as your fingers moved swiftly through his hair. The feeling was pleasant, the sound of your voice even more so. 

“You always do it fine, so yeah,” he murmured. 

The next time you’d reach for his hair, he’d stop you—his hand cupping your wrist to bring it down to his chest. 

“I appreciate you, you know that right?” His voice was low, but you could still hear the sincerity beneath his words. He was staring at you now, his eyes warm.

You blink a bit at his words, and the sincerity makes you smile innocently. 

“I know that,” you nod, “I’m glad you trust me enough to keep coming back.”

His free hand came to cup the side of your cheek, feeling your soft skin beneath his tough palm, "You got some soft skin," he murmured as he stroked your cheek. His thumb lightly brushed your lips, "Pretty lips too, y'know that?"

Your heart is hammering in your chest at this point. He’s fine, full lips moisturized, goatee and facial hair aligned perfectly along his face, jaw structure deadly for him to have his hair braided back. His brown skin was clear—fucking hell. 

You give a nervous laugh as you try to pull yourself back, “…You’ still got one more braid, Ony.”

"You sure you wanna keep going?" He questioned, "You lookin' like you want something else right now."

Your mouth parts a bit at his words, but quickly closes as you try to figure out your reply. You then say, “Yeah, I’m almost finished. I know you’re getting antsy in my chair,” you pull yourself back behind him, quickly maneuvering into finishing off his final braid.

He had to give it to you—you were hard to crack. But that didn’t mean you were good at hiding it. You watch his face become more serious than you’d ever seen, it’s a mixture of something—admiration, lust, need. 

"Yeah, aight. Line my shit up. We gon’ talk.”

You can feel your nerves bundling at the pit of your stomach as you finish off—a tension now palpable in the air. Clippers buzz along his hairline as you lean yourself  close to his chest to get a good angle, your body feeling warm as you’re close to him—you adjust yourself as you softly say, “…Sorry.”

“Nah, you good. Come closer,” is what he says instead, reaching a hand out to grasp your thigh. He grips you gently, but firmly, to get you closer to him. You’re in between his legs now, which he spreads a bit further so you can settle in.

Your hands are trembling. You usually had no issues with this part of your service, but the tension was becoming heavier second by second. You exhale a bit, breathless in your nervous giggle as you confirm, “I’m gonna put some oil on once I’m done—loosen up your braids a bit, okay?”

“Take your time,” he murmurs, voice smooth and low. 

Slowly but surely, he begins to rub his hand back and forth against your thigh. Eventually, it begins to move towards the inside of your thigh, rubbing at the flesh there. You bite your lip, trying to fight back the desire to whimper. 

“You’ quiet now, what’s up with that?”

He’s really getting to you. The simple touch makes your eyes want to roll back. You admit, “Just tryna’ focus while you’re being distracting.”

“I ain’t done nothin’ but rub on you, you’ really that sensitive?”

His lips brush the side of your ear, his warm breath tickling your neck. “How I look, mama?”

You wanna pull back from him, but you’re unable to. You quickly snatch the clippers back as you sit them on the small table beside the chair, giving him a warning look as you caution, “Ony.”

“Why you sayin’ my name like that?” he grunts, fingers gripping the back of your thigh, holding you there. 

“C’mere—Lemme’ taste you.”

You breath hitches at his words, and your mouth is only centimeters from his. Your hand finds its way to the fabric of his shirt, gripping the cotton fiber as your voice is weak, “C’mon, Ony. Stop playing.”

His eyes are hooded at this point, “Who playin’?” 

His mouth captures your bottom lip, slowly dragging it between his teeth. You actually whimper at the feeling, your thighs squeezing together beneath your shorts. Pulling you fully onto his lap, he kisses you, not letting you pull away as he cups the back of your head to keep you there. His tongue is rough inside of your mouth, a satisfying hum heavy against your lips as he makes out with you.

You’re shuddering against his mouth, a frown pulled at your eyebrows at how good his kiss is. It makes your entire body thrum, clutching the material of his shirt even tighter. It’s like you’re having an orgasm—all he’d done was kiss you. 

The heat of his skin, the smell of his cologne is all intoxicating. He’s pulling your head back so that he can kiss your throat. His lips are smooth as he’s sucking the skin—your body feels like jelly. 

Your hand clutches the side of his neck, “W—Wait Ony…mmph,” ” you pant. 

When his mouth comes back down to meet yours, he kisses you deeper, groaning into your mouth. You attempt to keep him in one place, but you know you don't have the strength to keep him from having his way with you.

You gasp softly as he tugs up your baby tee, brown nipples dropping straight into his mouth the moment he drags his tongue out to catch them. Your eyes lock down to the way his mouth moves—it’s effortless. 

You’re latching along his hair, trembling above him as you suck air down your throat, “T—They’re s—sensitive…” he’s lapping your breast into his mouth, your skin becoming hot on his taste buds.

“Got a nigga acting greedy as fuck.” 

He’s almost mad at the sight, sucking harshly and letting your nipples drop out his mouth, milliseconds later catching your entire breast back in between his full lips. The skin is starting to bruise, your legs squeezing against his lap as a deep relaxation comes over you, a warming tingle in your spine.

You were writhing on top of him, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly as he sucked and nibbled on your nipples— you’re trembling, “Oh god... oh fuck..." you’re panting as if you’d run a marathon, biting your lip as you felt yourself growing wetter and wetter between your legs, “Don’t…stop…”

His mouth was almost aggressive at this point, a loud popping sound leaving his lips each time he pulled away. The music within the room is dousing your brain. 

His voice was low and raspy, "You look’ soooo muhfuckin' sexy right now. Take all this shit off. Need you naked as fuck.” 

He reaches down between the both of you, pressing his palm against the front of your shorts, the contact making you whimper as he groans, “Ooh shit, pussy drenching them shorts—I know that shit glistening all pretty. Nasty ass bitch,” The heat continuously develops in between your legs, wetness creating more and more by the second. 

He starts rubbing his hand against you, back and forth, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit. It’s making your head spin, your hips move with his hand, whining softly as he starts kissing you again, lips soft against yours, sucking your bottom lip between his teeth.

Dark brown eyes stare into yours, his expression serious—intense. You jump as he slams his palm down on your ass, grunting, “Up,” your body complying as you stand halfway above him to remove your shorts, allowing your top to quickly follow— you’re now completely naked on his lap.

He’s nothing like you had before. With that, he dips his hands in between your legs to pull you back up in a standing position against the chair, palms locked against the back of your thighs as he scoots himself lower, tugging your body down so quickly that your entire pussy rubs against his jaw. 

A mixture between a deep chuckle and groan comes from his mouth as he’s already running his tongue chaotically against your clit. Your lower lip drops open as you gasp, pressing yourself into his arm to not fall, riding his face within the air.

His mouth was a mess as he grinds you down on his tongue, so deep in between your folds that he’s tasting himself. His tongue was strong, heavy, eyes closed as if your body was a rarity. Onyankopon’s facial hair was coated, dripping against your thighs as he eats you out. He was being lazy with it, almost too comfortable within the chair, hands digging into the back of your thighs as he forced himself deeper, nose pushing against your mound. He was choking on your pussy—but he was enjoying every single bit of it.

“Oh— my g—god!” you pant out, gasping in between, “Ony…ohshi—Ony!…” he’s bouncing you against his face, using his free hand to spank the skin of your ass, flesh shaking in his palm. You’re losing nerves in your brain, dropping your face down as you whimper, “You’ in my pussy, baby…fuck…”

“‘Could tell you ain’t never had a nigga eat you like this—shit a muhfuckin’ delicacy, I’m just slurping this shit the fuck up—fuckin’ love this shit," he said, moaning it, slurping, slurping, his voice was almost like a murmur, "Fuckkk, imma’ have you squirting on this big ass dick."

Onyankopon was growling against your clit, a wet noise coming from his lips as he sucked on you, his mouth covered at this point. His hands were grabbing at your thighs, spreading them apart so he could see your juices rolling down the skin.

There was a rhythm to it—his mouth moved like a metronome as if he were making a song, a steady beat as he eats you out.

He was almost high from the taste, his mouth watering as he lapped up everything you were giving him. His chin was daubed, tongue flicking up to catch a bit of the spit as he was using it to lubricate your pussy, trying to make it easier for his tongue to slide inside. Again, again. 

His tongue is long, rolling around from the bottom of your entrance all the way up to your clit. He's eating you like he loves you, mouth open, tongue sloppy, just groaning,  licking—you’re feeling faint. 

He was making a mess of your pussy. 

Your eyes are rolling at this point, a discomfort beginning to form in your legs from the way you’re hovered above him. But it’s all so good—you’re spinning. Shaking. Trembling. All of the above. 

“Ony….I t—think I’m cumming,” you softly cry, beginning to rotate your hips in a circle along his face as you weakly whine, grasping a hold of his hair as you whimper, “I—I’m c—cumming…”  

“I hear that gushy ass pussy, that bitch singing to me.” 

At that second—you hear yourself gush against his face, squeezing your thighs against his head, body shuddering like a harsh chill had taken a marathon against your spine. You’re robbed of time to come down from the orgasm, Onyankopon pulling you back down to sit along his lap as he grunts, “Come pull this dick out.”

You whimper in response, dipping your fingers into his pants nonetheless. Your acrylics graze against the hefty weight of his tip you feel for—and it’s big. 

You’re pulling, pulling for more than two seconds, watching as it slaps a little over his belly button. Dark pink, a beautiful brown matching his complexion. Your eyes widen a bit, the gasp your throat that wanted to release now caught in his palm as he’s holding you by your neck. 

He tugs you forward, “Spit in my fuckin’ mouth.”

He’s nasty. You pull him into a sloppy kiss, letting your saliva run against the tip of your tongue, meeting with his mouth that makes him glare at you, “Freaky ass lil’ bitch, huh? I’m finna’ do you in witcho’ pretty ass. Come sit on this shit.” 

“Too big, Ony…” you whimpered before you thought about your words, knowing he was already arrogant. 

And you weren’t wrong for thinking that. His mouth twists in amusement against the shell of your ear, hand rubbing along the curve of your ass before smacking it, “You either gon’ bend over so I can watch my dick go in and out this pretty ass pussy, or sit that shit on me.”

Your eyes glance back down—his dick was standing straight up, swollen at the tip, thick veins running across the shaft, and a toned belly for you to grip onto. But you knew he wasn’t repeating himself. 

He murmurs, “Go slow, baby. I got you,” easing your anxiety, moving his hand around to the back of your neck, pulling you into the softest kiss he’d given you this entire time.

You adjusted your hips as you rubbed his tip along your folds throughout the kiss, mouth falling open as you whimpered again, his throat humming, nodding gently for you to continue. Your folds stretch apart as you begin sinking down, keeping yourself kissing him to distract from the immediate discomfort you feel. You pull your mouth back slightly to press your forehead against his, also holding the back of his neck as your breathing becomes chaotic, chest heaving a bit as you whisper, “…Oh my…” you suck in a breath, “goddd…” you drag your words so lowly, and he hears every syllable.

“Yeah?” He grunts, “Why you’ squeezing’ my shit like that?” 

He’s cooing to you. His balls slap lightly against the weight of your ass, hearing the slick of your pussy as he pulls you back up. Onyankopon dips his fingers into your mouth, coating them before he lowers his hand to massage your bruised walls for a millisecond, making it easier to push his dick back in.

He helps ease you back down, fingers rubbing at the back of your hips as he drops you fully down his length. Your eyes clamped shut as you cried out, eyes rolling as you dragged out a whine, “Onyyy…” all while he sucked on the spot between your neck and collarbone, moaning into it to keep you open. 

You pull your face back to meet him, keeping your foreheads connected as he begins raising you halfway up, dragging you back down, dick disappearing between your thighs. Your arousal is splattering in between your skin stuck together, ripping apart each time you’re pulled back up, clapping as you come back down.

“This all you needed, needed this pussy played with. Shit pretty as fuck. Makin’ art on my dick.” 

He was getting used to the rhythm, leaning his head back against the seat to look at you. His hands were planted on the back of your thighs, the muscles rippling as he helped pull you back up before slamming you back down, his mouth open, eyes half-lidded.

He was watching you—The way you were crying out, the way you were cursing him out, the way you were begging for more, and the way you were fighting for breath.

He was watching it all—taking it all in. You were perfect. 

Each time you protested, “Babyyyy,” he tugged you down harder, the pressure rubbing against your pussy, the warmth of it making you shudder. He’s talking, “I hear you, Mama. Fuck, you drenching my shit.” 

His hands were firm against your hips, helping to guide you up and down. He was almost wrestling you, a dominant nature he had coming out the longer he fucked you. Your ass is applauding against his thighs, breasts bouncing, your mouth releasing breathless sounds you’d never heard before. It makes you feel like those final nerves within your brain were no more, wrapping your arms around his neck as you let him take you—pouting as you talk to him, “This your pussy baby…” you whine, softly crying, mewling the words to him. You’re making promises.

“That’s how you feelin’?”

He slides his palm against your asscheek, gripping the skin there as he moves his index finger over your hole, the feeling making you tense. You lean yourself forward a bit as he’s nudging the tip of it into you, using the rest of his fingers to keep you bouncing down. You whimper deeply, the pleasure and pain knocking you every which way as he’s filling you up in both places—he was trying to kill you.

Nonetheless, you keep yapping, “Your fuckin’ pussy, Daddy…gonna come to your show…”

You drag your tongue along his neck, sucking there petulantly as you look down, seeing as you cream on his length, coating the shaft white. You’re so horny, even if he was fucking you at this exact moment.

“No you not. Finna’ be sleep all day after this,” he grunts, “You creamin’ on my shit. Pretty as fuck.”

His hand wraps around the back of your neck to pull you down for another heated kiss, sucking the taste of yourself off your tongue. His other hand held you by the hip, moving you faster, finger thrusting in your hole deeper.

He’s strong—in lost time, he stands from the chair as he places your legs over his shoulders, taking a step forward to place you right along the mirror you used to show your clients their finished hairstyle. He was tugging at your neck, making sure you were locked in his arms as he began dropping you on his dick, making you squeal, a moan spilling from your lips as you whine, "Oh shittttt.” 

“Look at you, fuckin’ bad girl. Yeah, look at me, look at you, look at that shit gushing for me.”

He was pounding you from the bottom, his balls slapping between your folds, your arousal making the sound reverberate through the room. A feeling you never felt before surrounded your aura, a pleasure so good that you felt emotional, your eyes beginning to form tears as you suck in a breath, releasing as you sobbed, “Ugnh, fuck.”

He’s fucking you so hard that the mirror across began steaming up, showing only a faint outline of your body. You flick over to it, seeing the strawberry tresses of your hair sticking to your face, your expression ruined. 

Your mouth was dangerous as you writhed, “Ony,” a way that was close to a shout, talking through each thrust, “Love. This. Dick. Baby…”

His mouth came to yours to stifle the sounds, hand clamped around the back of your neck. His teeth were scraping your lips, his tongue slipping inside to fight yours as he’s pounding you in place, the sensation making you shake.

"You gon' cum? Gonna squirt all over his dick? Pussy gettin’ tight as fuck…damn…” he groans, locking his eyes down to see himself go in and out, in and out, in…and out.

“Gonna squirt all over you,” you sniffle in a small gasp, unaware of your own mouth at this moment, “Harder—please…” 

His mouth was a mess, tongue thick and long, lapping against your neck and collarbone, sucking the skin there, his mouth wide open, slurping the taste of you up. He squeezed your hips so hard that you were crying out. He was slamming himself into you, a groan of pleasure spilling from his lips as he buried his face against your throat, sucking it up as he grunted, “Finna’ have you at every fuckin’ show. Up in the private rooms, gon’ fuck you after every song.”

You’re gone, becoming entirely silent as your eyes are filled with tears that wouldn’t stop, nodding your head to every word as you hold onto him. The silence, listening to the sounds of your skin coming together in music, a sound rips from your throat before you could realize—pure bliss, a scream projecting out as you squirt, the arousal spouting, pushing him far enough for his tip to now be halfway in. Your body feels exhausted, eyes back into staring inside your head as you cum. 

And it broke him, he was moaning into your throat—mouth open, eyes closed, pulling himself out as his tip rubbed against your inner thigh, cumming against the warm skin. Your body was tired, exhausted, satisfied. 

You struggled to keep yourself wrapped along his neck. As the both of you caught your breath, you brought your eyes up to him, using the last bit of strength you had to give him a soft peck against his lips. Onyankopon couldn’t help himself—You looked so pretty at this moment, yet the innocent kiss makes him chuckle lowly, holding you up more as he questions, “You aight’?”

You press your face within his neck as you murmur, “Mhm,” your eyes feeling heavy, “Don’t think imma’ make your show, Ony…” you pout sleepily.

He laughs at how cute you were being—it’s a stark difference from your usual reserved demeanor. 

“It’s straight, baby. You’ll be on my mind the moment I get there—that’s fasho.’” 

He pecks your forehead, “You want me to stay tonight?”

Your eyes won’t open at this point. You could figure out the meaning of this moment later. You just wanted to be wrapped in that damn scent of his—tonka bean.

“If you’ actually plan on sleeping, you can stay…” 

“Damn, no late night nookie?” 

“Onyankopon.”

“My fault. Night, shawty.”

[shinningdance]

Made with love

this is a part two of this :)) but it can be without part one!!

roommate au, my beloved ♡♡♡

warnings: none, pure fluff

The door slams behind you, locking with a small 'click'. The jacket you were wearing only a minute before is now laying on the floor, along with your shoes.

It was just so unfair. The Competition on who gets 2 days paid time off was supposed to be an easy win. You made the best Steak with mashed potatoes on the side, followed by the most delicious apple pie. Your co-workers were also not best cooks, making your win even easier. Yet you still lost, only because your boss was rating the foods and he had to choose his son, who cannot cook to safe his life. Who even pairs instant noodles with Asparagus?! But apparently his food was so delicious he won the competition with ease. And that jerk had the nerve to say to you he was 'just better than average". As if you're average, you're well above that, according to your four roommates who devoured your food.

Speaking of your roommates, one of them stares at you while you storm to your room, ignoring his confused questions. Normally you wouldn't ignore him, any of them really, but you would never ever ignore Kyle, he's always the first one to help you out with anything you might need. Need someone to proofread an e-mail? You go to Kyle. Need someone to talk to? Kyle it is. Need someone? Kyle.

You enter your room and, just like with the front door, slam your door shut. Turning the key to the right, you look it. Not that any of the guys would enter without knocking and waiting for you to say it's alright to enter. You sink down to the floor, clutching your bag to your chest. It's a bit silly to cry over something so silly, it's not like it was a promotion, it was just a silly work Competition. Unfair but still small.

Maybe what set you off were all those small things that happened. Spilling your coffee over yourself right before a big meeting, getting ignored through the entire said meeting, working through lunch - meaning going hungry, and last but not least, that stupid cooking thing.

With a heavy sigh you lift yourself up from the ground and head right towards your bed. You don't bother changing your clothes, just slipping right under the covers and closing your eyes. Maybe sleep will cheer you up for a bit.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

While you were sleeping Kyle went through every conversation he had with you in the last 24 hours, trying to figure out what he did for you to ignore him.

He couldn't figure it out. He always said good morning and good night, he left you your favorite food in the fridge after you got home from work and he saved you from a spider. He looked just like a kicked puppy sitting on the couch, a random show playing in the background.

He had to be sitting there for quit some time because the other three man had been starring at him since they got back home. 5 minutes of starring at Kyle until he finally acknowledged them.

"Did any of you piss off our bird?" he questions the three man locking at him, all of them re-stocking the kitchen after their grocery trip.

"Not that i can remember, last time i saw her, she was smiling like she had no care in the world." John answers quickly, making sure no one can blame him.

"Not me either" Simon replies, giving no explanation.

Three pair of eyes land on a specific Scot, who's currently showing the last remains of your pie down his throat.

He looks up, eyes turning wide as e speaks with a full mouth. "what? i dinnae do anythin'!" He claims as he swallows the pie.

"Are you sure? Like..100%?" Kyle asks while looking towards your bedroom door.

"ay! 100% swear on ma mama" Johnny nods, hoping they'll belive it.

"Then what did piss her off?" John asks, rubbing his forehead in confusion.

"no idea...wasn't today her cooking thing at work?" Kyle questions, looking at the three men again.

"it was." Simon confirms, nodding along. "But there's no way she didn't win." He grunts, placing the milk in the fridge.

"If she did win, she wouldn't react like this." John mumbles, trying to figure out what happend.

The four of them continue to try and solve this puzzle, to no success.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You woke duo a loud crash, most likely metal falling to the floor. You groan and grab your pillow, putting it over your head. How long did you sleep? It could be 5 minutes or 5 hours, who knows.

A soft knock on your door destroys your plan of getting more sleep. You groan once more, making sure whoever is outside knows your pissed.

"What?" You question, voice muffled by the pillow.

"It's just me, dove." John calls back, voice soft like always.

"What?" You repeat, not wanting to have a conversation right now.

"...Please come out, we prepared something for you." John sighs, most likely pressing his forehead against the door like he always dose when trying to get someone to open up.

They prepared something?

you sigh and very slowly crawl out of bed to unlock your door.

John almost laughs as he sees your state, still in work clothes but very messy, even your hair is a mess.

"Don't even start." You warn him.

John raises his hands in mock surrender, smile on his lips. "Why don't you get changed, something comfy."

Another sigh leaves your lips as you close the door, right in his face.

You change into your pj's, the most comfy thing you own. You open the door again and John is still standing there. With a hand on your back he leads you to a battlefield, or that's just what it looks like. In reality it's just the kitchen in a very messy state. The smell of food fills the air and Kyle appears, a almost shy smile on his face.

"Listen, we really tried to make you food, we really did, but..we kind of failed." He laughs and takes your hand, guiding you towards the couch.

Lots of blankets and pillows, popcorn in a huge bowl and Johnny and Simon already in their seats.

"So we got Pizza, your favorite." He smiles and brings you to johnny, making you sit between him and Simon.

Johnny is immediately clinging to your side, chin on your shoulder as he smiles up at you. "You dinnae have to say why you're upset, you just have to relax an' enjoy the food we got you."

You simply nod, touched by their actions. Almost on cue your stomach starts growling, reminding you that you skipped lunch.

"Got thing we got this then." John smiles and places the carton of Pizza on your lap.

"thanks.." You mumble and pick up one piece, enjoying every second.

After a short bit of silence conversations started flowing like usually. Everyone was eating pizza while watching a movie of your choice, throwing in a comment every now and then.

"I lost the cooking thing at work." You mumble, quietly but loud and enough for them to hear.

It was funny watching Johnnys face, the pure shock on his face.

"You? Wha-?" His mouth opens and closes like a fish.

"How is that even possible?" Kyle questions, showing a bit of popcorn into his mouth.

"The winner was the bosses son." You shrug, watching all of them connect the dots.

"Well you definitely won our votes." Simon confirms, watching the way your eyes light up.

"So you would't mind having to be lab rats for my next time cooking?" You smile and this time watch as all their eyes light up.

"Not at all, it would be an honor." John confirms.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

a/n: not proof read!! Like always i gave up towards the end :))

[kyunniebuns]

˗ˏˋ Entry : 059 - Lover! HSR Men x Fem! Reader: Period Cramps ♡ ˎˊ˗

꒰ Dan Heng, Aventurine, Caelus, Sunday ꒱

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝔻𝕒𝕟 ℍ𝕖𝕟𝕘 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Dan Heng is actually a veteran in taking care of girls during their periods. Why? You have March 7th to thanks for that. His poor friend's cramps are hell so he stepped up to assist whenever he can if Himeko isn' present to soothe her.

So when it comes to you? It's no problem really, he even enjoys the fact that you're relying on him for this since it shows that you trust him entirely.

Does he track your period schedule? Definitely, he has a tracker installed in his phone that he always checks. Periods are tricky and he wants to know incase anything wrong comes your way.

A little overdevoted of him, but you're not complaining. Why would you?

He has everything prepared a week advanced before your period.

Heating pads? Check. Extra napkins? Check. Snacks? Check. Chocolates? Check. Medicine for cramps? Check. Plushies? Washed and ready.

"Is your stomach acting up? No?" Dan Heng asks as he secures the blanket over you after placing a heating pad on your belly.

"I hate being a girl..." You complain, curling up further beside him for comfort.

"I know, but just for a few more days, it'll be alright" He says, stroking your head lovingly. "How about a movie? There are a bunch of new movies I managed to download."

"Okay..."

You actually passed out halfways into the movie, which Dan heng of course predicted already since he had the lights in his room already turned off. He changed the heating pad on your stomach first before tucking himself back in.

"Goodnight," Dan heng mumbles, placing a peck on your forehead before pulling you in for a cuddle.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝔸𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕖 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

"There we go" Aventurine gently settles you down on the bed after placing an extra towel on it. "Is that better, love?"

You nod, cuddling the teddy bear he bought you just because you're on your monthly hell.

Your period week is strictly a no-gambling and no-business-trips time for Aventurine. Even if his bosses and the other stonehearts decide to bug him into doing stuff.

He values your happiness and comfort above all else, even work. So to hell with them if the ipc blows up out of nowhere during your menstruation. Aventurine will just throw a middle finger at them and laugh at their misery.

Aventurine was so dedicated he spent hours reading books about periods and even goes so far to research good napkin brands that wont make you itch.

He wants nothing more than the highest of qualities for his beloved who is going through a lot just because a woman's body decided to evolve suffering like this. he even has some doctors on stand by just incase anything goes wrong.

Of course, we can't forget his philanthropic side— this peacock man needs to spend his money on you even for the littlest things. You'll be having brand new jewelry, cosmetics and perfumes coming in rapid succession for you as well as a barrage of kisses to go along with it.

"My poor princess, are you sure you don't need anything else?" He asks, kissing each and every one of your fingers. "Should I order some shortcakes for you? Or should I call the doctor to check on you?"

"Vasha... I'm not bedridden..." You say.

"I know, but I would rather not risk anything happening bad, so if anything hurts too much you must tell me" Aventurine simply smiles.

"Your kisses are more than enough"

"Who am I to say no to that?"

And with that, he dives in to pepper your precious and pretty face with pecks.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ ℂ𝕒𝕖𝕝𝕦𝕤 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

"Okay, everything is settled" Caelus nods to himself after making a makeshift pillow fort in his bed for you to snuggle in.

The plushies he had ordered just arrived in time with your menstrual cycle. He made sure to ask March 7th about this just to be sure too. He can't screw this up—

Yeah, he's acting like he's about to go through something major or something. What an idiot.

Your lovable idiot atleast.

"Cae? I'm back" You say, walking out of the bathroom after changing your napkin. "???"

"Ah... Well" Your boyfriend sheepishly scrtaches the back of his head as you glance at the makeshift fort he managed to make during your time in the bathroom. "I figured I should make a fort so we could snuggle up more?... I don't know"

"You're cute" You laugh, kissing his cheek before crawling into the fort he made. "I like the fort, maybe you should keep it"

"I'll order more pillows and a canopy for my bed then" He grins before going in after you. "I'm not really good at taking care of you, my bad"

"It's fine, just you being with me is more than enough and I'd much rather cuddle with you" You wrap your arms affectionately around his waist. "Just be you as usual, that's more than enough."

"I should be the one comforting you" Caelus pouts, rubbing your cheeks together just so he can elicit a sweet giggle from your lips. "If there is is anything I can do, please just tell me what you need and I'll do my best"

"You're really like a puppy" You muse, kissing his cheek lovingly.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚ 𝕊𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕒𝕪 ˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Just like Dan Heng, Sunday is a veteran at this. His mother died before his sister had her very first menstrual cycle. And although there were servants around to assist— he still took the initiative to help Robin himself because he was her brother.

The result of that? He's absolutely good at taking care of you during your period. Much like Dan Heng, he has a period tracker on his phone and prepares everything in advance the week before your period starts.

But of course, Sunday actually memorized your cycle dates, he just prefers to be more organized and to fouble(triple) check everything

It's much more important for him to be assured that eveything is ready.

"Not like that, you'll make your stomach hurt even more, dear" Sunday says, putting down the book he was reading and reaches out to rub firm but gentle circles around your tummy. "I know it's different for each woman, but this is the method I used on my sister when her cramps are bad. Is that better?"

"Yes..." You nod weakly, melting into his massages quickly. "You're really good at this"

"it's only because I took care of my baby sister a lot" Sunday replies, keeping his gentle pace to help ease your pain.

"Robin must miss you" You mumble.

"It's alright" He shook his head, smiling bitterly. "I miss her too, but one day we will reunite. But right now you're the main character. You need me since your cramps as especially bad during the first few days of your cycle."

"What did I even do to deserve you?" You whisper, slowly drifting off to sleep the further he massaged you.

Sunday wouldn't reply until you finally gave in to the call of sleep.

"I need you more than you need me" He finally says, replying to your unconcious state while pressing his lips on your forehead. "So let me do this, it's the least I can do since you never gave up on me"

꒰ 🪼 A/N: This one is a bad fic but I'm really deep in writer's block. I'll try to get it in my next one. For now please be patient with me qwq. I hope you guys understand huhu. I'll try to make more comprehensive and better fics:3 ꒱

ʚ(੭´͈ ᐜ `͈)੭ .｡✧: ~♡ —! stories written by kyunnie; translations, reposts, plagiarism are strictly forbidden.

[fangirl-erdariel]

One thing that sometimes bugs me in the comparisons to Tolkien is that - it's not even like Tolkien's works are entirely devoid of sexual violence?? Like. He doesn't go into graphic detail on it, it's not something Tolkien has in central focus. But it most definitely is there. (And hey, Tolkien also doesn't go into detail on non-sexual violence if he doesn't need to)

More specific examples and rambling on the topic under the cut, bc this got long on what is already a long post

It really doesn't take a particularly attentive reader to figure out Wormtongue's intentions and desires regarding Éowyn, for instance; like yeah he never lays a hand on her as far as we know, but the threat of what could have happened if he'd gotten his way is... pretty obvious

And Silmarillion has its share of male characters desiring women (or the political power of those women's families, depending) and attempting (sometimes succeeding) to force them into marriage. I don't feel like getting involved in the debate of whether Aredhel initially not being "wholly unwilling" to marry Eöl and stay in Nan Elmoth disqualifies her from the list or whether the amount of coercion involved is enough to still make it count.

But Lúthien most definitely is kidnapped against her will, and though she escapes before anything happens, Celegorm's intention explicitly was to marry her whether she wanted or not. Upon seeing Lúthien, Morgoth, the evil dark lord "conceived in his thought an evil lust, and a design more dark than any that had yet come into his heart", and I think we all can figure out what that is (and his lines in the Lay of Leithian, talking of Lúthien as "a pretty toy for idle hour" and speaking about kissing and then bruising and crushing pretty flowers... it's not particularly subtle), even if once again he doesn't get to actually do so.

And there's Maeglin, who desires Idril, and who is promised "the possession of Idril" as reward for betraying the location of the hidden realm of Gondolin, "and indeed desire for Idril -- led Maeglin the easier to his treachery"

And in the children of húrin bit there's Aerin of the folk of Hador whom the invader lord Brodda takes as wife against her will. And then of course there's Míriel of Númenor, whom her cousin Pharazôn forcibly marries in order to seize her throne that is rightfully there

All those are just what I can think of off the top of my head; I'm sure there'd be more examples if I cared to go digging through the material, but I can't be bothered

So, like. Yeah. Sure. Tolkien doesn't really ever use the word "rape" for the things that happen (he seems to mainly use that word in the more archaic meaning of large-scale destruction and/or robbery by violent means, rather than in its modern definition). And in Lúthien and Idril's cases, of course ultimately nothing happens, they escape and all. And as noted, Aredhel's case is more debatable since she wasn't "wholly unwilling". But still.

I'm pretty dang sure that Tolkien understood that a woman being married against her will would be subjected to sexual violence, and is assuming that to be the reader's understanding of the situation when those cases come up. Gríma's, Morgoth's, and Maeglin's intentions towards the women they desire are definitely to be understood as violent and with no care towards what the women in question want (and at least in Morgoth's case, judging by Lay of Leithian, even actively delighting in the idea of doing it by force to an unwilling victim)

And just. I don't know. It kind of bugs me when people act like Tolkien's setting and works are unrealistic because they're devoid of sexual violence? Like. Well first of all, as earlier posters in the thread have pointed out, massive amounts of sexual violence aren't necessarily realistic to begin with. But like also it is a thing that does happen in the setting too... I don't even mean this as a like "oh isn't it so fun doesn't this make the books so much more adult" or anything, and I understand people who enjoy Tolkien's books because it doesn't have like explicit rape scenes the way some other authors do. I just like... the fact that people keep claiming that sexual violence pretty much doesn't even exist in Middle-Earth, when it very much does, it's just kind of left as a threat and an implication or spoken of in very vague terms, is kind of baffling? Honestly it kinda gives the impression that the person saying it either hasn't read Tolkien since they were thirteen or doesn't actually spend the time to understand what the text they're reading means beyond the most obvious surface level. Or they're deliberately saying something that isn't true because it serves some point they want to make

Like, just because something is not shown explicitly in graphic detail with pages upon pages of description, doesn't mean it's not there in the story or the setting at all? You're supposed to pick up on implications and read between the lines and understand those as deliberate choices from the author and a part of the story and setting too?

Someone over on Discord asked, "I'm morbidly curious: How BAD is A Song of Ice and Fire in terms of the authenticity George claims it to be?"

My reply was straightforward:

The long and the short of it is that ASOIAF is basically a vehicle for GRRM to present both his rape fetish and his Hobbesian view on human nature and has less historical accuracy than Frozen or most other Disney movies.

That's actually a good way to think of it, now that I've said it--he's Family Unfriendly, they're Family Friendly, but both have the same relationship with History: just Pure Aesthetic with no consideration for how the worldbuilding would work.

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Jello Incident

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: N/A

Summary: You come home from work and tell Quinn all about the jello incident at school and then fall asleep on him.

Notes: For the sake of my American audience I have changed Jelly to Jello...um, life imitates art or something like that?

Honestly this is a silly little fluffy fic because sometimes life throws you events that inspire you and sometimes (all the time) you just want to write cute shit.

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

The only thing you want as you trail in from a long day of teaching is to take your shoes off and curl up on the couch next to your boyfriend. It's why you're so quick to drop your bag at the front door, very little consideration for the work laptop inside or your water bottle that gives a loud clank. You're practically kicking your shoes off half way down the hallway, one kicked off so hard it goes flying and hits the wall beside Quinn's stupid painting of a monkey with headphones on, before making your way to the couch where Quinn is watching a hockey game, what looks to be a rerun of his most recent game actually. Probably trying to figure out what went wrong and what went right.

"Hey, baby," He greets you as you press a kiss to the top of his hair on your way past the back of the couch, smiling at the familiar gesture, arms already open and ready for you to join him, the game far less interesting than you and your day. Especially after the third run through of it. He's watched it so many times he's not even sure he's comprehending what's happening anymore.

"Hi..." you sigh out, flopping down on top of Quinn on the couch, face pressing into the crook of his neck as his arms come to wrap around you, running over your back in soothing motions.

"Rough day?" He huffs out a laugh as you almost crush him into the couch, not that he'd ever complain about having you on top of him. An ideal way to die to be honest, being smothered by his girlfriend. At least he'd die happy.

"Nggghh," You groan out into his neck, wondering how on earth you were going to explain your day because, "There was a jello incident..." You lift your head to look at him and Quinn's look of confusion, one brow raised, green eyes a little wide says it all. It's how you felt at walking in to the situation itself. Baffled. How does one even begin to explain a jello incident, how on earth did you even get involved in a jello incident when you taught teenagers not toddlers...

"A...a jello incident?"

"Yeah...." You press your cheek against his chest, settling in to recount your day, "There was a sub next door and...I heard him screaming at the kids, so obviously I decided to go make sure everything was okay..." A stupid decision really...you should have remembered the age old adage of 'not my circus, not my monkeys' it would have saved you a ridiculous amount of stress.

"And jello factors into this how?" Quinn twists one of his legs with yours, locking you closer against him as his fingers start to scratch over your scalp in a soothing pattern.

"Would you believe me if I told you the grade 7s had decided to throw pots of jello at each other in Religious Studies? And some of it hit the sub...and I had to take 3 kids into my room as punishment and..." You can't help the way you snort and the thought of it because...fuck, it's ridiculous.

"And?"

"And one of them was sat there with jello on his shoulder the entire time!" You can still picture it, a 12 year old sat with bright pink jello blobs wobbling on his shoulder and cheek because he hadn't bothered to clear it up, proof of his guilt physically on him.

"And you didn't laugh?"

"No, I didn't laugh!" You laugh along with Quinn, mouth pressed into his hoodie while you look up at him from where you're lying on his chest. His own laugh has you bouncing slightly as his chest rises and falls and it doesn't help you to try to take the situation seriously.

"I'd have laughed, baby, sorry."

"That's why you're not a teacher, Quinn..." You roll your eyes even though you know he'd actually make an excellent teacher if he ever decided hockey wasn't for him anymore. He had the patience for it, the calm temperament and steadfast approach.

"Hey! I'd be a great teacher...maybe..."

"Keep telling yourself that." You sigh out, letting the silence fall over the two of you, just enjoying the sound of his heart beating steadily beneath your ear, the feel of his fingers running through your hair, trimmed nails scraping across your scalp and the back of your neck.

You hum as your eyes start to close, feeling like you might fall asleep right there like that with Quinn's warmth against you, the sound of a hockey game playing in the background, Shortie singing Quinn's praises again.

"You wanna watch a movie and cuddle?" He mumbles into your hair, snuggling you closer to him as he reaches for the remote.

"I might fall asleep, the jello incident has me wiped.." your eyes are barely open, feeling like you might drop off at any moment. Not helped by how warm Quinn is, how utterly comfortable it is to lie on him like this.

"That's okay, baby, you can fall asleep on me. I don't mind." He huffs out a laugh, watching the way your eyes blink open as if you're shocking yourself awake every few seconds. You're adorable as you try your best to refuse to nod off, determined to stay awake for Quinn.

"You sure?" You lift your head again with some effort, taking in the soft smile Quinn sends your way, the genuine affection in his eyes.

"Certain, baby..." You plop your head back down on his chest at the reassurance, snuggling closer and letting your eyes close properly this time, "Dune Part 1?"

"Dune Part 1." You mumble even though you both know you're going to be asleep in less than half an hour.

If he's being honest there are few things Quinn likes more than you falling asleep on him or around him. There's something about it, the complete display of trust and comfort, that you're so comfortable around him that you can just fall straight asleep, that fills him with a sense of masculine pride. It's what has him reaching for the blanket on the back of the couch, pulling it over your back so you don't get cold. It's what has him slipping his hand under your shirt, tracing small circles into the warmth of your skin, the sort of circles that always help you drift off. It's what has him keeping the volume of the movie low because he's not really watching it anyway, he's watching you.

He spends most of the movie just watching the way you breathe against him, slow and even, so deeply asleep that you start to drool a little on him. He knows you'd hate him to see that, but he finds it adorable, a compliment really that you can sleep that deeply around him.

Every now and then you shuffle and twist in your sleep, strands of hair falling into your face and each time he pushes them out of the way, tucking them behind your ears so that they don't annoy you in your sleep.

He wants this, he thinks, for the rest of his life. You coming home from a mad day of teaching, some ridiculous story on your lips, him holding you close while you drift off, being the comfort, the safety you deserve at the end of a long day. Maybe eventually a couple of kids, tucked in besides you, him shushing them so that mommy doesn't wake up. Maybe a dog, or a cat, you always said you wanted a cat...

Yeah, he thinks this might be the sort of normal that he wants for the rest of his life.

[hopepunk-humanity]

this is hope-punk to me but i'm not quite sure how this'll fit with the rest of the blog so i'm anon-ing. this is very heavy into the US's situation right now, so anyone that that may make spiral, maybe sit this one out

y'all know about the attempted "buy-out" of govt workers? my parents are govt employees. my mom told me the night before about the mass emails sent out basically saying "hey guysss if you quit now we'll pay your through september pretty pretty please quit"

mass emails don't usually get sent out from the OPM like this. workers receive emails from the individual department heads.

this is a massive fuck-up, because people knew it was fishy immediately. some even thought it was fake. people are confused and angry. my mom said "they're so tech-savvy yet they can't even write a convincing email", and thousands of other workers are saying the same. because this email is the exact same email that Melon Husk sent out to Twitter employees before he cut them

but this isn't Twitter. this is the entire US government workforce that hundreds of millions of people rely on to do their jobs every single day.

mind you, the govt is gonna run out of money March 15th (if the debt ceiling isn't raised). they CANNOT pay any workers who resign through september, if they pay them at all, which senator Tim Kaine (D-VA) is openly highly skeptical of and there is a video of him on the senate floor telling government workers to not take the deal, echoing exactly what federal unions are telling everyone

and now tens of thousands (probably hundreds, if i'm being honest) of govt workers are standing firm. they know what this means. the fed subreddit is just filled with "stand firm! hold the line!" posts and propaganda that i fucking love to see. one post has over 60k upvotes on it. saw dozens of comments that all say something like "i've been begging for a way out for the past few weeks but this email just reignited my passion for public service and upholding the law".

this is a war on the american people and they are ready to stand up to it. they know mass resignations will fuck up so much shit, and that there is NOT enough people wanting to work for the government to fill those holes.

as of 2pm today (1/29/25), a lawsuit has been filed by the AFGE about Trump trying to politicize the civil service, with special emphasis on how he's going about it. this will not go down quietly. add that to the list of every other lawsuit being filed against him

my mom sent out "keep calm and carry on" to her team and offered guidance if anyone was thinking about resigning (mainly, her younger team members who don't have tenure - understandable). this is a tumultuous time that is scary. my mom is never phased but she is so over this bullshit, as is my dad

this administration is trying to scare/threaten people into quitting because they know a gutting is not going to be easy or even possible and to be completely honest, that email was absolutely a threat to people's jobs.

this is a grand stand of solidarity to the american citizens these people took an OATH to work for. they are tired but they are re-fired up to fight this administration with everything.

and do you know what fighting tyranny looks like for government workers? doing their jobs well. making sure people get what they need. standing up for the constitution. because for some goddamn reason, the clown show believes that government workers just sit at a desk all day and do absolutely NOTHING

Donny may be smarter this time 'round and he knows what he wants, but he has no idea how to get any of it.

bottom-line is, a large chunk of federal workers are in republican-lead states in roles that encompass every department. a lot of government work involves blue-collar workers that get paid jack shit and are NOT partisan in any capacity. this is going to fuck people up, REGARDLESS of political affiliation

so stand behind the government workers who do so much. they need us just as much as we need them. and trust, WE NEED THEM.

if you want us to be okay, you have to believe that we CAN be okay first. and i'm believing that we will come out onto the other side of this. because american citizens hold all the power here, and not him, and this (so far failed) government takeover is just proving that even more. he is overconfident.

in the darkness, this is a spark of hope. people know what we have to lose and they are FIGHTING for it

As someone who was trying to get a federal job before this mess forced me to put those efforts on hold for now, I've been watching this situation unfold closely. I'm thrilled with what I've seen from the federal workforce. It makes me all the more confident that this is the career I want, because the people already there have the same mindset about it. It assures me, too, that there a huge swathes of the government (far more people than in congress) who have this country's best interests at heart.

Suffice to say, it's been really difficult to be hopeful about the U.S. government for the past several years. But for me at least, the federal workers are re-writing the narrative.

Hold the line. Don't resign.

[marxalittle]

as someone who has spent a good deal of time working with horses, and was a girl for most of that period, without being a horse girl but under the guidance of two of them (one former, one active, both full adults and indeed my own older relatives), I will say this:

horses are a form of freedom

first, they are an overriding responsibility, so no one can get mad at you for not doing things when your excuse is “I’m taking care of the 1500lb animal that has its own housing, medical team, specialist diet, and accessories, that huge investment of time and capital which you made for me on the strict condition that I look after it.” the freedom of an ironclad excuse for doing or not doing anything, in the form of a hugely expensive living thing, is only rivaled by having children, and therefore neatly excuses one from motherhood. pregnancy? the horse is pregnant. we have much graver concerns than dating. this aligns with the academically queer reading above, btw, I’m not arguing.

second: have you ever ridden a horse? not a trail pony who has a thousand people in the saddle every season, a horse who knows you, a horse you know? have you ever worked with an animal who is clearly at home behind those eyes to teach him things like “how to go through a gate” and “safely passing over an obstacle” and “not bucking and rolling off every goddamned piece of tack I just put on you, you colossal jackass” until she trusts you and listens to you and knows what it means when you shift your weight forward and tuck your right knee in? because that feeling, of riding a horse even if it’s just a long slow walk into the backcountry, even if it’s an agility routine under arena lights, so much more if it’s giving him his head and letting those muscles work in the sure and certain knowledge that when you pull in your heels and hands or lay your reins into his neck or turn your knee that this great thousand plus pound animal will listen and understand and do what you ask, not because you have any especial power or leverage over her but because she loves you, is a kind of freedom that is hard to describe, and is otherwise almost entirely closed to girls.

me? I was just a ranch hand. but I know what they see, when horse girls look at their horses.

"My sister, wise and insightful, points out to me furthermore that Velvet Brown and most other horse girls have a close relationship to a specific horse—The Pie, Sunlight, Moonlight, Solovey, Rhoha, etc.—that displaces the need for a human romance with its intimacy, and without the girl incurring any of the restrictive expectations of a heteronormative marriage. It is a queer relationship in the academic sense. In fact, so prevalent is this particular reading of the horse girl that there is evidently a whole academic tradition of moralizing the 'pony-mad girls' of fiction and reality as subjects with a displaced or deviant sexual fixation on horses that could derail their transitions into 'normal' heterosexual adolescents. So there you have it, we asked ‘What’s a horse girl?’ and we got our answer: Perverts, Your Honor!"

—Kristen Patterson, "How the Horse Girl Became Our Most Enduring (and Queerest) Archetype of Girlhood"

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Look, Don't Touch 3

Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, stalking, breaking and entering, possible blood and violence, and femcel energy. Tags are not exhaustive and more may be added as the series progresses.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get bored of watching and that makes you careless. (dark!reader)

Characters: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes

Note: my back hurts.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like snakes love Woody’s boots. Take care. 💖

Bucky's snores roll through the apartment. He's just as irritating asleep as he is awake. Your back racks and your legs cramp as you slump in the chair. Your eyes droop now and again only the roll open and flick to the blue digits of the clock. 

The minutes tick by like hours. His peaceful tempo irks you. It adds to the restlessness of your captivity.  

You don't blame him entirely. You're a dumb fucking bitch. Why didn't you do some scouting before you waltzed in? Wait it out to make sure it's clear. 

You go back and retrace your steps, over and over. Fuck. You're so stupid. So stupid. But not as stupid as that fucker thinks. 

Or as weak. 

He has that chip on his shoulder. He thinks his trauma overrides everyone else's. That no one else has been through shit. What you've been through you don't fucking think about because it's not worth it. He doesn't realise he's wasting his energy being such a miserable shit. 

You stare through the window for a while. The city sparkles here. Not like in your apartment where it blares like a broken television. 

Your head sinks down as your fatigue clouds your obstinacy. Your eyelids meet and your body slackens as much as it can within your bounds. The last look at the clock read about 3am. 

Your mind swirls in a miasma. Thick and viscous. Your skull thumps like sledge on concrete. Then all at once you're awake and shivering. 

The ice cold water seeps into your clothes as you gasp and gulp. Your lashes are webbed with moisture as you drip with the frigid rivulets. Bucky chuckles as a bucket hangs from his grip. 

"Morning sunshine." 

Your teeth chatter as you sneer back at him. You glance over at the city skyline. It's still a dusky mix of grey and blue. 

"0500. Up and at 'em," he proclaims chipperly. 

You shut your mouth and bite down on your shivers. This is what he wants. He's trying to break you. Well it's not gonna happen so soon. You've seen the videos on the dark web. You won't be scared by this emo bitch.  

"Gotta keep a routine." He taunts. 

You roll your eyes. Your gaze catches on the shine on the floor. You must've been out like a light. There's plastic under you. Maybe not just for the water. Well, you're not squeamish. 

"I usually start with a run. What do you do when you crawl out of your hole at one in the afternoon? Probably just the thought of Steve gets your heart pumping," he grits. 

"It helps," you snicker. "I've seen the real thing so... I'm certain my imagination is much better. The vibrator too." 

"Fucking smart ass," he mutters and stomps away. 

It's not a victory but it isn't defeat. You can match his energy, even if he's got you tied up like a dog. You wiggle in seat as that thought tickles something in you. You're twisted just like he said but he doesn't get to do that to you. Only Steve.  

He shuffles around in the bedroom. He emerges in track pants and a long sleeve tee. The legs are a bit too long for him. Steve's got a few inches on him, probably in more way than one. 

"I'll do about an hour," he taps on his watch. "Now you don't go getting into trouble." 

He scoffs and heads for the door. You tempo your breath as the goosebumps prickle over you in waves. Your clothes are soaked through. The door snaps shut and you huff. 

There's not much you can do. You close your eyes again. You're not going to sleep but you'll save your energy. As you languish in the slow drip of water pattering onto the plastic, your clothes grow stale and tepid. The wet fabric is sandpaper on your skin. 

He returns, whistling. He doesn't acknowledge you as he sets up in the kitchen. He puts his earbuds in the case and lets his music blast from the speaker. It's the kind of rock music a teenager listens to when they try to show off. 

You don't move. You're not going to let him see you squirm. He rattles around in the kitchen. 

"Gotta get lots of protein after a workout," he calls through as a pan sizzles. The aromas crawl over you and fill your lungs. Your tongue floods with saliva. "Lots of eggs, bacon, hm, oh Steve got the good greek yogurt." 

You don't answer his mocking monologue. You know what he's doing. Well if he thinks you've never gone hungry, that's his own martyr complex fueling his ego. 

He comes out with a full plate and sits across from you. He plants his feet wide, his plate in one hand as he shovels greedily with the fork. He stuffs his mouth and hums. 

You watch him calmly. He smirks and keeps pigging away on the food. There's enough for both of you and then some. You grimace. 

"How are you feeling? Hungry?" He asks. 

"Repulsed. You have grease on your chin." 

He pokes his tongue as he try to lick it up. You nearly gag at the remnants of food in his mouth. You don’t, you won't, look away. 

"I can hear your stomach," he says through a mouthful. "And your heart. Your lungs, too." 

"Yeah, I know you're a freak. Do you even know how the Russian fucks mangled you or did that go out the window with all the murder?" 

He gnashes his teeth down and narrows his eyes. His smile faded. It's your turn to grin. 

"Real fucked up from what I saw. There were some leaked classified docs after that weirdo Sokovian went off and planted those bombs." You tisk. "Children? Really? That's really der--" 

He's fast. Well, he is a super soldier. In an instant, he's in front of you, the plate is on the floor, and the fork is standing in your thigh as pain sears through your muscles. 

You yipe then muffle it to a groan. You take a deep breath as your lashes flick and you stare at the blood staining around the tines. You exhale through your lips and look at him. You don't stop smiling. 

You cackle, "hoooooo, I got you, Buck. I fucking got you." 

He stands straight and kicks the plate, scattering whats left of the eggs and bacon. He stomps away and balls his fists, grumbling and snarling. You laugh if only to keep from whimpering. 

There's pain beneath the swell of adrenaline. It's going to really hurt in a few minutes but right now, you feel great. You're awake. 

📷

Bucky appears again. His hair is damp and his skin is speckled with the aftermath of a shower. He has only a towel around his waist. Are you supposed to be impressed? 

He doesn't say a word as he moves around the apartment. He goes to the windows and looks out at the city. You stare at the couch dully. You're getting bored and your leg is throbbing. 

He circles around as you raise your brows, biding off the fatigue. Suddenly, he's behind you. He reaches around a rips the fork free. You grunt as blood pools up and spreads further along the denim.  

He wipes the tines on your sleeve, "I didn't get the artery, in case you're scared." He strides around and twirls the cutlery, "strange cause judging by your pulse, you're pretty fucking content with yourself." 

"Ha, is that what you want, hm?" You pout mockingly. "You wanna make a girl's heart race. Poor widdle winter baby don't got no place in this world. He wants to be wanted--" 

"You talk a pretty big game for someone as tiny as you are." He comes around and bends to look you in the eye. "What do you got going on? Who's going to even know you didn't make it home?" 

You hiss through a gritted smile, "you say that like I care. I've been pretty honest with you and myself. Maybe try a bit of introspection." 

"There's different types," he backs up and sits again. "The quiet ones. The violent ones. The talkers. Now, there's different kinds of talkers. The ones who threaten, then there's the ones who ramble. They talk so they don't gotta feel--" 

"You got me, Mr. Barnes. I'm so fucking scared of you I'm gonna piss my pants. You wanna watch again?" 

He chortles, "there ya go." 

"There I go." You sneer. "What's the game plan here, buddy? Starve me out? Think it'll happen before baby boy gets back? You gonna save some for him? Let him know you saved his ass. For once it wasn't the other way around huh?" 

"Shut up." 

"Or maybe that's a bad plan, huh? Steve might lose his shit a little. Realise he's not untouchable. I mean, a worm like me crawled right in--" 

"I said shut up," he snips. 

"You said it, I'm a talker. I gotta talk so I don't shake in my boots. Must feel like a big man. I mean I don't got Hydra juice in my veins and you could snap me like a twig," you scoff. "It's gotta make you a little hard." 

He tilts his head and squints, "you ever think of anything else?" 

"Don't worry, you're not in here," you nod your head. "It's all for the Captain. Second best again, sergeant." 

"You can't help yourself," he leans his elbows on his legs. 

"Well, I broke in, didn't I? Pretty clear I'm a bit off--" 

"No fucking shame." 

"It's really weird, don't you think? We only talk about shame when it's a woman. Men, they can do whatever the fuck they want and they're called outgoing and brave or committed, whatever." 

"Cut that shit," he snips. 

"It's true. But maybe that's not what this is. Maybe this is something else. Something more personal. Maybe you're jealous," you try to shrug. "The winter bozo got no fans to stalk him. Mm, sad." 

He stares at you then his gaze falls to your leg. He stands up and marches off. No answer. Typical. That's the thing about men, they can't admit when they're wrong. Can't own up to their faults but everyday a woman has to pay penance for just existing. 

He stomps back to you and slaps his hand down on your injured leg. The burning sensation of his palm tears a yowl from your and you look down as thick grains of salt tumble out between his fingers. He mashes the salt into your wound. You gnash your teeth and grunt. 

"FUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKK!" You seethe through your clamped jaw. 

He laughs, "this is kinda fun." He puts his forehead against yours. "And I can't help but agree with you, doll. Why the fuck am I fighting my programming?" He squeezes your leg and you wheeze. "Let's get nice and cozy with the soldier. He's got all the good ideas." 

You snort and twitch, halfway between agony and amusement. You push against him and snap your teeth. 

"Finally, something interesting." You rasp. 

He smirks and pushes of you. You groan as he turns cracks his neck. He tosses the salt onto the plastic sheet. You watch his metal hand open and close. 

He spins and struts into the kitchen. He comes back with your notebook. A strike of rage swells in you. Fuck. 

He stands in front of you and licks his fingertips. He clears his throat and flutters through the pages. 

"'I went to his place. It's nice. Different than being outside. His bed is big, it's a wonder he never fucks in it. Seems like Cap is afraid of commitment.'" He guffaws. "You really think you know him?" 

"Stream of consciousness." You utter. 

"Sure," he skims the lines on the pages. "'I think I had my biggest O in his bed. Just with my fingers. I could smell him around me. If I closed my eyes, he was there--'"  

He shifts and the towel twitches. Your lips slant. Disgusting. 

"Do you really think he'd want to touch something like you?" 

"I can draw a line between fact and fiction. How about you?" You chirp. "You can't even remember how many innocent people you killed--" 

"It's getting old," he growls.  

"Maybe Stevie won't want a piece. I'm not delusional, just obsessive. But you-" you nod to his crotch. "Seems like you're getting a bit too into this." 

He lowers the notebook and grins. "You ever actually fucked a guy?" 

"What does it matter?" 

"Is that it? You think Steve wants to pluck the flower in your dusty little garden?" 

"It was never--" you huff and wiggle in the chair. "Look, you don't get it. It was never supposed to be real. It's like a TV show. A distraction. Something to do." 

"Wow, that's sad." 

"Yeah, but it's the truth. A lot of people can't face themselves in the mirror." 

"Oh virtue," he scoffs and throws the notebook on the couch behind him. "Is it honesty or self-pity?" 

"Bit of both." You look up defiantly as he steps closer. "Look at me. I know what I am. I'm a creep but I don't deny it. What you are, you can't even say it out loud." 

He exhales and his chest compressed. He puts his hands on his hips as he glowers at you. His towel tents and you frown. 

"Dude, get that away from me." 

"What's the matter? Is this the closest you've been?" He taunts. 

You lean back and keep your eyes up, "I've seen a dick. Touched a few even. Trust me, I'm not interested." 

"I could put on the suit. There's a back-up in his closet." 

"Nasty." 

"Look who's talking," he retorts. "You think I'm fucking serious?" 

"I know the things you're capable of, soldat." You challenge. 

His eyes flare and his knuckles flash across your vision, bone snapping against your cheek. You close your mouth as it floods with iron. You swallow the blood and wiggle a back tooth with your tongue. You snicker. 

You face him as the swelling thrums hotly under the surface. He glares back at you. You lean back and round your eyes. You've never been good at that cutesy shit. 

He smirks, "keep going, baby. We'll see who breaks first." 

You lower your lashes and sniffle. He hovers and you steel yourself. You lurch forward and open your mouth. The chair tilts with your weight and you bite through the cotton as your teeth meet the towel. You pinch something beneath it. Him. 

He exclaims and punches your head. He grunts as the chair tips and falls on its side. Your head bounces against the chair. The towel heaps next to you as he growls and cradles his erection. 

"The fuck? You are deranged!" 

"I told you to move back," you slur as silver stars spatter across your vision.  

"Fucking bitch," he hisses and leaves you on the plastic. You laugh until it fades into a dry crackle. You hit your head pretty good and he got a few good shots in too. 

[starlightkun]

➺ word count: 9.3k ➺ genre & warnings: sci-fi, near future, fluff, falling in love without seeing each other, minor hurt/comfort, coworkers au (but in space), space traffic controllers; brief blood/injury mention ➺ synopsis: in which you go to your job as a space traffic controller every day looking forward to your shifts with one specific coworker who you might be falling head over heels for. and sure, you don't know quebec’s real name, nor what he looks like, but you two talk for hours a day between guiding landings and take-offs, and you know him better than anyone else. you’re perfectly happy, until his end of the comms falls silent one day and won’t reconnect ➺ extra info: i recommend being aware of the existence of the icao alphabet so ur not thrown for a complete loop by ppl’s nicknames in here lol. u don’t need it memorized but i swear i didn’t pull these words out of thin air ok. also, in aviation, the number 9 is pronounced niner, ur not going crazy and neither am i ➺ author’s note: agh i had so, so much fun with this one! i know i say that with every new fic, but it’s true! also, i don’t know a whole lot about being an air traffic controller, so this was only loosely based off that (and reader and kun’s jobs are made up anyway), but my dad used to have his pilot’s license and take me flying with him when i was little and i took aviation classes in hs, so i do have a bit of knowledge/experience from that so there’s definitely a lot of influence from american aviation jargon in here (whether or not it’s used correctly is an entirely different thing... we’re in space in the future, after all)

You didn’t immediately see any sign of injury and grabbed his wrist to try to find a pulse. It was faint, but there, and when you put your hand under his nose, you could feel his shallow breaths against your skin. He didn’t rouse, though, and that was when you saw a drop of blood trailing out of his ear.

“Hey, Quebec?” You spoke into the mic, knowing that only one other person could hear you.

“—eah, Zulu?” A familiar man’s voice came through your headset, the very beginning of his sentence cut off as he hadn’t let there be enough still air before he started speaking.

One might think your job lonely or heroic or an opportunity to travel and see some of what the vast Milky Way had to offer. Space Traffic Control was by no means glamorous, and you certainly didn’t feel like a grand figure of mythology in your standard-issue orange jumpsuit that all employees wore on duty, sat at your desk with your feet crossed under you and your mic in one hand as you used the other for leverage against the counter to spin yourself around and around, the various lights on your control panel turning into a starshower before your very eyes. But you quite liked your job. You had the same shift almost every day, so your schedule was predictable, and while the landings and takeoffs that you oversaw were pretty regular thanks to the advancements in space travel, every so often, something fantastic did happen, and you did get to save the day with your quick thinking and directions. You were very rarely thanked or even acknowledged for it, all of the credit and glory going to the pilots, of course, but you didn’t mind—keeping your head down had always best suited you.

And you could never feel alone, even if you were the only person in your control tower. Not when you had Quebec. It was policy to have two controllers on duty at all times, in case of medical emergency (or non-emergency, since even Space Traffic Controllers had to use the bathroom). While you and Quebec weren’t always on shift at the same time, the shifts that you shared with him were by far your favorite. You’d never met in person, nor seen his face, nor even knew his real name, only his call name (Quebec Kilo). But other than that, you knew everything about each other. It wasn’t against any rules for STCs to know each other’s names, but since you only ever used call names on shift, it was pretty pointless to give out your real names.

The landing dock had two towers facing each other, and while they technically did have windows so you could see outside at the approaching spacecraft, even when the lighting was perfect, you could make out no more than a fuzzy, shadowy outline of a person in the window opposite you.

“What did you bring for dinner?”

“Don’t tell me you’re eating your dinner already.” His voice was clearly exasperated.

You hurried to swallow the chip in your mouth before replying. “No…”

“I can hear the food in your mouth.”

“Just a snack!”

“And now you’re going to get hungry again right after dinner and have to go to the vending machine down the hall for another snack and leave me alone with everything.”

“For like five minutes.”

“Remember when that Class-III Tanker came in for an emergency docking while you were on a snack break?”

“Remember every single other time when that didn’t happen, and it was perfectly uneventful?”

He kept his mic on to sigh directly into it, letting you know exactly how he felt. “Just go ahead and eat all of your dinner, why don’t you?”

“Maybe I will,” you bickered back.

“I just brought a rice ball from the convenience store in Sector II,” he answered your question anyway. “And an iced tea.”

“You like to warm your rice balls up or do you eat them cold?”

“I’ve got a salmon one today.”

“Question still stands.”

“Who eats warm salmon and mayo rice balls?”

“Plenty of perfectly normal people.”

He laughed, his disgust from earlier fading away. “You warm up your salmon and mayo onigiri, don’t you?”

“What’s weird about that?” You immediately defended yourself.

“Nothing, I suppose,” he gave in. “I’ve just never thought to try it. Pork, sure. Beef, absolutely. Salmon or tuna? Never.”

“You should try it today. I know that tower has a microwave.”

“Our towers are exactly the same.”

“Almost.”

“What are you leaving me this time? And where?”

You tried to imagine his grin, despite knowing nothing about what he looked. You had decided long ago that he had dimples, one deeper than the other, because that was obviously cuter. And probably straight teeth, since he spoke like he was well educated, which meant his family probably had the money to afford braces if he needed them.

“You’ll find out,” you replied in a sing-songy voice, having already stashed various gifts somewhere around the office. Days in the towers were long and boring, so you’d been teaching yourself more and more complicated origami, always leaving pieces in hiding spots around the tower for Quebec to find the next time he was in there.

The ten STCs were split into two teams of five. Since the station was so large, it was a chore to commute back and forth between the towers every shift. So, each team of five was assigned to one tower, then you’d swap every two months. This meant that your cabin also moved every two months to the opposite side of the station, but you didn’t mind—crew cabins were impersonal and barebones anyway, and different sectors had different offerings in the convenience stores, cafeteria, food court, and just different people. It was a change in scenery even if you were still stuck in the same corner of space.

“And what do you have for dinner, Zu?” He hummed, imitating your tune.

“Well, I just finished my chips,” you sighed with disappointment, tossing the wrapper away. “They were salt and vinegar. But I still have some fruit—honeydew, it’s my favorite—and a leftover sandwich from the caf from yesterday.”

“The fruit—is it imported? From Earth?”

You scoffed. “Pfft! I can’t afford that! You know how much we make! Wait—Unless you’re making more than me. Bec, are you making more than me?”

“No, no, no,” he reassured you with a laugh. “I just thought you might have saved up, since it’s your favorite.”

“It’s my favorite, but I still can’t justify spending that much on something that I’m just going to digest.” You shook your head. “Ag-bubble-grown is perfectly fine for me, thanks.”

“Practical.”

“It’s what I grew up eating. I don’t have a spoiled palate.”

“Like I said, practical.”

A blip appeared on one of your screens, at the same time that all the information on the craft appeared on the screen beside it. “It’s that civilian craft we’ve been waiting for,” you said. “Rock paper scissors?”

“Because that’s always been great via audio,” Quebec chuckled.

“Hundredth time’s the charm.”

“Rock paper scissors, shoot—Rock!” “Paper!”

“See?” He said pointedly, and you imagined him rolling his eyes. “The person who says it always has the disadvantage because of the delay.”

“No, I think you almost had me that time. Really.”

He sighed and cleared his throat, which you took as your cue to turn your mic off. There was another distinct crackle of him turning his outgoing signal on before he started speaking to the incoming spacecraft.

“Space Traffic Control to civilian Sparrow, November-One-One-Niner-Six-Whiskey. Do you copy?”

“Civilian Sparrow November-One-One-Niner-Six-Whiskey, we copy, Space Traffic Control.” The voice of the pilot was even more garbled than yours and Quebec’s, typical not only of civilian spacecraft, but judging by how short the N number was, he had a much, much older craft as well. There had been so many made by now that some N numbers were over 10 characters long and included letters too. After the initial identification was made, the N number would typically be abbreviated to the last three characters to save time, unless another craft was in the area with a similar N number. “We are approaching your portside slightly positive on your z-axis, but we’ll sort that out before we get there, about five minutes out. Do we have permission to land?”

“Control to Sparrow, you are all clear for landing. We’ll see you in a bit.”

“Roger-dodger. Thanks, Control. Fair winds. Sparrow over.”

“Fair winds,” Quebec echoed. “Control over.”

Quebec had hardly turned off his outgoing feed when you caught another blip on your screen, this one you weren’t expecting, approaching quickly. You frowned as Quebec cursed under his breath, the information on the spacecraft once again reading out underneath the information on the Sparrow. This was also a civilian craft, slightly larger than the Sparrow, and definitely newer, the N number at least 10 digits long by the look of it.

“Space Traffic Control to civilian Hummingbird, November-Zero-India—”

“Yeah, copy,” the pilot of the new spacecraft cut Quebec off.

“I need to finish identifying your craft,” he said through gritted teeth. “Civilian Hummingbird, November-Zero-India-Zero-Zero-Seven-Four-Two-Zero-Juliet-Foxtrot-Niner-Eight-Delta. Do you copy?”

There was a long bout of silence, so Quebec asked again, “Hummingbird Niner-Eight-Delta, do—”

“Yeah, I copy, didn’t you hear me the first five times?” The pilot was clearly irritated now, and so were you and Quebec.

“Were you holding the button to turn your mic on the first five times?” Your coworker asked.

“I’m landing in like, two minutes. It’s clear, right?”

“No.”

“What?!”

“We don’t have your flight on file, and there’s another spacecraft that did put their landing request in ahead of time that we’re expecting to land within the next five minutes. So, no,” Quebec reiterated with no sympathy. “Do an orbit. An eccentric one.”

The pilot sputtered indignantly before declaring, “This is an emergency!”

“All readings from your vessel indicate that it’s in perfect condition. Brand new, even. What is the nature of your emergency? Please give us specific details so we can assist.”

You, meanwhile, were glad that your mic was muted, because you were keeled over at your desk laughing, wiping at the tears being forced from your eyes.

Clearly unable to think of a specific emergency scenario, the Hummingbird pilot gave up. “Fine! I’ll orbit and land in ten minutes.”

“We will process your landing request and let you know if you have permission to land.” There was no response from the pilot, but Quebec nevertheless said, “Control over.”

“Hummingbird over,” he finally replied, not hiding how peeved he was.

The dot signifying the Hummingbird changed course, beginning an oblong orbit around the space station that would thankfully take it out of the path of the incoming Sparrow.

“Asshole,” Quebec muttered over your internal frequency.

“Just because we’re not near any major planet doesn’t mean they can show up unannounced and expect to land whenever they want,” you scoffed. “Nobody seems to get that we’re the last station around for light-years, so everybody stops in. Which is why they’re trying to land in the first place.”

“You would think they’d think about that, but no,” he sighed. “Everybody assumes nobody exists outside their own ship. Including us. We’re just disembodied voices to them.”

“I wonder how many people think they’re talking to an automated system when they talk to us.”

“Lots, I’m sure.”

A few minutes later, the Sparrow landed with no issues, and you waved to the quaint ship of various patchwork panels of tan and browns as it came in, despite the pilot being unable to see you. It was just something you liked to do.

“Bec?”

“Yeah, Zu?”

“You want me to let the Hummingbird know their landing has been approved?”

He groaned. “No, but better you than me.”

You snickered, composing yourself right before turning your external comms on, establishing a connection to the Sparrow with a flick of a switch. “Space Tower Control to civilian Hummingbird Niner-Eight-Delta, do you copy?”

“Where’s the other guy?” The pilot asked, surprise evident in his tone. He was clearly ready for a round two.

“Control to civilian Hummingbird Niner-Eight-Delta, do you copy?” You repeated in your most neutral, artificial customer service voice.

“As long as he stays gone,” he grumbled. His time-out imposed by Quebec had clearly done him no good. “Yeah, this is civilian Hummingbird Niner-Eight-Delta. I copy, Control.”

“Your landing request has been approved. In the future, please submit your landing requests at least twelve standard Earth hours prior to arrival in non-emergency cases.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“What’s your ETA, Hummingbird?”

“1743.”

“Copy. Fair winds, Hummingbird. Control over.”

“Fair winds,” he repeated unenthusiastically. “Hummingbird over.”

The Hummingbird was of course a sleek ship, slightly larger than the Sparrow in size, but all smooth, thin, long shapes and a glossy scarlet red paint job with chrome accenting. You flipped it off as it glided by to dock with the space station.

After coming back from your late-night vending machine break, you catapulted yourself back into your rolly chair with enough momentum to roll back up to your station with no extra movements needed. Putting your headset back on, you announced into your mic, “I’m back!”

“No disasters,” Quebec reported dryly. “This time.”

“You’re never gonna let me live that down, huh?” You clicked your tongue.

“No.”

“Anyway, I got cookies, in case you were curious,” you told him cheerily. “And information!”

“What sort of information?”

“There was a paper on the bulletin board by the vending machine advertising skiing lessons on Nixu for this upcoming snow season. Starts in just a couple months. You know what that means?”

“We’re about to get all their tourists coming through here on their way to go ski and snowboard and whatever else,” he sighed. “For the next three Nixiun years.”

“Yup!” You confirmed through your bite of cookie. “How many standard years is that? Five? Ten?”

“Too many.”

“Well, Nixiun summer was peaceful while it lasted. For the whole six months.”

“God, have we really been working here for that long?”

“We started within a couple weeks of each other, I think. My one year’s coming up.”

“My one year was a few days ago.”

“Aw, and you didn’t tell me?” You gasped in betrayal. “I would’ve done something!”

“It’s fine, Zulu. I think I was on shift with Pops anyway.” Pops—another one of the Space Traffic Controllers on your team, an older man who happened to be assigned the call name Golf Papa (shortened to Pops).

“Yeah, but you and me are like—” You gesticulated wildly as you scrambled for the right word. “You know?”

“No, not really,” he laughed. “I need you to elaborate a little bit more.”

“We’re Quebec and Zulu, you know? Bec and Zu.” You could see your pout in the reflection of the glass window as you looked out at Quebec’s control tower across from you. “I know we’re all close but you and me are like extra. Right?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Quebec agreed without a hint of sarcasm or jest. “When’s your one year? I want to make sure I don’t miss it.”

“In six days. I expect fireworks,” you teased.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“We’re working together that day, I think.” You pulled up the schedule on your computer connected to the ship’s intranet. “Yeah, the 1600 to 2400 shift again. It’s starred, we’re going to have a VIP that shift.”

“What about the day before?”

You hummed as you looked it over. “Wednesday… I’m off, and you are on the 2400 to 0800 shift with Uni. You have a lot of time between shifts on Wednesday and Thursday at least. Ooh… never mind.”

“What?”

“You’ve got alt shifts Tuesday-Wednesday. You’re on 0800 to 1600 Tuesday with Uni.”

With 8-hour shifts and two controllers needing to be on shift at a time, your supervisors tried to give you at least two shifts—16 hours—off between when you were scheduled to allow for adequate rest and downtime. Being scheduled for alternating shifts, on, off, then back on (or god forbid, double shifts), was a nightmare for trying to get any rest, errands, or other personal time in.

“Let me see this,” he mumbled, presumably pulling it up on his own monitor. A few moments later, he groaned. “Kill me now.”

“Hey, I’ve got the 1600 shift Tuesday with Indy,” you scoffed. “I’ll kill you if you kill me.”

“Ah, he’s not so bad…”

“You interact with him for all of five minutes when you swap, I have to deal with him for the whole eight hours.”

“Our crew quarters are near each other, actually. We’ve grabbed lunch.”

You clutched your chest as your jaw dropped in horror. “I thought we were friends, Bec, and now I find out you’ve grabbed lunch with my archnemesis?”

“Normal people don’t have archnemeses, Zu.”

“Well I—” A blip popped up on your screen and you quickly switched your comms over to address the incoming ship. “Space Traffic Control to military Wasp, Kilo-Five-Five-Eight. Do you copy?”

Military ships didn’t have N numbers like civilian crafts, instead they had a much shorter ID number. The first letter indicated the classification of the vessel, while the numbers after were unique to that ship.

“Military Wasp Kilo-Five-Five-Eight to Space Traffic Control, we copy,” the pilot replied automatically. “We’re not looking to dock, just requesting a conditions report.”

“Nothing major in the past twenty-four hours and nothing expected in the next forty-eight. Sending the full specs to your ship now,” you said, quickly doing so on your computer.

A few moments later, she confirmed, “Received. Thanks, Control. We’ll be heading out now.”

“Fair skies. Control over.”

“And following seas. Wasp over.”

It seemed a bit silly to you when you started as an STC, to say an old Naval blessing every time you ended a conversation with someone, considering that you were in space so there were no skies or seas to speak of. But soon it became second nature to you. You found that most civilians just echoed ‘fair skies’ back to you, but military personnel would actually complete the phrase.

As soon as you had turned your outgoing feed off, you got right back into it with Quebec, closing your eyes and putting a hand over your chest as you went on with your impassioned opinion, “I think having an archnemesis livens things up. Especially around here.”

“I thought that’s what I was for?” He teased.

“Do you want to be my archnemesis instead?”

“Could be fun.” You imagined him shrugging with a lopsided grin on his face. “Are you taking applications?”

“Only for you.”

“Ooh, I feel so special.”

“Yeah, well I’m tired of wasting time and brainpower on Indy of all fucking people.” You kicked your feet up on the desk, eyes focused on the other tower now as you grinned at it. You always left shifts with Quebec with sore cheeks. “I need someone more on my level anyway.”

“Are you saying if I become your archnemesis then you’ll think about me all the time?” His voice curled around your ear, still playful but not quite the same friendly banter as before. You weren’t sure when it started, but there were moments like this, between your taunting, and poring your hearts out to each other, and rousing games of audio rock-paper-scissors, and actual work, that the mood… shifted.

You bit the tip of your thumb to keep from literally screaming, taking a second to compose yourself before answering. “Mm… maybe.”

“Because then you’re already my archnemesis.”

Muting your mic, you then literally screamed and pumped your fist into the air victoriously. After a deep inhale, you turned your mic back on, unable to contain your giddiness in your one-word question, “Really?”

A hand landed on your shoulder, and you let out an embarrassing yelp directly into the mic, whipping around to see the STC who was taking the next shift from you. “Fucking—Delta! What the fuck, man?”

Quebec was now laughing directly in your ear over the headset, and you took one ear off to hear what Delta said back to you.

“I’ve been here for the past two minutes. I thought you saw the light.” He indicated to the red light above your station that flashed when someone opened the door to your tower. You must’ve had your eyes shut when Delta came in and missed the signal. Delta looked entirely unamused and a little disgusted as he looked down at you, continuing, “Anyway, I’m ready and I can’t listen to you and Quebec do… whatever that is anymore.”

Your stomach dropped out of your ass at his words. What the hell did your conversation with Bec sound like to other people? Apparently bad. You barely knew Delta, only interacting with him during shift hand-offs, and, yeah, he seemed a bit uptight, but still, this was embarrassing.

Quebec was no longer laughing, now coughing and sputtering on the other end of the line too. You meekly put the mic back on the desk and took the headset off, handing it over to Delta. He took disinfectant wipes to the headset, waving them in the air for the solution to dry before putting them on and taking the seat which you had just vacated. You shuffled over to the table by the door where your bag was, as well as the IN/OUT log, which you signed before hurrying out.

Returning to the hall where your crew cabin was, you walked by an open door and stopped to poke your head in, beaming at the woman sitting on her bunk. “Hey, Uni!”

“Hey, Zulu,” the STC on your team—Uniform Lima was her full call name—lifted her hand in greeting. “Just get off shift?”

“Yeah, I was going to grab something to eat and head to the gym before sleeping. Want to come?”

“I already worked out, but I could eat,” she agreed.

“Let me get out of my jumpsuit then we can go. You pick.”

Indy was the only STC who was a gym rat to your knowledge, but being in space, working out and supplements were just a fact of life in order to prevent muscle atrophy and other deterioration of your body. You were used to it, having spent plenty of time on spaceships growing up. Going to the gym with a buddy made the mandatory exercise regimen go by a lot quicker.

After changing into casual clothes appropriate for the gym, you grabbed Uni and headed out. She was a few years older than you, not nearly Pops’ age, but you knew she had been here for a little while before you started. Uni was a tall woman, tall enough that you had to crane your neck a little to look up at her, with dark black hair that she kept cropped close to her head. There were a few premature specks of grey at the back, which you never mentioned to her in case she hadn’t noticed.

“You were on shift with Quebec today?” She asked casually.

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” you answered. “You… checked the schedule?”

“Just to see when I was working. You had your dopey little smile on, so I figured.”

You covered your mouth with both your hands, squinting at her over them. “What are you talking about?”

“No, I think it’s cute. You guys are so cute when you talk about each other.”

“He talks about me?!”

She burst into laughter, fondly patting the top of your head. “Gotcha.”

“You’re mean,” you huffed, swatting her hand away. “Mean and awful and a liar—”

“I wasn’t lying!” You friend defended herself. “He does talk about you when we’re on shift. And it is very cute, too. I just also gotcha by bringing it up.”

The two of you had arrived at the food court that never closed, and she started towards one of the options. You followed, not caring where you ate right now, and also desperately needing to continue this conversation.

“What does he say, Uni?” You pleaded, shaking her by the arm as you got in the short line. Time was pretty meaningless on a space station in the middle of nowhere, constantly getting travelers arriving and departing, so people ate whenever they pleased. The only ones who tended to keep a pretty regular schedule were the crew—except STCs, of course.

“He talks about you the most, out of all the STCs. It’s always Zulu this, Zu that. He knows we’re friends, so he asks about how you’re doing if you guys haven’t been scheduled together for a while, stuff like that.”

You dug your toe into the metal panel under you as you thought about it. Suddenly, your friend was pinching your cheek and cooing at you, “Cute!”

“Uni!” You whined and smacked her hand away, cradling your now-tender skin. She laughed as the two of you shuffled up in line.

The days all tended to blur together on the space station if you weren’t careful. Time was pretty meaningless in the middle of nowhere with no seasons or daylight to give your body cues. STCs mostly relied on shifts and tower cycles as units of time—the duration of a shift, and how long you were assigned to one tower before you moved to the opposite side of the station.

You were back on shift with Quebec, and so far, it had been a busy one. You’d barely had time to breathe between arrivals and departures, much less chitchat. Finally, during what seemed to be a lull, you pulled out your bag of food from your bag.

“Alright, that’s it,” you huffed. “I’m eating dinner.”

“What do you have tonight?” He asked.

“Didn’t have time to run to the convenience store today so it’s just some snacks and stuff I had in my room. Might have to make a vending machine run, sorry.”

“Look in the minifridge.”

“What? Did you rig it to explode?” You pushed your rolling chair back to grab the edge of the fridge, pulling the door open to peer inside.

“You’ll just have to find out.”

A plastic container greeted you, and you grabbed it, already spotting something green inside. Setting it and your mic back down on your desk, you took the lid off with a pop, eyes bugging out of your head as you looked at the green and white cubes. The color and shine alone told you that these weren’t grown in an ag-bubble, these were imported straight from Earth.

“Quebec…” You breathed out in awe. “You did not.”

“You can’t justify spending that much on something you’re going to digest, but I can,” he replied kindly. “Go ahead, eat. Happy one year at the station.”

“I didn’t even remember that was today,” you admitted.

You grabbed a cube between your fingers, not bothering to find utensils. The best part was licking your fingers after, in your opinion. The fruit was juicy and sweet, no bitterness from the rind at all, and so much more flavor than ag-bubble fruit could ever develop. You felt tears well up in your eyes, embarrassingly.

“God, it’s so good. Thank you,” you mumbled through your half-eaten honeydew. “I wish I could share it with you right now.”

“No, don’t worry about me,” he said, and you heard a faint pop of another plastic lid opening on his end of the line. “They were selling it by weight. I had them send some to your tower and some to mine.”

You smiled at the tower across the landing dock. “We are sharing it right now.”

“Yeah, we are.”

“Have you ever been on a picnic, Bec? Like, a real one, outside on a blanket with a picnic basket on the grass with fresh air and food and your friends and family?”

“Once, when I was really little. I don’t remember much about it. My mom showed me a picture,” he mused. “Have you, Zu?”

“No, never. I was born on a mining colony. Never breathed fresh air in my life, or been to Earth. Always been in ships, stations like this, or firmaments.” Firmaments—man-made structures on the surface of planets whose conditions were not naturally habitable for humans. Within the firmaments, the air quality, pressure, temperature, and planet’s surface could be regulated in order to allow for human survival. The actual mining typically happening outside of the firmaments, however, and that was only one reason that it was so dangerous—and lucrative.

“What about your parents?”

“They weren’t born on Earth either, never saw the big deal about going to visit.” You shrugged, popping another piece of melon in your mouth. “What about you?”

“My parents were born on Earth. They wanted me to be born there too, but I came a little early while they were on a trip to a nearby resort planet. The closest hospital was on its moon…”

“Did you grow up on Earth then?”

“Visited after I was born, went back and forth for a good bit of my childhood, but my parents just liked traveling too much to stay in one place.”

“My family moved around a lot too. Mining pays good, but you have to move with the materials. There’s always some hot new mineral in vogue that’s paying more than the last thing everyone wanted. You never want to stick around until a mine dries up.”

“How long does that take? Like, how much did you move around?”

“Depends. Sometimes we were there for a few weeks or months, sometimes years.”

Quebec was quiet for a moment, and you took the opportunity to eat two more pieces of honeydew. Then, he said, “Zulu?”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you take this job? All the way out here?”

“I didn’t want to work in the mines with my parents my whole life. Saw the opening and figured I might as well give it a go,” you answered simply. “What about you?”

“Kind of similar. More desperate, I think,” he admitted. “I was in med school, actually, and I was absolutely miserable. Just at rock fucking bottom. I told my parents I was going to quit and they said I couldn’t unless I either enrolled in law school, or got a job. This was the first one I found.”

You blinked, watching the dark dot in the window across from you. “Wow. I don’t think you’ve ever told me that.”

“Haven’t talked to anybody about it since coming here.”

“Why’d you ask me that then? You had to have figured I would’ve turned the question back on you.”

“I… don’t think I knew I was going to tell you that until I said it.”

“You know you can always talk about whatever with me, Bec.”

“I know,” he replied warmly. “Same for you. I’m all ears.”

“So you quit med school, took the first job you could find and just happened to find something you liked doing?”

“No,” he chuckled. “I did not take to being an STC at all initially. I wanted to quit after my first week. I was on this stupid station in the middle of nowhere starting all over again at a job that paid considerably less than the surgeon I was supposed to be. I was miserable, and lost, and kept thinking that they were right and I should just put my head down and be a doctor or a lawyer or whatever. It felt like I could’ve disappeared from the universe and nobody would notice.” He sighed, and you felt your heart twist in your chest. “Then during my second week, another new STC started, and we ended up on a shift together. And you said—there’s no way you remember this, Zulu, it’s so… but—What do you remember about that shift?”

You rifled through your memories desperately for something, anything specific, but came up empty. “Not much, I mean, it was like my second one, I think. So I was still pretty nervous about doing everything right, and I remember meeting you, but I don’t think we even talked much outside of small talk, right?”

“That’s great. I mean it, I love that you’re just like this, that you weren’t trying to do it,” he laughed with his whole chest, and you smiled fondly, not feeling like he was laughing at you at all. “Anyway, it was pretty dead that shift, and in one of the quiet times, you got on the mic and you told me to look outside. I thought there was a ship or something going on. But then you said, ��I’ve never seen these stars before.’ Which made me realize I hadn’t even looked at the stars since arriving at the station. At the end of the shift, you said, ‘Talk to you next time, Quebec.’ And I decided ‘sure, I’ll stick around until next time, see what else she’ll say.’” His words made you snicker softly, and he continued, “And then you just kept saying these little, interesting things, or things that made me smile for the first time in years, or you’d ask questions and let me talk about whatever I wanted… I kept putting off quitting until I wasn’t half-bad at being an STC and didn’t hate living at the station anymore.”

“Bec…” You murmured, fidgeting with the wire of your headset. “Do—”

A dot popped up on your monitor then, and Quebec said, “Ah, there’s the ambassador.”

Because of where you were in space, the last station for a very long while along the intergalactic travel routes in this region, it wasn’t unusual for you to receive special arrivals. Politicians, ambassadors, military leaders, celebrities, you’ve seen a lot in your one year as an STC. Today, an ambassador from Earth was stopping over on their way to an intergalactic peace conference. You and Quebec had received the briefing for the landing in advance to your crew emails, so the ship information that appeared along with the dot was already familiar to you. When the VIPs were of this caliber, all of the higher-ups on the ship would be at the docking port to greet them. The protocols for landing were also slightly different, meaning that having two STCs was necessary for much of it.

“Space Traffic Control to military Heavy, Papa-Zero-Four-Niner. Do you copy?” Quebec took over the initial paging.

“Military Heavy, Papa-Zero-Four-Niner to Control, we copy,” the pilot’s voice came back quickly. “Sending out recognition codes…”

An incoming message from the Heavy flashed up on your screen, and you accepted. Quebec read his out first, then you got on the mic to read out your three-number code.

“Great, thanks,” the pilot acknowledged. “Are we clear for landing?”

“Yes,” Quebec confirmed.

The two of you seamlessly worked through the pre-landing protocols with the Heavy’s pilot. Finally, you just had to wait for the craft to get closer before you could begin the next phase: landing. The pilot dropped off the comms momentarily to address something internally, promising to get back on when it was time to begin the landing. That just left you and Quebec again.

“Wonder why they even keep having these intergalactic peace conferences,” he mused. “They only invite the factions that are already at peace, never the ones with any tension.”

“It’s symbolic, I guess,” you shrugged. “Maybe they talk about how to go about achieving peace with the ones that aren’t there? Or to promote continued peace among the ones that are there?”

“It’d probably be worse to stop at this point, huh?”

“Yeah, might not look good if they stopped holding the intergalactic peace conference that’s been going on for the past couple decades.”

“Still, Th’irin always has something to say about—” A heavy clunk punctuated the end of his words, followed by silence. Not fuzzy silence, like when the mic was on but the person on the other end was quiet. Dead silence, like the mic had been shut off entirely.

“Bec?” You said uncertainly. Someone must have come into his tower, and he was addressing them off-mic.

When he still hadn’t responded a minute later, even to tell you to hold on or wait a minute, you started getting nervous. Sitting forward in your seat, you futzed with cover on your microphone as you called into it again.

“Quebec? You there?”

Nothing.

You paged him properly this time, hitting the button to flash the lights in his tower as you enunciated as clearly as possible, “Space Traffic Control Tower One to Tower Two, Quebec Kilo, do you copy?”

At the same time, your hands rushed to send a message to him via the STC system.

[TOWER1: Q? DO YOU COPY?]

Your heartbeat was thudding in your ears as you desperately went to send another message via the ship intranet to your superiors instead. As soon as you had started drafting it, though, you cursed under your breath and deleted it. They would be down at the dock waiting to receive the ambassador, not at their usual stations with monitors ready to receive emergency alerts from the STC towers.

“Military Heavy to Control, do you copy?” The pilot’s voice cut through the sound of your heartbeat, and you banged your fist on the desk in frustration. You quickly went into the system and switched it over to be a dual STC setup on your monitors since Quebec apparently wasn’t going to be able to help.

Turning your outgoing feed back on, you confirmed, “Control to Heavy, we copy.”

Now with both set of STC controls, you had to move twice as fast to input everything and go through the landing protocols with the pilot. All the while, in the back of your mind, the black put of worry in your stomach only grew and grew.

In between operations, you were drafting a new message, this time to the other STCs. You doubted any of them were going to be checking their staff emails not on duty, but you needed some kind of help. It was a succinct SOS, and you had to focus back in on landing the ambassador’s ship again, and sent it off without another thought.

“Your partner’s quiet,” the pilot commented, their tone light, and you knew they meant nothing by it. “Did you guys rock paper scissors for who would take what parts?”

“Mm, yeah,” you forced out a laugh through gritted teeth, smacking the page button for Quebec’s tower again—just in case.

The light in your tower flashed, and your heart nearly exploded with hope that it was Quebec signaling back to you, that something had just gone awry with his mic and he was still there. Then a hand tapped your shoulder, and you were thrown back into despair again.

It was Pops, the lines on his forehead clear as he furrowed his brows in confusion. He held his digipad out to you, your SOS message on it. You held a finger up to gesture for him to wait a moment as you were receiving pertinent information from the pilot.

“Seven-Five, Two-Zero,” you echoed, entering the numbers as you said them. “Copy.”

Taking one ear of your headphones off, you switched your outgoing comms off before immediately rambling, “It’s Quebec! He dropped off the mic like five minutes ago and he’s not answering, Pops!”

The older man held his hands out in a ‘calm down’ motion. “You’re sure he’s not just getting a snack?”

“No, no, he’d tell me! It was in the middle of his sentence, and we’re literally landing an ambassador’s ship right now!” You sputtered out, gesticulating between your controls and the large ship right outside your window. “He wouldn’t just leave! Something’s wrong!”

His jaw set and he gave one solemn nod. “How far are you?”

“The rest is automated now. But I can’t—”

“I’ll monitor,” he cut you off. “You go check on Quebec.”

“He’s all the way—”

“Now, Zulu!”

You shot to your feet and threw your headphones off and onto the desk. Running from the control room, you didn’t even stay to see Pops take over the station like you’re supposed to.

The space station was huge. It was a thirty-minute walk on a good day from one side to the other, but now that you had fully been overtaken by panic, all of the worst-case scenarios playing in your mind, your stomach consuming itself in fear and anxiety crushing your lungs, it felt insurmountable. Probably your only saving grace was the fact that word had gotten around about the ambassador’s arrival, so lots of people were down on the observation decks above the landing bay to watch the ship dock rather than milling through all the halls that you were currently sprinting through. Even the crew-only shortcuts that you had access to—which you knew were faster—felt like agony to wait for. Standing around in the elevators felt like standing in lava despite the fact that you knew they were moving 100x faster than it felt. The crew corridors were narrower, and you cut corners too close, banging your shoulder or elbow a few times. In your impatience, you lost the location of Tower 2 a couple times on the directory when selecting your destination in a transporter, screaming and kicking the wall in frustration. The pain distracted you from all the what-ifs, and grounded you back into this moment, so you didn’t actually mind it much.

You clutched the handles of Tower 2’s elevator so tightly your fingertips went numb, gnawing on your bottom lip until well past the point you tasted blood. Finally, you were at the control room, and you damn near pried the doors open yourself. Pushing yourself through the doors as they opened, you probably bruised your shoulder again, but you hardly registered it.

Under the red light that flashed to announce your arrival, a man was sprawled on the floor between the chair and the control station. You ran over, pulling the chair away to reach him. He was face-down, and you took his headphones off to roll him over.

“Quebec!” You shook his shoulder a little less than gently.

You didn’t immediately see any sign of injury and grabbed his wrist to try to find a pulse. It was faint, but there, and when you put your hand under his nose, you could feel his shallow breaths against your skin. He didn’t rouse, though, and that was when you saw a drop of blood trailing out of his ear.

“Oh, God,” you muttered, scrambling to your feet to lunge for the bright blue medical emergency button by the door. The button lit up, and you ran back to grab his headphones and mic.

“—ation EMTs will be at your location in less than two minutes. Please communicate the nature of your emergency if you’re able,” the dispatcher’s voice requested.

“I just found the STC in this tower passed out. He’s got blood coming out of his ear and he won’t wake up,” you said.

“Do you know how long he’s been in this state?”

“Twenty minutes?”

“Okay. Any sign of injury?”

“No, nothing. He was fine, he was talking and just, I don’t know, collapsed I think!” You didn’t mean to snap at the dispatcher, but you were freaked out by how little you knew.

“Alright, okay. I understand. The EMTs will be there very soon. Can you stay on the line with me in the meantime?”

“Yeah.”

“Who is the patient?”

“An STC—call name Quebec Kilo.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m an STC too. Zulu Echo. We were on shift and he just dropped off the mic in the middle of a landing.”

“Got it, got it.”

“Where the EMTs?” You asked, feeling for Quebec’s breaths again.

“They’re in the elevator now.”

The elevator door opened then, and your throat seized up anxiously. “They’re here. Thank you.”

“I’ll hang up now. Goodbye, Zulu Echo.”

You took the headphones off as the two EMTs swarmed Quebec’s body, watching them start evaluating his vitals with their field scanner.

“We have the information you gave dispatch,” one EMT informed you. “We’re going to take him to the infirmary in this sector.”

You grabbed the edge of the desk to pull yourself to your feet. “I’ll—”

“Elevator isn’t big enough for all of us,” the other informed you regretfully as they had started loading him onto a stretcher. “You can take the next one.”

“Right. I’ll be right behind you.”

You watched them take him out, and as soon as the elevator doors closed behind them, felt your knees buckle under you. Barely catching yourself against the desk, your eyes filled with tears, which you barely saw the flash of a red light through. The elevator wasn’t opening again, though, so you figured it must be a page.

Picking up the headphones and mic, you kept it on the internal system as you croaked, “Pops?”

“Oh, Zulu, there you are,” his relief was evident in his voice. “How is he?”

“Bad, I think,” you confessed, tears slipping down your face. “He was out cold, and there was blood coming from his ear. The EMTs took him—”

“You know where?”

“Sector 2 infirmary.”

“So what are you doing still talking to me?”

“Right. Bye, Pops.”

Your hands were trembling as you set the headphones down on the desk. With a trembling breath, you recalled the elevator. It was empty when you stepped on, and you numbly selected down. The infirmary was close by to the tower, and you wiped your eyes in the hall outside before entering.

It was eerily empty, and your stomach dropped. You dug your nails into your palm to try to get control of yourself again. Finally, a nurse came out of the hallway and into the main hallway where you were, clearly surprised when he spotted you.

“Sorry about that.” He focused a frazzled smile on you. “How can I help you?”

You were sure you were mirroring his expression. “I’m here to see somebody. He should’ve just come in with the EMTs…?”

“Yes, the doctors are working on him.” He pointed over his shoulder. “I’ll take you to where you can wait.”

You were put into a small patient room with a bed and one chair. After pacing for who knows how long, your feet finally got tired enough that you sat down in the chair. You didn’t sit for very long before you were back on your feet, pacing again. That repeated at least three times before you finally heard something from the hall.

Your eyes were already on the doorway when a gurney was pushed in, Quebec laying atop it. Stepping out of the way of the two nurses who transferred him from the gurney to the bed and started hooking him up the monitoring equipment, you were then pulled aside by the doctor who had come in with them.

“Are you a friend?” She asked.

“Yeah, we work together,” you confirmed. “I called it in.”

“Good timing,” she commented lightheartedly. She filled you in on the issue—most of the specifics went over your head, but it didn’t sound good—then gave you the prognosis, “We plugged everything back up. He’ll have a headache for a few days, and needs to take it easy for the next week. But other than that, he’ll be fine.”

“Really?” You couldn’t believe your ears.

“How far medicine has come, huh?” She chuckled. “Something like that would’ve killed him a decade ago. But he can go on like it never happened now.”

You looked over at where Quebec’s eyes were still closed, still unable to calm your panicked heart despite the doctor’s reassuring words and relaxed demeanor. “When will he wake up?”

“An hour or so.” She nodded towards the door. “If there’s nothing else, I’ve got a couple other patients to check on.”

“Oh, go for it.”

“Push the call button if you need anything, or just holler. Small infirmary, someone will hear you.”

With her departure, it was just you and Quebec. You pulled the chair up to his bedside, gathering your knees to your chest in a self-soothing grasp. His heart monitor beeped steadily in the background, and you noticed that his hand was hanging off the bed a little bit, so you reached forward to pick it up and rest it over his abdomen like his other one. There was a small piece of gauze affixed under his ear, and you recognized it as the ear that had been bleeding earlier.

“I’m never letting you live this down, Quebec,” you stated through a sniffle. “Every time you bring up that Tanker showing up while I was at the vending machine, I’m going to bring up you passing out while we were in the middle of landing an ambassador’s ship.”

He continued resting, chest rising up and down.

“So you better wake up soon, so I can start teasing you.” You poked his shoulder before taking your hand back and wrapping your arm around your knees again.

For the first time since you entered Tower 2, you took a moment to process what Quebec actually looked like. Dark brown hair, bangs falling out of the way of his forehead and pieces curling around his ears, and a freckle under his right eyebrow.

You sighed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Of all the times you’d let yourself daydream about finally meeting Quebec in person, this was absolutely not how it went. Usually, it was something like bumping into each other while you were switching crew cabins, or you just so happened to go to a more centrally located place to eat and started talking to a handsome stranger and found out that it was him. Funny enough, you never thought of actually asking Quebec to hang out off-shift. You were more than happy with what you had, fully content with the knowledge that nobody in the universe knew him better than you, and vice versa. So what if other people knew what he looked like or knew his real name? That never felt important.

Before you realized it, your eyes were fluttering shut, your ears continuing to listen to the rhythm of the vitals monitor. Eventually, a confused grunt caught your attention, and you looked up quickly.

Quebec was hesitantly squinting one eye open, rubbing his other as he seemed to be struggling to adjust to the bright lights in the room. You stayed quiet as you let him wake up a little more and acclimate, getting two eyes open and blinking as he registered first the hospital gown he was wearing and infirmary bed he was laying in, then did a sweep around the room, brown gaze landing on you.

“Hey, Bec,” you greeted him gently, offering a small smile. “How do you feel?”

“Zu?” His voice was hoarse, gaze unblinking as he reached a hand towards you.

“Yeah, it’s me,” you confirmed, taking his hand between both of yours. “You had uhm, a problem. The doctor can explain—But you’re better now.”

He clutched his head, and you winced sympathetically.

“Your head will hurt for a bit, but other than that, all better,” you corrected yourself. “You feel okay?”

He nodded, sitting up a little straighter. “You came all the way here?”

“You passed out in the middle of us landing the ambassador’s ship,” you told him frankly, a hint of teasing in your tone. But your voice wavered as you added, “I was worried sick. Found you on the floor of the tower.”

“Ah, sorry. Thank you.” He squeezed your hand.

“No way I was going to let you die, Quebec. I mean—What if they started putting me with Indy instead?”

He was just staring at you, mouth parted, before a soft smile came across his features, two dimples marking his cheeks. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” You chuckled nervously.

“That you’d be the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.”

You covered your face as you laughed and shook your head. “Quebec—”

“Kun.”

“What?”

“That’s my real name,” he hummed. “Qian Kun.”

“Kun,” you sighed fondly. “I knew you’d have dimples.”

“What?” He giggled, touching one of his cheeks. “You could hear my dimples?”

“It was a hunch.”

He looked down at the IV in his arm. “They’ve got me on some good stuff.”

“Yeah, they do,” you agreed.

“I mean it, though.”

“Mean what?”

Kun turned over on his side to face you. “You’re beautiful, Zulu.”

You traced the lines of his brows, his freckle, his eyes, his nose, the curve of his smile, his cupid’s bow, and his jaw with your eyes. “Y/N. That’s my name. Y/L/N Y/N.”

He mouthed it to himself first, slowly, then said it aloud, “Y/N. Thank you.”

“I’m really glad you’re okay, Kun.” You pressed a fleeting kiss to his hand that you were still holding. “Really.”

You kicked your feet up on the desk, tapping your toes in the air along to an imaginary beat. Clicking your internal comms line on, you asked, “So what are you doing after this?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Kun immediately teased back.

“Yeah, that’s why I asked, asshole,” you scoffed.

“Ouch, first day back on the job and this is how I’m treated?”

“Doctor said you’re fine, no need to throw yourself a pity party.”

He laughed, but answered your question nevertheless. “Gym and then dinner. Missed enough required exercise thanks to that little incident I’m going to start withering away.”

“I’ll have to find another archnemesis if you do.”

“So I am your archnemesis.” His grin was audible, and you could perfectly imagine it now, bright and dimpled. “Well, I can’t have you thinking about anybody else.”

You looked over your shoulder before offering, “Want some company?”

“Sure. Sector 1?”

“Damn, you really that afraid of withering away you’re willing to come all the way over here?”

“I was being a gentleman—”

“Wait, your favorite restaurant is in the Sector 1 food court,” you said knowingly. “Would that have anything to do with it?”

“It’s a win-win—you don’t have to come all the way over here, I get to see you…”

“And eat at your favorite spot,” you snickered. “Smart, Bec.”

“I would’ve offered even if I hated all the food in Sector 1, Zu,” he declared dramatically. “Hand on my heart.”

Despite knowing each other’s real names, it was still habit (and technically proper) to use call names on shift. You checked on him every day during his recovery over the past week, so you’d gotten used to calling him Kun as well.

“Uh-huh,” you agreed mildly. “I’ll meet you in the gym at 1630 then.”

“It’s a date.”

After getting through your mandatory workout for the day, you and Kun meandered over to the Sector 1 food court. Despite your teasing, you also got food from the same restaurant as him. He didn’t move to take a seat in the food court, however, jerking his head for you to follow him. With your bag of food in one hand, you did so, intrigued. Kun apparently had a destination in mind, weaving through the crowds with intention and reaching back to grab your free hand to not lose you.

Soon, you arrived at a crew-only observation deck devoid of other people. You couldn’t recall if you had been to this particular one before, but the door slid shut behind you two and the sounds of the rest of the ship faded away. This particular deck was pointed directly at a large plasma cloud, glowing with energy and all sorts of swirling pinks, purples, and greens.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” you gushed, sitting on the ledge under the window.

“I like seeing how the cloud has changed whenever I’m in Sector 1,” Kun said, sitting next to you. “It’s different every time.”

You drew your gaze over to him, eyes catching on the faint line under his ear, marking where he’d been operated on just last week. It had healed very fast, of course, as all surgeries now did, and you reached out to touch the skin under it with a fingertip. “Do you feel okay, Kun?”

“Brand new.” He took your hand from the incision and laced your fingers together. “I promise, Y/N.”

“Good.” The two of you ate your dinner like that, hand-in-hand, watching the plasma cloud and stars, sometimes talking, and sometimes in silence. And that was more than enough.

⤷ masterlist

TAGLIST

@annenakamura @bee-the-loser @lotties-readings @ppddpjdr @reiofsuns2001 @snowyseungs @tearinka @yoursyuno @yutasputa69 @winkeuu

@classicroyalty @fairvtale @giirlfriendd @shaqs-oatmeal @sofipolii01 @fae-renjun

[fclsebnnyodair]

. ۫ ꣑ৎ . loser stiles and his out-of-his-league pretty girlfriend.

pairing: stiles stilinski x fem!reader.

summary: when stiles finally asks you to be his girlfriend and you say yes, he can’t believe it —and he’s not the only one. you two come in very different fonts. but, you’re so quick to prove him and his self-deprecation that you like him, fully and shamelessly.

warnings: used of y/n… im sorry. a little fluff? reader being a menace and the end of stiles life (in a good way).

a/n: i tried my best to be funny and make it a little longer. a mother needs to feed her kids. based on this req <3

stiles stilinski had spent a solid seven-teen years being a complete and utter dork. a nerd. a disaster in human form. the kind of guy who could tell you, unprompted, that the fear of long words is called hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia but somehow still couldn’t spell “necessary” on the first try.

he was the guy who tripped over air, made obscure pop culture references no one asked for, and had a deeply unhealthy relationship with sarcasm.

so, naturally, when you—actual goddess, the prettiest face in beacon hills, social butterfly extraordinaire—agreed to date him, stiles was convinced he was being pranked.

“she said yes,” he had told scott the night it happened, voice shaking, hands gripping his best friend’s shoulders like he was trying to transfer the shock through sheer physical contact. “she said yes. to me. like, willingly. no coercion. no hostage situation. just… yes.”

scott, ever the supportive best friend, blinked at him. “huh.”

“what do you mean huh?”

“I just—” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking way too amused. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but… dude, that’s y/n.”

exactly.

you weren’t just popular. you are the cool kind of popular. the kind that made people want to be around you instead of just tolerating your presence because of high school hierarchy rules.

you had this effortless confidence, this ability to make everyone feel like they belonged—even stiles, who had spent most of his life on the outskirts of social normalcy.

you are the type of person who could go from hanging out with the lacrosse team and his girlfriends to sitting with the theater kids in the same day, and everyone would be happy to have you there. people gravitated towards you.

meanwhile, stiles had spent most of freshman year trying to convince people that his name was, in fact, not short for “stilton” like the cheese.

It didn’t make sense. and yet, somehow, here they were.

dating you was like winning the lottery, except instead of money, stiles got the incomprehensible love and affection of a literal angel.

which was great.

except for the fact that he had no idea how to be cool enough to keep up with you.

“you’re overthinking it,” you told him one day as you sat in your car, legs propped up on the dashboard.

“I always overthink it,” stiles replied. “It’s literally my defining trait.”

you laughed, and god, that laugh. It was the kind of sound that made people pause, made them turn their heads just to see what could possibly be so funny.

“okay, fine,” you said. “then tell me. what’s running through that giant brain of yours right now?”

stiles exhaled dramatically. “alright, let’s start with the obvious. I am a disaster. you are not a disaster. explain.”

you tilted your head, amused. “you really don’t see it, do you?”

“see what?”

you smirked, leaning in a little closer. “you’re kind of amazing, stiles.”

he blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“you make me laugh,” you continued, like you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on his entire worldview. “like, really laugh. you make things interesting. and you care so much about the people around you. I like that.”

stiles stared at you, brain officially malfunctioning. “uh. are you… are you sure you’re not under some kind of supernatural influence?”

you rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder playfully. “just shut up?”

and just like that, he realized something insane. you actually liked him.

not just in a “haha, he’s fun to have around” way. not in a “pity date” way. not even in a “this is a temporary thing before I move on to someone more worthy” way.

you liked him. dorkiness, sarcasm, ADHD-riddled brain and all.

maybe he wasn’t as out of your league as he thought.

still, he spent the next few weeks in a state of perpetual disbelief.

he kept waiting for the moment where you would realize you had made a grave mistake and move on to someone who, well… had the ability to walk in a straight line without tripping over absolutely nothing.

but you didn’t.

In fact, you made it very clear that you were, for some ungodly reason, into him.

like, full-on, public displays of affection into him.

which was insane.

because now, not only did stiles have to deal with his own confusion, but also the confusion of literally everyone else at beacon hills high.

It started with a completely normal lunch. stiles, scott, lydia, and you were all sitting together, as usual, while he rattled off some extremely important information about why the original ‘star wars’ trilogy was superior to the prequels.

“you just have to accept that Jar Jar Binks was a crime against cinema,” stiles was saying, mid-rant, when he felt a hand casually slip into his.

he froze.

the table went silent.

you, completely unbothered, just kept eating your fries, fingers lazily intertwined with his.

scott immediately stopped chewing. lydia raised an eyebrow. somewhere behind them, he was pretty sure he heard jackson choke on his drink.

stiles, being the mature and composed individual that he was, blurted out, “are you—did you—was that on purpose?”

you gave him a deadpan look. “no, stiles, my hand just accidentally fell into yours.”

scott made a choked sound that was very unhelpful.

“I just—” stiles floundered. “you’re—you want to hold my hand? In front of people?”

you smirked. “what, do you want me to sign a permission slip first?”

lydia rolled her eyes. “stiles, stop acting like you just won the lottery.”

“but I did,” he said, eyes still wide. “this is like if someone found bigfoot, but instead of running away, bigfoot started dating them.”

you snorted and leaned closer, whispering, “you’re an idiot.”

and then—just to completely obliterate stiles’s ability to function—you kissed his cheek.

the cafeteria erupted.

all right, maybe “erupted” was an exaggeration. but scott definitely lost all ability to contain himself, because he burst into uncontrollable laughter, clapping stiles on the back so hard he nearly faceplanted into his lunch tray.

jackson muttered something about how the world was officially broken.

and lydia? lydia just sipped her drink and said, “honestly, this might be the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”

stiles, meanwhile, was still sitting there, trying to process the fact that you had just kissed him in front of the entire student body.

“okay,” he breathed. “alright. cool. totally fine.”

you squeezed his hand. “you’re so lucky I can keep up with you.”

“I strongly agree.”

scott shook his head, grinning. “dude. just take the win.”

yeah.

maybe he should.

now stiles had zero business being on the lacrosse team. he was only there because coach finstock occasionally needed a warm body to throw onto the field, and also because scott insisted that he “needed to be included in the team dynamic.”

that was stupid, because stiles was about as useful on the field as a drunk giraffe.

still, here he was, suited up, trying his best to not die.

you were sitting in the stands, chatting with some of the other girls on the cheer squad, but every so often, he caught you watching him.

why on earth would you be looking at him when there were actual athletes running around?

at some point, coach finstock (in a moment of pure insanity) decided to sub stiles in.

naturally, it went horribly.

he got knocked over in under a minute.

hard.

like, wind knocked out of him, stars in his vision hard.

by the time he sat up, still gasping for breath, he vaguely registered that someone was calling his name.

then, suddenly, you were there, pushing past some of the other students on the sidelines, crouching next to him.

“oh my god, are you okay?” you asked, eyes scanning him for any visible injuries.

“you,” stiles wheezed. “just—taking a quick—dirt nap.”

you sighed, shaking your head. “you really shouldn’t be allowed to play this sport.”

“tell that to coach crazy over there,” he muttered.

you rolled your eyes, then—without warning—cupped his face and kissed him.

right there.

on the field.

In front of everyone.

stiles was pretty sure his soul left his body.

by the time you pulled away, he was definitely malfunctioning.

“god,” he managed.

you smirked, brushing some dirt off his jersey. “maybe if I keep doing that, you’ll actually start scoring points.”

scott, who had jogged over at some point, burst out laughing, —again.

“please don’t encourage him,” he told you.

you just shrugged, standing up. “what can I say? I like an underdog.”

stiles, still staring into the middle distance, finally processed what had just happened.

then, very calmly, he said:

“I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m definitely not complaining.”

stiles finally gets it. he gets you. 

It took three months of dating before stiles finally stopped expecting you to give up on him.

because the truth was, you could.

but for some ridiculous, unexplainable reason—

you didn’t want to.

and maybe, just maybe, that was the best part of all.

stiles stilinski had exactly one defense mechanism when faced with overwhelming emotional stimuli:

panic.

pure, unfiltered, high-octane panic.

and you?

you loved it.

you lived for it.

In fact, stiles was about 80% sure that her actual favorite hobby—above reading, music, and being generally awesome—was finding new and creative ways to make him short-circuit.

your weapon of choice?

kissing him.

at random.

without warning.

In the most inconvenient and socially inappropriate moments possible.

stiles was already having a rough day.

coach had made him run extra laps for “being a distraction” (which was not fair, because technically speaking, it was danny who had laughed first).

so there he was, post-practice, dripping in sweat, hair a mess, brain still recovering from almost getting hit in the face with a lacrosse ball, when you materialized out of nowhere.

“hey, loser,” you greeted, leaning against the locker next to his.

stiles jumped about a foot in the air. “jesus—you can’t just sneak up on a guy like that!”

you, completely ignoring him, hummed thoughtfully. “you look cute when you’re sweaty.”

stiles immediately turned red. “I—what—who?”

and before his brain could fully reboot, you leaned in and kissed him.

right there.

In the locker room.

With scott and half the team still standing right there.

stiles froze.

his brain immediately short-circuited.

somewhere in the background, he could hear the distinct sounds of his teammates reacting.

jackson made a disgusted noise.

“seriously? right here?”

danny, ever the neutral observer, just snorted. “I mean, props to her, I do love watching stilinski suffer.”

scott, instead of helping, just shook his head fondly. “dude. just accept it.”

you, for your part, just smirked against stiles’s lips, completely unbothered, and pulled away with a satisfied little hum.

stiles, meanwhile, was still frozen in place.

mouth slightly open.

face burning red.

brain? completely fried.

“did I break you?” you teased, poking his cheek.

stiles let out a strangled sound.

jackson groaned. “oh god, get a room.”

you turned to him, smirking. “jealous?”

jackson scoffed. “not even remotely.”

you shrugged, looping your arm through stiles’s. “good. because I’m not sharing.”

and then you walked off, dragging stiles with you—leaving the entire locker room howling in laughter.

stiles had one sacred rule in life:

the library is a safe space.

the library was for quiet and learning and pretending to do your homework while actually texting scott about supernatural nonsense.

the library was not for being publicly humiliated by your ridiculously hot girlfriend.

unfortunately, you did not respect the sanctity of anything.

stiles was sitting at his usual spot—textbook open, pen in hand, pretending to study—when you slid into the chair next to him.

“hey,” you greeted, voice suspiciously sweet.

stiles narrowed his eyes. “you’re up to something.”

you smiled, all innocent. “me? never.”

he squinted harder. “what do you want?”

you tilted your head. “can’t I just want to spend time with my adorable boyfriend?”

stiles immediately turned red. “I—you—stop that.”

“stop what?”

“being cute,” he hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was listening.

you grinned. “make me.”

before stiles could formulate a response, you very casually leaned forward and kissed him.

and not just a quick kiss.

oh, no.

this was a calculated attack.

a slow, lingering kiss, tongue and all—just long enough to completely fry his brain, but not long enough for him to actually do anything about it.

by the time you pulled away, stiles was bright red, gripping the edge of the table like his life depended on it.

“why?” he gasped out.

you shrugged. “felt like it.”

stiles gaped. “we are in library.”

you smiled sweetly. “uh-huh.”

“In a library.”

“yup.”

“where people can see us.”

she leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “I know.”

stiles let out an undignified squeak.

and that was the exact moment lydia martin—who had apparently been sitting three tables away—very loudly shut her book and said, “I’m going home. this is disgusting.”

you just laughed.

stiles, meanwhile, buried his face in his hands.

—

now, there were rules when it came to dating in front of parents.

rule #1: no PDA.

rule #2: seriously, no PDA.

rule #3: do not test sheriff stilinski’s patience.

you had no regard for any of these rules.

stiles had just walked you to the door, ready to say a very normal, appropriate, and respectful goodbye, when you suddenly grabbed his hoodie, pulled him way too close, and kissed him stupid.

right there.

In his driveway.

where his father could definitely see.

and as if that wasn’t bad enough—

the front door creaked open.

sheriff stilinski cleared his throat.

you pulled away completely unbothered, turned to the sheriff, and grinned.

“good afternoon, mr. stilinski.”

stiles, meanwhile, had stopped breathing.

the sheriff raised an eyebrow. “you trying to kill my son?”

you smirked. “not today.”

and then she smiled—like a menace—patted stiles on the chest, and walked off, leaving him to deal with the aftermath.

the sheriff stared at him.

stiles stared back.

after a long, painful silence, his dad just shook his head and muttered, “unbelievable.”

then, he walked inside—chuckling to himself.

stiles, still standing frozen on the porch, groaned.

you were going to be the death of him.

and, honestly?

he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

HI I'M BACK here's a oneshot that I got the idea for in the middle of uni.

Also apologies that I haven't posted at all in January I'll be back properly I promise.

"It's not too late to back out, if you want," Remus offers, turning to Sirius.

"As if. We're here now, Moons. Besides, I think freaking out your entire extended family is a perfect use of my time." He holds out his hand, offering it to Remus. Remus rolls his eyes, but Sirius doesn't miss the smile that comes as he reaches out to grab his hand.

Honestly? Part of Sirius does want to run away. A big part of him regrets to agreeing in the first place.

Still, he's doing this for Remus.

"Me? Why in Merlin's name would you say my name?" Sirius asked, a little dumbfounded.

"I panicked!" Remus said back. "She was so excited about the possibility of me bringing a guy to the wedding, and I only really know three guys!"

Well, he wasn't exactly wrong.

"You don't have to come," he said quickly. "I just figured it wouldn't hurt to ask? Four hours, free food, freak out my relatives who don't know I'm gay?"

"When you put it like that..."

Four hours in a liminal space where he can call Remus Lupin his boyfriend. Embarrassingly enough, Sirius has had dreams about this. Maybe not as a sudden stand in to make Hope happy, but he'll take whatever he can get, really.

It's going to suck when the night is over, though. His one scrap of self preservation was the only thing keeping him from agreeing. There's still a small part of him urging him to run away, protect himself by living with the careful boundaries he's drawn in his head to keep him from breaking his own heart. He knows Remus will never feel the same, and he also knows that he should be a lot more careful to keep himself sane, but he's here now. Surely he should just... embrace it?

The two of them walk through the muggle car park and down to the reception hall.

"Remus!" A girl's voice rings out, and Sirius feels Remus' grip tighten on his hand.

"Hi, Aunt Anna." Remus smiles graciously. Sirius watches the woman grind to a halt in front of Remus. It's as if there's some kind of magnetic field around him that keeps her from getting any closer.

"How is everything? How's the... special school?" She lowers her voice to say this, and Remus' smile strains a little. Sirius looks between them, a little confused. Is there something wrong with whatever stand in Remus is using for Hogwarts?

"Aunt Anna, I graduated in July. And it was a specialised school," he corrects politely. "More focused studies?" He says it like he's had to make this correction over and over. She smiles patronisingly, making Sirius' hair stand on end.

"Of course it was!" Her voice is fake, dismissive, frustrating Sirius to no end. Her eyes finally flick to Sirius, curiosity overtaking any sense of falseness on her face. "Who's this? Brought a friend along?"

"Oh, actually, he's not my friend, he's, er..." He glances a little helplessly at Sirius. Little does he know, the decision to go all in has solidified itself in his head. These stupid, patronising family members are going to respect Remus by the end of the night if it kills him.

"I'm his boyfriend. Sirius Black." He extends his hand with a smile that makes Anna blink, a little taken aback.

"Boyfriend? You're... oh!" She looks around, as if searching for someone else to have heard it. "Well, I guess it makes sense that you're... yeah. Um..." She smooths her skirt down, suddenly uncomfortable. "How did you two, er... meet?"

"We went to school together." Her eyes widen, and he nods. "Yeah, focused studies."

"Oh. Huh. I wouldn't have thought... What- what have you been up to then, Remus?"

"Not much, really."

"God, you're so modest!" Sirius says, quickly wrapping an arm around Remus' waist and pulling himself a little closer. He hears Anna clear her throat, fixing her expression as soon as he turns to face her. "He's gotten so many offers."

"Offers for what?"

"He hasn't told you?" Sirius asks innocently. She shakes her head, and he smiles at her. "He's going to be a doctor. Hospitals are fighting over him."

"A... doctor?" For a second, Sirius thinks he's accidentally fucked up the word, until Remus nods a little awkwardly.

"Yeah, there are a few places offering me spots. It's hardly fighting, though-"

"Haven't you gotten baskets from all five locations? I mean, you're getting offers from America!"

"Yeah, guess so." He shrugs, but Sirius is already happy enough with what he's done. Anna looks between them, a little surprised, before nodding once.

"Nice to see you, Remus." She turns to leave.

"It was lovely to meet you!" Sirius calls after her with a sweet smile.

"Sirius!" Remus turns to him, stunned.

"What?" He asks innocently. "I'm just showing you off a little!"

"She's going to be pissed." Remus bites his lower lip, worried. For a second, Sirius' mind malfunctions, having to tear his eyes away from Remus' lips and back to his eyes when he turns to face him. "She had to write Sam's personal statement for Cardiff Uni."

"Oh, then she can't say a bloody word! Special school, she can fucking bite me." It draws a chuckle out of Remus, much to Sirius' delight. "Right, should we find your mum?"

"Yeah. Yeah, let's go."

Much to Remus' dismay, they run into a fair few of his extended family on the way. Sirius does nothing but fawn over Remus, making sure to push his multitude of achievements. It's not exactly hard to do. If Remus was slightly less lovely all the time, he'd be able to do this. He shouldn't be his family's punching bag, and Sirius isn't about to let that continue. He's not even lying, he's just pointing out the things he notices every day. It's scarily easy. He manages to get two judgemental uncles to back off, as well as the boy who can't even write his own essay, clearly pushed over by his aunt and forced to flaunt a few flimsy achievements. Sirius feels a little bad for him, so he's not as obvious about pushing Remus' life to the forefront. It works all the same, getting Sam away before he could even start talking about the fact that Minnie wanted Remus to consider training to teach at Hogwarts.

By the time they reach Hope, Remus has turned bright red. It's a magnificent sight. Sirius wishes he could do this every day.

"Remus! Oh, and Sirius! Hi!" Hope is clearly a little tipsy, cheeks flushed as she beams at the two of them, pulling Remus into a hug, promptly followed by Sirius. "I'm so glad you could make it, Sirius."

"Wouldn't miss it," he answers back with a grin.

"Yeah, that's what I'm starting to get," Remus mumbles under his breath. Sirius hasn't missed the fact that he's standing a little taller than he was when he walked in, though. He's just too nice to push back at his family. "Mum, don't be surprised if Aunt Anna says I've grown into a rude young man as soon as she's got a drink down her."

"Why? What happened? Oh, she's always been a bit of a-"

"No, it's nothing. I just want you to be prepared." Remus waves her off, but Sirius has other plans.

"She was being shitty," Sirius answers with a shrug. Hope turns to him, and he elaborates. "She kept talking to Remus like he's a child! The moment I pointed out that he's actually pretty smart, in a pretty tame way, actually, she turned and left. I didn't think it was that bad."

Hope looks between the two of them, before bursting out laughing. Remus and Sirius exchange a slightly confused glance, as Hope tries to pull herself together.

"Oh, I'm so glad you-! I've tried my best, but she just- I don't think she cares what I say. I can't believe you managed... thank you, Sirius, that's absolutely brilliant!" Sirius beams at a stunned Remus, pleased. At least it wasn't just him who thinks that Remus' extended family are a bunch of self-centered wankers. "Honestly, Remus has talked non-stop about you, I'm so glad he finally found the courage to ask you!"

What?

Sirius' heart does a strange thing where it skips several beats all at once, making him feel a little dizzy.

"Non-stop?" He asks, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Yes, absolutely non-stop!"

"Mum," Remus says quickly, shooting her a glance. She seems completely undeterred, though.

"I told him it was worth taking the risk a long time ago. I mean, you're a lovely boy, and it's clear how much you care about him. It's just nice to know that it all paid off! I had a good feeling about you two-"

"Mum, I'm going to get a drink," Remus interjects suddenly. "I'll be back in a second." She looks like she's about to protest, but Remus is still going, voice slightly unsteady. "I'll tell you what Sirius said to everybody after. Come on, Sirius."

He grabs Sirius gently by the arm, pulling him in the direction of the bar before Sirius has a chance to say anything. Before they reach the bar, he veers off and shoves a door open. They turn a corner and get into a cramped room absolutely full of fold-able chairs. Remus shuts the door and lets go of Sirius' arm, scrubbing a hand over his face and leaning against the door. His hands are shaking, and he looks a little like he wants the ground to swallow him whole.

"...I'd have quite liked to hear more," Sirius says eventually, breaking the weird silence. Remus finally looks up at Sirius, a mix of confusion, frustration and panic evident.

"I feel like that was embarrassing enough," Remus answers simply, eyes flicking back to the floor.

"Is that why you asked me?" Sirius asks suddenly. He knows he should really say more, but he has countless questions, and he needs at least one of them answered. Remus nods once, playing with his fingers.

"Mum made the guess. She wouldn't have believed me if I'd said no."

"Because you've been talking about me 'non-stop,'" Sirius supplies, careful to use Hope's exact words. Remus nods quickly, face turning much redder than it had been before.

"Sorry," he says before Sirius can say anything else. Sirius frowns.

"For what?"

"Lying to you. I mean, I basically tricked you into this whole thing because I didn't want to disappoint my mum."

"You gave me an out multiple times," Sirius tries, but Remus isn't done.

"And for, er... what my mum said. I didn't realise that she'd... you can leave, if you want. I wouldn't be pissed. I mean, fuck, I wouldn't be pissed if you didn't want to speak to me for a while." Okay, now Sirius is much more confused. "I... I really hope this doesn't ruin our friendship, though. I know it's probably going to feel weird now, and I get that, but I- Merlin, I really don't want to lose you, Sirius."

"Remus," Sirius starts gently.

"I mean, we could just forget that she ever said that. I've been perfectly fine living like this until now, I'll be okay."

"Moony."

"Sorry. God, if I'd known that was going to happen I wouldn't have... I could have just... I don't know, fuck, I'm so sorry-"

"Remus!" Sirius finally manages to snap him out of his strange, apologetic tangent. "I just want to make sure that I haven't hideously misunderstood what your mum said. You like me?" Remus nods, and Sirius takes a step closer. "Romantically?" He nods again. "And you have for a while now?"

Remus barely gets a chance to nod before Sirius closes the gap between them, connecting their lips. He hears Remus gasp as he pulls away, locking eyes with him and watching him carefully. For a second, he watches as Remus' brain speeds up, eyes scanning over Sirius' face as he tries to process everything.

Eventually, he seems to throw out every thought in his brain, cupping Sirius' face in both of his hands and kissing him back. Time stops as Sirius is caught up in the feeling of Remus' lips on his, one hand moving from his face and into his hair, his own arms moving impulsively to wrap around Remus' waist. It's everything Sirius could have imagined and more. Part of him still thinks he's imagining things, that there's no way Remus is actually here kissing him. It's overwhelmingly perfect, making Sirius feel a little giddy with the joy rising in his chest-

"Oh my Lord!" A shrill voice that Sirius recognises as Anna interrupts them, forcing them apart. "I- I'm just- right, um... I- okay." She turns and leaves, absolutely dumbfounded, eyes wide and a little horrified. For a second they both look at the closed door, before turning to exchange a glance. The moment their eyes lock, Sirius starts laughing. It doesn't take much for Remus to join in, as Sirius drops his head on Remus' shoulder and Remus laughs along with him.

Fuck Remus' strange extended family.

Nothing can ruin this for them.

[naomiiiiz]

I’m reading a fanfiction where Agent Stone is unofficially indirectly technically but also definitely adopted by the Wachowski Family and now I cannot unsee it.

For some context, the family is trying to figure out how to get Shadow to come to them without forcing him or making him feel pressured or unwanted, and Agent Stone gets involved.

Maddie invites him to dinner, and what I thought was going to be the best overprotective sons defending their loyal and powerful and loving family banter turned into the crackiest family dinner with an unexpecting, slightly grief ridden and emotionally stunted Agent Stone, desperately trying to wrap his head around the three aliens that have been kicking his ass for who knows how long being in a normal family???

With human parents???

Who like, house them and feed them and love them and teach them and nurture them???

And like, do stuff normal parents do in a normal family???

I’ve never felt so estatic since that one time the author my favorite MHA fantasy AU fanfic that got discontinued posted the endings and notes she had for the rest of the fanfiction.

EXAMPLE WITH DIRECT QUOTE FROM THE CHAPTER:

Tails: “Break started on Saturday. One of us can go with him, Mom! Make sure he stays sitting!”

Stone: “Break?”

Maddie: “Fall break. From school.”

Stone: “They go to school, too?”

Tails, rolling his eyes: “If you’re going to be surprised by every normal thing we do with our family, we’re going to be here all night.”

I read the chapter during my Sociology 100 lecture and had to stop many times to keep from laughing.

Stones astonishment at a normal, stable, healthy, albeit non-traditional family, Sonic being Sonic, Knuckles being Knuckles, Tails continuing to be the national treasure that he is, and Maddie and Tom being the patient, understanding parents that we’ve always seen them be.

You can’t buy joy like this. You can only find it on AO3, from people (mostly children, college students, or working class adults) who either have too much time or no time at all and yet somehow still get to share their genius with the entire world.

Reading this shit felt like getting the found family trope injected into my veins through IVF fluid.

Here’s a DIRECT QUOTE from my favorite part of the newest chapter:

Knuckles: “There will never be a truce, and I will never think of you as anything more than a small, weak man with questionable taste in partners.”

*literally like three fucking minutes later, after Knuckles has been fed a well cooked meal from Agent Stone*

Knuckles: “You are a very important and powerful man, and I apologize for what I said before. Mister Robot did not deserve you!”

Agent Stone, who’s probably sweating in three different places and pinching himself to keep from reacting too harshly, and experiencing the worst whiplash of his life: “Um, thanks?”

To Humanity’s_Humbag and Invader_Sam, who are the authors, I commend and thank you for your service to the Sonic Fandom. May the wicked curses of the Ao3 Fanfiction Author always evade you!

[gold-onthe-inside]

no grave can hold my body down

who? emily prentiss (s7) x teacher!reader summary: your grief over losing emily is forced undone when she re-appears seven months later outside your apartment content warnings: no smut, pg13 though, def suggestive word count: 1.8k songs: tarantino by plvtinum, skin and bones by david kushner, i wanna be yours by sofia karlberg

You had never been one to kid yourself — your life was probably as mundane as it could get, the highs and lows scored by the school bell, hefting a pile of essays to correct at home with a glass of wine darker than the red you mark up your papers with. Seven months ago, you might have had company over, a certain raven-haired woman with dark lipstick and a low cut top, her handgun and badge stowed away somewhere.

You’d met at a seminar on school shootings, one that was district-wide, the appointed representive for your school, and for some inexplicable reason, you had caught her eye. She’d been the one to make the first move, obviously. Women who look and sound like Emily Prentiss always get what they want. Two drinks had loosened your lips, the magnetic charm of her dark gaze drawing you closer to her, leading to her brownstone apartment, much nicer than yours.

You let out a slow, shaky breath as you walked to your car, a blushing orange painting the sky as you left the essays in the passenger seat and closed the door behind you, and when you bit your lower lip, you can remember how Emily would have used her thumb to pull it free, tipping your chin back to kiss you smoothly. Seven months in the grave and she still wouldn’t leave you alone.

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” she had whispered and you hadn’t cared. It had feverish and each kiss felt like molasses, thick and rich, her hands running all over your neck, then down to grasp your thigh. Her fingers slowly pulled up the edge of your skirt, pushing it up as her hand slowly made its way up your thigh, all the while continuing to kiss you hard. She was so focused, so determined, like all she wanted in the world was to take you entirely as her own.

Your breath had been so sweet, the faintest taste of bourbon shared between your lips as the kiss turned hungry and demanding, Emily’s tongue pressing between your lips to taste the warmth of your mouth, a low groan escaping her lips as she grasped at the hem of your blouse.

You dropped your head on the back of your seat, running a hand through your hair — how many times was your body was going to torture you like this? It was like Emily was a part of you, the absence of her touch, of her presence, aching like a missing limb. You pulled out your phone, replaying old voicemails just to hear the sound of her voice. Calls from hotel rooms across the country, telling you that she was thinking of you. A dark and enigmatic woman turning into a soft kitten, leaving you cheesy messages about how she wondered if you were looking at the same moon as her.

You weren’t even her girlfriend, or so you kept having to remind yourself when she reappeared once a week with a book she thought you’d like. Some people collected mugs, or fridge magnets from airports. Emily brought you books, books that you’d devour and tab and text her about in your lunch hours. Who’s got you smiling like that? they would tease, and you’d reply with a smile and a shake of your head. Who was Emily to you? Someone who had snuggled into your chest, warming your heart, and then leaving you, cold and hollow. Just something to house her in until the phone rang.

Somehow, you managed to gather your wits long enough to get yourself home, a cheap place in a surburban part of DC, and you left the dusty red sedan with your bag, your essays, and your car keys, hands too full to get to your apartment keys when you hear her first.

“Need a hand?” she asked, not as cocky and self-assured as you remember and you looked up to see her standing outside your building and you almost drop your things, staring at Emily. Sure, she’s haunted you every day since you met her, but you’ve never had a full-on hallucination. Your lips parted, frozen to the spot and Emily cautiously approached you, gently reaching for your papers.

“I…” You have no words. “Are you real?” you asked, your voice barely above a breath and Emily looked so… sad.

“I… um..” she said, the sadness in your eyes breaking her heart, so she gave you a small smile. “Yeah, I’m real. It’s okay… It’s okay, I promise I have an explanation for all of this,” she said, her voice desperate. You’ve never heard her desperate, not like this, with her heart in her hands. “Can we go inside, please?” Emily asked you, stirring you from your reverie and you fumble for your apartment keys, your head buzzing in confusion, like a television with no signal.

She’s quiet as she followed you in to your apartment, helping you set your things down so she could follow you into your living room. She didn’t know exactly how to tell you everything and make it all okay, so she just sighed, her hands nervously fiddling as she began to recount the story. To your credit, you listened to her without interrupting once; the undercover assignment, the international terrorist hunting her down, her old team members being killed one by one. You listen to all of it, your chest caving in as she spoke.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” she whispered softly, her eyes locked on to yours. “I’ve missed you.”

"You missed me?" you asked hollowly, looking at her.

“Yeah,” Emily sighed softly, knowing that she didn’t deserve you, but she would tell the truth, no matter how difficult it was. “I thought about you every night, even when I knew I shouldn’t.”

Your hands ran over your face, unable to help the thoughts that plagued you every time she would tell you about her work. You don’t belong here. This whole thing was so laughable that you actually snorted a little in derision at your own stupidity. “I teach high school English, Emily,” you scoffed, unable to look at her. “God, what was I thinking, getting involved with a federal agent?”

“I know,” Emily whispered, and you can hear her voice cracking slightly. She had hurt you, and she had known exactly what she was doing when she had asked you to be her… whatever you were to her. She had only wanted you a little bit, had told you that she couldn’t give you all of her, because she didn’t trust that you could keep her all to yourself, and she regretted each and every one of those words. But her regrets wouldn’t help you, so she simply asked, “Is there anything I can do to fix this?”

"Fix what, Emily?" you asked, not quite angry but, like you had given up the fight. "Come on, who are we kidding with this? We don't... Emily, we don't belong together. An international spy and an English teacher?"

She hadn’t expected you to welcome her back with open arms, even though she’s wanted you to, especially after she thought about you every day for months, the taste of you lingering on her lips as she lay awake in bed. But the hurt she had done to you was greater than any of the good she’d done, and she just asked, “What do you want me to do? Do you want me to go?”

You looked at her, your eyes heartbroken. "I want you to stay," you said quietly. "I always want you to stay. But I just... I don't think you're the kind of person who stays."

Her throat tightens at your words and she sighs, nodding her head. She looks down at the floor, closing her eyes for a moment as she tries not to cry. “I don’t have the best track record,” she admitted softly, “but you’re not just some person. Not to me,” she whispered softly, her hand gently reaching for yours. She didn’t pull you close, but simply held your hand, giving you a sad look as she softly said, “I don’t want to go.”

You looked at your hands, taking a breath before intertwining your fingers with hers. She can’t help but smile at that and she squeezed your hand, taking comfort in the warm touch of your fingers. She’d missed the feel of your skin against hers, and she wondered if you had missed her just as much. "I don't want you to go," you whispered, looking up at her.

“I don’t want to go,” she repeated with a small smile and she pulled you a little closer, resting her forehead against yours. “Not unless you ask me to.”

"You know I won't," you murmured, closing your eyes, her heat making you dizzy.

“Then I’ll stay,” she whispered softly, and she finally leaned down, meeting your lips with a gentle kiss. You taste just as good as she remembered. You let go of her hands, cupping her face to kiss her harder. She sighed into your mouth, her hand gently cupping your cheek, pulling you a little closer to make the kiss deeper. She’s almost afraid that you’ll disappear, but with your arms wrapped around her neck, she feels safe for the first time in months.

continued... (nsfw, mdni)

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Teacher's Pet Baby

First Time

Cg!Professor!Wanda Maximoff x little!student!reader

Summary: You slip during class for the first time and it doesn't go unnoticed

Word count: 1.4K

Warnings: Age regression, mild anxiety, emotional vulnerability, fluff and comfort

Authors notes: After writing the first part this had started to come to mind so it was nice to get it all written out~

Also, to all the littles, seeing this, please tred lightly on this blog! This is my big 18+ blog, but I do have some little!reader fics. Everything is marked accordingly!

The first few weeks of class were nothing out of the ordinary—except for the way you found yourself drawn to Professor Maximoff. There was something about the way she spoke, how her voice carried both authority and warmth, that made you want to listen more intently. You were eager to impress her, to ask every question that popped into your head, just to see that soft smile she reserved for students who showed genuine curiosity.

You didn’t know what it was that made you crave her attention so badly, but you knew that every time she praised you, something deep inside you warmed, a feeling of safety and validation that you couldn’t quite explain.

Then, one day, as you flipped the page in your textbook, your eyes landed on the title printed in bold letters at the top:

Coping Mechanisms: Age Regression

Your stomach twisted immediately.

Two whole pages on the subject, defining it, explaining how it functioned as a response to stress or trauma. You barely heard Wanda begin her lecture, your mind spiraling as you felt yourself slipping, your fingers tightening around the edge of the book.

It wasn’t until you heard the soft laughter—quiet, but unmistakable—that the dread fully set in.

"People actually do this?" one student muttered under their breath.

"That’s so weird." Another scoffed, shaking their head.

Your breath hitched, and you had to blink rapidly to stop the tears from forming. They didn’t know. They had no idea that right here, in the same room, was someone who did—who couldn’t help it, whose mind sometimes reverted without warning. You wanted to shrink, to disappear, but before the panic could settle in further, Wanda’s voice cut through the murmurs, firm and unwavering.

"That’s enough," she said sharply, silencing the room in an instant.

All eyes snapped toward her, and you dared to look up. Her expression was serious, her usual soft demeanor replaced by something strict and protective.

"I expect professionalism in my class," she continued, her gaze sweeping over the students. "We are here to learn, not to ridicule others for coping mechanisms that are valid and often necessary for mental health." She let her words settle before adding, "If anyone here finds it difficult to show respect for psychological concepts that people actually experience, then perhaps this is not the right field for you."

Silence.

Your hands trembled slightly in your lap, but for an entirely different reason now. No one had ever defended you like that before. No one had ever made you feel like what you did—what you were—was okay.

Wanda’s gaze flickered to you for just a moment, softer now, like she knew. Like she had already pieced something together but wouldn’t call attention to it. Instead, she resumed her lecture, effortlessly guiding the class back on track, leaving you sitting there with a heart racing for a whole new reason.

From that moment on, you weren’t just drawn to Wanda Maximoff. You needed her.

As the lecture came to an end and you were trying to pack up Wanda called you over, "Have a good night everyone and remember to do the reading and get your assignment done for Monday's class! Oh and y/n please stay a moment. I'd like to discuss something with you." 

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure Wanda could hear it. You weren’t in trouble—at least, she didn’t sound upset—but you still couldn’t shake the nerves twisting inside you.

She had never asked you to stay after class before.

You stayed frozen, hands gripping the edge of your desk as you watched her move. But instead of standing over you like a professor scolding a student, she did something entirely unexpected—she walked to the door, locked it with a soft click, and then made her way over to you.

Wanda crouched down in front of your desk, leaning against it with an easy, open posture. Her smile was gentle, and when her warm eyes met yours, something inside you softened, though your body still trembled slightly.

"Hi, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice filled with nothing but kindness. "You're feeling pretty small right now, aren’t you?"

You swallowed thickly. It was impossible to hide, not when she knew, when she could see right through you. Words felt too hard, too big, so you just nodded, blinking rapidly as emotion threatened to well up in your chest.

"That’s okay, sweetie," she assured, her tone soothing as she reached out, resting a hand over yours for just a moment. "This was your last class, right?"

You nodded again.

"I have papers to grade," she continued. "You and I can stay right here, okay?"

Another nod. This time, accompanied by a tiny, shy smile.

Wanda’s expression softened even further. She stood up, her fingers reaching out to gently comb through your hair, the touch grounding in a way you didn’t even know you needed.

"You’re safe with me, Malyshka," she whispered.

✎✐ ✎ ✐ ✎ ✐

While Wanda graded her papers you decided to draw, pulling out your crayons and drawing pad. Wanda let her eyes flick up every so often to watch you. Her expression softened as she saw you so concentrated, your tongue just poking out past your lips. 

She wanted to giggle, but worried it might upset you so she held back, turning her attention back to her papers until she heard you get up, feet padding over to her. She looked up past her glasses. 

"Yes sweetheart?" She asked softly, "Do you have something to show me?" You nodded eagerly and turned the page around.

Wanda let a warm smile tug at her lips as she examined the drawing, her heart melting at the sight of it. You had drawn yourself much smaller, hand held securely in hers, your features simple but unmistakably you. Wanda’s own figure was a little more detailed—her hair a mess of crayon strokes, her glasses perched delicately on her nose—but the most touching detail was the way your hands were clasped together.

Wanda ran her fingers over the crayon lines, her chest tightening in the best way as she admired your drawing. It was simple, childlike, but so full of love that it made her heart ache.

"You did such a good job, sweetheart," she murmured, looking up at you with a soft smile. "I love it, Malyshka."

Your lips curled up, eyes sparkling at her praise. You rocked on your heels, waiting, hopeful, and Wanda knew exactly what you needed. She set her papers aside, focusing entirely on you.

"Come here, baby," she said gently, opening her arms. "Come sit with Mama."

The second the word left her lips, she felt it—the way you froze. Your happy sway stopped, your hands clenched slightly at your sides. You blinked at her, uncertainty flickering in your expression as you searched her face.

"Mama?" you echoed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wanda stayed perfectly still, giving you space to process. She hadn’t called herself that before, at least not out loud, though she had thought about it more times than she could count.

"Only if you want me to be, sweetheart," she assured softly, her voice steady, warm. "I would never make you do something you’re not comfortable with."

You shifted on your feet, fingers curling against the fabric of your sleeves. "But... do you want to be?"

Wanda’s breath caught for just a moment before she exhaled, nodding. "I do," she admitted, her hand resting gently on her knee, not reaching for you, just waiting. "I’d love to take care of you in whatever way you need."

You stared at her, the hesitation clear in your expression. But beneath it, Wanda could see something else—longing, hope, the deep desire for safety and care.

She kept her voice soft. "You don’t have to decide right now, Malyshka."

You bit your lip, shifting your weight from foot to foot before, slowly, you stepped closer. Wanda didn’t move, letting you take the lead, and after a brief pause, you finally climbed onto her lap, settling hesitantly against her.

Wanda wrapped her arms around you carefully, rubbing soothing circles along your back.

You stayed stiff for a moment before you melted into her, resting your head against her shoulder. A soft sigh left you as your fingers grasped at her sweater, holding onto her like you were afraid she might disappear.

Wanda pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, her lips brushing against your warm skin. "I've got you, sweetheart. Always."

And this time, you didn’t hesitate to believe her.

[slytherin-pen]

Kindling the Flame

pairing: Eris x reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: pregnancy, vomiting, Eris is scared but nothing happens

all acotar credits belong to sjm

a/n: yay! i’m back from the dead. not super proud of this one but it was one of my few wips that were close to being finished when i decided to get back to it. i’d been going through some adhd paralysis and health issues but hopefully i’ll be back to normal soon.

Eris Vanserra paced the length of the room, his boots whispering across the hardwood floor of your shared bedroom. His face, usually calm and composed, was marred with worry. His gaze darted back to you, lying on the bed with a damp cloth pressed to your forehead, your skin pale and clammy.

"Love," he murmured, his voice a soft, worried rumble as he knelt beside the bed. "You need to eat something. Just a little. Please."

You shook your head, the mere thought of food sending another wave of nausea rolling through you. "I can't, Eris," you whispered, voice strained and tired. "Everything makes me sick."

Eris’ jaw clenched, his mate instincts screaming at him to protect you, to make this better somehow. Yet, he was helpless against this invisible force causing you so much distress. He brushed a few stray sweat-soaked strands of hair from your face, his fingers gentle as they lingered on your skin.

He had never felt this powerless. His magic could command flames, and his influence could sway an entire Court, but he could do nothing against this. This cruel twist of fate that left you so ill, so fragile. A dream of having a child together had become his current nightmare. The little fireling was sucking everything out of you, and as the days passed it was getting harder to get anything in you. A mix of wonder and dread filled his chest. He was thrilled to become a father, to hold your baby in his arms, but this? Watching you suffer, unable to do a thing? Watch as the life drains out of you, as your cheeks hollow out, and the joy that once filled your eyes is replaced with fear? It was unbearable.

He tried to reflect on his mother’s pregnancies. So many centuries ago now but he could remember them briefly. Perses, and the twins, August and Aethon, had been easy for Phoebe in the beginning. She claimed to have not had many symptoms until the third trimester. With Killian and Macareus she had some slight hiccups, nausea in the beginning being one of them. He nearly thought of her pregnancy with Lucien and quickly slammed the door of his mind on that thought. It was the one pregnancy Phoebe had struggled with during labor, thanks to his cruel father. His mate did not need those stress-inducing memories, she needed to eat.

"I’ll try some tea," he suggested, forcing calm into his voice even as his heart raced. "Ginger, maybe. It might help settle your stomach and then we’ll go from there."

You nodded weakly, knowing he was trying his best. "Alright," you murmured, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead before leaving the room.

In the kitchen, Eris moved swiftly, hands shaking slightly as he prepared the tea. He felt a rush of frustration that he couldn't simply snap his fingers and make you better. He wanted to burn away your sickness with his flames, to destroy whatever was causing you pain, but he couldn't. This was your pregnancy, your body nurturing the tiny life within you. He had to be patient. You’ve barely entered the second trimester and it already felt like he was close to losing you. After witnessing the birth of his six siblings he knew this was supposed to be the least dangerous part. Sure, not being able to eat certain foods anymore and lighting cinnamon candles all around the house to block out the less-than-savory scents was expected. He had hoped you would get some relief by the second semester as his mother had, calling it the eye of the storm, but your condition has only worsened over time. What was once a short list of foods to avoid has become endless, your nights are sleepless as you toss and turn with insomnia, and the way your emotions changed throughout the day reminded him of the money scale sitting on the desk in his office.

Returning to the bedroom, he found you curled up tighter on the bed, your face pinched with discomfort. "Here, my flame," he coaxed, sitting beside you and helping you sit up, holding the teacup to your lips. "Try a few sips."

You took a tentative sip, grimacing slightly at the taste but managing to swallow. Eris’ hand moved to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles there. "That’s it," he encouraged softly. "A little more."

The tea felt warm going down, and you managed a few more sips before the nausea surged again. Eris' face fell as he saw you press a hand to your mouth, trying to fight it down.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, feeling tears prick at your eyes as you leaned over the side of the bed. He was immediately there, grabbing the small trashcan on the floor and holding your hair back, murmuring reassurances even as he felt a stab of panic shoot through him.

"Don't apologize, love," he murmured once the wave had passed, wiping your mouth gently with a damp cloth. "None of this is your fault."

"But I know it worries you," you whispered, voice small and fragile. "I don’t want to cause you pain."

Eris’ chest tightened. “You don’t. Not in the way you think,” he confessed, his voice breaking slightly. “I just… I hate that I can’t make it better. That I can’t take this from you. I’m so afraid of losing you, and I don’t like seeing you suffer.”

You reached out, your hand finding his, squeezing it with whatever strength you had left. "I’m okay," you assured him, even though you both knew it wasn’t entirely true. "It’s worth it. For our baby."

His heart softened at your words, his free hand moving to your stomach, resting there gently. “Our baby,” he echoed, a faint smile on his lips. “I know. And I’m excited, love, more than you know. But if anything happened to you…” He trailed off, the fear evident in his amber eyes.

You leaned into his touch, letting his warmth seep into your skin. “Nothing will happen,” you whispered, but your voice was tired and not as confident as you’d hoped. “I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Eris nodded, though the tightness in his chest didn’t fully ease. He pulled you closer, cradling you against him as if he could shield you from the sickness. “Let me try making some broth,” he offered, his voice determined. “Just a little. It’s light, and it might stay down.”

You nodded, too tired to argue, and he pressed a kiss to your temple before reluctantly pulling away again. He busied himself in the kitchen, channeling his worry into careful preparation, pouring all his love and care into the simple task.

When he returned with the steaming bowl, he sat on the edge of the bed, lifting the spoon to your lips. “Just a sip,” he encouraged gently. “For me?”

You smiled faintly and took the spoonful, managing to swallow. The warmth of the broth spread through you, soothing the ache in your empty stomach, and you nodded for another. Eris’ heart lifted slightly, his hope rekindled.

“Good,” he praised softly, his fingers brushing your cheek. “Take your time.”

You took a few more sips before the nausea started to build again, and Eris quickly set the bowl aside, ready to help you if needed. But this time, the sickness didn’t overwhelm you, and you managed to take a deep breath, leaning back against the pillows.

“See?” he murmured, a small, proud smile on his lips. “You’re stronger than this, my love. We’ll get through it together.”

You nodded, your eyes fluttering closed, exhaustion pulling at you. “I know,” you whispered. “Thank you, Eris. For everything.”

He pressed another kiss to your forehead, his heart swelling with love for you. “Always,” he promised softly. “I’ll always be here.”

And as you drifted off to sleep, he stayed by your side, his hand resting protectively over your stomach, his heart full of determination. Whatever it took, he would see you through this. You were his mate, his love, and nothing would stand in his way.

[28harryssunflower]

Broken paradise

The Italian coastline stretched endlessly before you, the deep blue sea kissing the golden sand beneath the balcony of your villa. The warm breeze carried the scent of salt and citrus, and the soft sound of waves filled the quiet space between you and Harry.

Everything was supposed to be perfect.

And for the first few days, it was. Mornings tangled in the silk sheets of his bed, afternoons spent floating in the infinity pool with glasses of white wine, evenings filled with laughter and whispered confessions over candlelit dinners. Harry had made sure of it - meticulously planning every moment, every detail, down to the playlist that played softly through the villa’s speakers. It was your own little world, untouched by reality.

Until now.

Now, you were standing on opposite sides of the bedroom, voices raised, hearts pounding - not from passion, but from frustration.

Harry scoffed, running a hand through his curls. “You can’t seriously be mad about this.”

Your arms crossed tightly over your chest. “I’m not mad… I’m just tired of you making me feel like I’m being ridiculous every time I bring something up.”

His green eyes flashed with exasperation. “Because you are being ridiculous!”

Your stomach twisted. “Wow. Thanks for that.”

Harry exhaled sharply. “That’s not what I meant. But really? You’re upset because I said you overpacked? It was a joke.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “It wasn’t just that, Harry. It was the way you said it - like you were rolling your eyes at me, like I was being annoying. And it’s not the first time.”

His jaw tensed. “So now I’m not even allowed to joke with my wife?”

“Not when it makes me feel like an idiot!”

Silence fell between you, thick and suffocating. The golden light from the setting sun spilled into the room, casting long shadows across the marble floor. Somewhere outside, the waves kept crashing, oblivious to the storm brewing inside.

Harry let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “You know, I don’t know why we even bothered with this honeymoon if we were just going to spend the whole time fighting.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he snapped. “This was supposed to be perfect. I planned everything to be perfect. And yet, here we are, arguing over nothing.”

Your hands balled into fists. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you bit out. “Did you expect us to just exist in some fantasy where we never have problems?”

“No, I just didn’t think we’d be like this. Not now, not so soon.”

His words stung.

Your voice was quieter when you asked, “So soon?”

He hesitated, rubbing his jaw, his frustration evident. “We just got married,” he muttered. “And we’re already fighting like this. It makes me wonder if we’re going to be doing this for the rest of our lives.”

The air in the room shifted.

Something in your chest ached, and before you could stop yourself, the words tumbled out. “Well, if you already regret it, maybe we should just get a divorce now and save ourselves the trouble.”

The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could take them back.

Harry’s entire body stiffened. His face paled, the anger in his eyes flickering into something else - something shattered.

“What?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard, suddenly feeling sick. “Harry, I didn’t mean-“

But it was too late.

His expression darkened, hurt flashing across his features before he masked it with more anger. “Right,” he said coldly, nodding as if he finally understood something. “So that’s where we are now? One fight, and you’re already throwing divorce in my face?”

“That’s not what I meant!” you said desperately. “I was just frustrated!”

“Frustrated?” he repeated bitterly. “Frustrated enough to throw away everything we just promised each other?” He let out a dry laugh, stepping back like he couldn’t stand to be near you. “Unbelievable.”

Your throat tightened. “Harry-“

“Don’t.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You don’t just say things like that. You don’t throw divorce at me like it’s nothing.”

Guilt twisted inside you. You had said it to hurt him, to make a point, but you hadn’t expected it to cut this deep.

“I don’t want that,” you said, your voice trembling now. “I don’t want anything but you.”

His jaw tensed, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. For a moment, you thought he was going to turn away, to walk out.

But then, his shoulders sagged, and his face softened - just barely. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a slow breath before looking at you again.

“I don’t either,” he murmured. “But you can’t say things like that. Not when I mean forever with you.”

The fight wasn’t gone, but the anger had faded, replaced by something more fragile. More raw.

You hesitated before stepping closer, reaching for his hand. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean it. I was just upset, and I wanted to hurt you the way I was hurting.”

His fingers tightened around yours, warm and steady. “I know,” he said softly. “But I hate fighting with you. And I hate even thinking about losing you.”

Tears burned at the back of your eyes. “You’re not going to lose me,” you promised. “I love you. Even when we fight. Even when we’re both being idiots.”

That finally brought a small, tired smile to his lips. He sighed, pulling you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. “I love you too,” he murmured. “Even when you overpack.“

You groaned, but there was no bite behind it. “Too soon, Styles.”

His laughter rumbled against your skin, and just like that, the tension eased.

The honeymoon wasn’t perfect.

But love wasn’t about perfect. It was about choosing each other - even when it was hard. Even when it hurt.