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erwinsvow · 2 years ago

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𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞, 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐬

summary: aaron hotchner is a lot of things. in love with you is one that you never saw coming.

word count: 7.1k

author's note: bau!reader + hotch is my favorite combo ever. i haven't written and posted in, like, two years so please be nice :) i've written so many other versions of hotch but this one just wrote itself. inspired by the amazing @luveline and so many breathtaking hotch stories and isabel (alisdas on ao3, not on here anymore i think :( ) who wrote of terrible coffee and late-night rides which i think started all of this and my immense aaron brain rot when i read that fic, like, three years ago. enjoy!

This was wrong, Aaron thought to himself. He seldom committed acts that others might say were wrong, or argue they could potentially be wrong, but this was different. Aaron felt wrong, a feeling he was not used to.

“I’m worried about you, that’s all,” you had said quietly on the jet early one morning. You two were sitting across from each other on the flight back from the team’s latest solved case, an excruciating long ride home from the coast of Oregon.

Your book laid open on your lap, unread and a bookmark tucked between the earlier pages. The spine was cracked, like you’d read it a hundred times before. He knew that wasn’t true though, it was just a used novel probably from the thrift store around the corner of your apartment.

You had told him once, back when you first started—back when he was still married and you were less affected by this job—that you liked finding used (pre-loved, you call it) books and picking the most worn out ones to take home. You said it means that someone used to love this book.

It felt wrong because you were too young for him, and too innocent to be mixed up in his life. What could you know about his thoughts? About the love of his life that divorced him and his son he only sees once in a while.

The rest of the team makes jokes with you, in particular JJ and Penelope. He’s even heard Emily pitch in, about your not-so-secret fondness for your boss. For him.

Back when you had first started, it was nothing. Passing glances, working extra hard to please him and earn his praise—which was never given out generously. He hadn’t even taken the time to notice, never paid more attention than any other member of the team. What he did notice was your work ethic.

Being among the youngest of the team had instilled a drive in you to prove your worth. You always stayed an hour extra, came early, and spent nights working the case even when you were yawning every few minutes. The most attention he’d given you back then was commenting that you’d had a good insight into the unsub, commending you on well-written reports and briefs, and offering you a cup of coffee when it was just you and him left in the sheriff’s office. He’d be rereading seemingly endless pages of the case reports and you’d be diving headfirst into the victim’s lives.

Your specialty was always understanding why the victims did what they did, figuring out their routines and ascertaining important details from their personal belongings. He was used to you flicking through diaries and boxes of mementos that were once treasured by another young girl, not so much older than yourself.

He’d be lying if he hadn’t thought it was impacting you—reading through the journals of dead women who had been very similar to yourself, with similar hopes and dreams. It was depressing, he knew, and yet if you were bothered by it, you didn’t show it in the slightest. At least not to him.

And back then, he’d never notice the sweet smile that always graced your face when he was asking you if you’d like coffee. You’d shake your head no, and take sips of water between your yawns. You didn’t even tell him that you don’t drink coffee until a few months later, after he asked if you’d ever like a cup when he offered. He can remember it clearly even now.

“Actually, Hotch, I don’t drink coffee.” Your cheeks were tinged with color like you were embarrassed to even be admitting this to him.

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner? I would have stopped asking three months ago.” If he sounded stern, he didn't mean to. The burning on your face deepened.

“I didn’t want to be rude. I drink tea though, but I didn’t think to mention it. It’s not as easy to make.”

“Well, let me know if you need a cup of hot water then.”

You had smiled at that, and he had turned around to take another picture on the bulletin board. He smiled a little too.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, maybe a little too gruffly. He didn’t mean it, again, but it just came out that way. He thinks some part of him is trying to warn you to stay away before you get too close.

“We’re all worried. You went through something really big and didn’t tell any of us and even if you don’t care about us like that, I care about you. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Aaron’s gaze casts around the rest of the jet. Derek has his headphones in, staring out the window and trying to resist sleep. JJ and Emily are playing cards—they should be sleeping, but they had a little too much espresso a few hours before. They’re too far away to hear you and Aaron speaking, but he notices JJ’s eyes darting over every once in a while. Spence is asleep, and he realizes that’s why it’s so quiet. Dave is reading a book, too, but he’ll stop and interject into JJ and Emily’s conversation.

He looks back at you, sleepy-eyed and wrapped in a warm, boxy pullover from your alma mater. He thinks a little bit too much about you these days, and he can’t get it to stop. He shouldn’t profile anyone on the team, they have a strict moratorium on that, but especially not you.

You, who never fails to try to make anyone feel better when they’re down. You, who doesn’t make it seem like you’re analyzing their behavior, but rather observing and offering comfort in hard times. You remember everything the team tells you about their likes and dislikes, never forgetting a birthday or special occasion. He can distinctly recall fresh chocolate chip cookies on Derek’s birthday, carrot cake from the Italian bakery Rossi loves to celebrate when his latest book became a bestseller, and a new knick knack for Penelope’s office after a particularly brutal case.

You say it’s all in passing, but he knows it’s not. You’re trying your hardest to keep the team together in the little ways, strengthening bonds that extend beyond coworkers. You want to fit in and be accepted, and you worry so much that you won’t. This is your way of trying to show that you’re a part of this team too, not just the new girl and one of the young ones.

Aaron blinks twice. You’re looking at him expectantly, and he wishes you wouldn’t. All he’ll do is disappoint you.

“You don’t need to worry,” he repeats. “I’ll be fine.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say that. Why is it so bad for us to worry about you?” You look like you’re starting to get upset—it hurts Aaron more than he realized it would. It’s not bad for the others to worry, it’s bad for you. If you get attached, if he lets this get unprofessional, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself. Hurting himself is one thing; hurting you is another entirely.

“Let it go, Agent. Try to get some rest.” He looks out the window. He can see the sun coming up, and realizes he hasn’t slept since the night before last. He still needs to drive home—not really home, he remembers sadly, his empty apartment— and work on reports before he can even see Jack. He doesn’t think resting now is a good idea, and yet his body is so tired.

When he looks back, you’re reading your book again but your eyes are really paying attention to the words on the page. You’re just skimming, and blinking rapidly, and he realizes then he’s made you tear up.

His phone goes off—Haley, and he feels guilt building up in his chest, almost overwhelming him. He steps away to answer and talks quietly. He doesn’t want you to overhear and worry even more. When he comes back to his seat, you’ve fallen asleep. He takes the book from your hands gently and puts the bookmark in, closing it and resting it on the seat beside you. He watches you sleep and wonders if he’s making a mistake trying to hide from you. He thinks, and not for the first time, that you see right through him.

The plane lands an hour and a half later, and everyone is beyond exhausted. Even Spencer, who normally doesn’t need much energy or caffeine to start talking fast about something interesting he noticed about this case and this unsub, is unusually quiet. They’re all running on fumes, staying up two nights in a row profiling and then catching the unsub with the latest victim at one in the morning, and then boarding the jet soon after.

Aaron makes a decision, everyone can work on their notes from home and the report is due no later than day after next. Derek pats him on the shoulder and says no one is to call him for the next twenty-four hours. JJ and Emily exchange a laugh. Y

ou, he notices, though he wishes he wouldn’t, go up to Spencer and talk with him quietly. When you’re done, he beams at you and you at him. He wonders what you two talked about when they’re all heading out, listening to Spencer ramble about how the unsub’s use of his childhood spots as disposal sites offers insight into the abuse of his youth. Prentiss tells him to save it for the report.

He and Rossi are walking back to their cars when Dave speaks up for the first time.

“You’re wondering what she said to him, aren’t you?”

Aaron stops for a moment.

“You should know better than to profile me.”

“Oh, I’m not profiling. This is just me being observant. You should stop fiddling with your ring finger when you talk to her. It’s a dead giveaway.”

“Dave, I don’t need to tell you that this conversation—“

“I know, I know. I won’t mention it again if you don’t want me to.”

“Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See you tomorrow, Aaron. And by the way, she offered to write his notes for him if he wanted. He said it’s hard for him to write about unsubs with schizophrenic tendencies and she said she can try to help, if he wants. That’s all. Let me know when you’re ready to talk about this.”

Aaron gets in his car and doesn’t stop thinking about you the entire ride home.

You wish you could make it stop. The way you feel about your boss. It started so long ago, it’s almost a part of you now. Aaron is stern and his disposition is frightening, to the say the least. But only at first, you’ve realized, after so many late evenings spent discussing the case with him, breaking down the tiniest details, and him paying attention to your every word when you discuss the victim’s demeanor and behavior to try to figure out what had really happened.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, you thought. You had gone to the overpopulated state school with the hopes of entering the medical field. You were a true empath, and there was no one’s suffering you couldn’t relate to, no one that you wouldn’t try to make feel better. All your life, people cried on your shoulder while you offered up words of comfort. And because of this, everyone thought you were a shoo-in for nursing or medical school, where you could help people through the worst days of their life.

All it took was a few days at the hospital where you had been working, a string of murder victims being wheeled in one after another, for you to reconsider your life’s work. None had survived the incident, but the killer let them live just long enough to be seen by the doctor, who then had to declare them legally dead.

Something about the victims seemed familiar to you, how they’d all come from wealthy families and were sliced up in their expensive clothing, expensive jewelry and watches smashed to bits instead of being stolen. You mentioned it to one of the officiers, who told someone else, and somewhere in that chain of events, your insight helped them catch the killer.

It was then, you thought, that maybe you should be working on the other side of these situations. Stopping the killer before it ever got to this.

Then you’d done a one-hundred and eighty degree spin on your career, electing to pursue becoming an agent. You had been young, and motivated, and you chose to overlook when everyone told you this job might become your whole life, leaving no time for a husband and kids and a family.

You had ignored it all, working your way up from the local field office to child crimes in just a year and a half. The transition out of sex crimes to homicide was disturbingly hard, because at least before you’d had a victim to interview. You were no expert, not yet, but a unique asset altogether, combining a true mission to uncover the best in each victim, and figuring out their behavior patterns from bedrooms and diaries.

It was a unique skill-set, acquired mostly because a lot of traumatized children didn’t offer much to go off of. You had to turn to their childhood homes, toys, and scribbles to figure out what had been going on in the first place.

You reflect often on why you decided to leave child homicide when news spread that the BAU had an opening for one more agent. Truthfully, you hadn’t considered it at all, since you were more than happy with your current position and coworkers. You were solving cases, delivering justice, and bringing whatever comfort you could bring to grieving families.

In fact, you had been requested specifically. You, out of a hundred or more well-established, intelligent agents that could be a huge asset to the team. You were never special, and you didn’t like to think of yourself in that way either, but you couldn’t deny how good it felt to hear that the team wanted you.

And when you transferred over, everyone was so nice. The team was inviting, they respected your opinion, and especially in cases with younger victims, they revered your knowledge. You felt included, and invaluable, and as hard as you worked, you wanted to work even harder.

Your boss was a brilliant agent and profiler, and so hardworking that you wanted to do anything you could to make his workload a little easier. You wrote the most detailed reports, so he would have to edit them as much.. You offered to pick up extra briefs, so he took home a couple less papers. And no matter what you did, acknowledged or not, you knew you were making the kind of difference you’d always dreamed you would.

Aaron—he was only ever Aaron in your head, and Hotch the rest of the time—liked you as an agent, and it made you happy. A little happier than you should be, considering he was happily married with a toddler and a perfect life outside of work. It was almost wrong, but it didn’t stop you from trying to impress him with your work ethic.

You always put aside your other feelings and focused on the team, and somehow in all of that, you felt like you were finally making your difference. You were close with the team and close enough with Aaron, that you hadn’t been worried to start that conversation on the jet now that all these circumstances were changing. Haley had asked for a divorce and he hadn’t muttered a word of it to anyone.

He’s so tired, you can see. You wonder if everyone else notices it too, or if it’s just you observing so closely. He has dark circles now, because he never sleeps, always working, and the furrows on his forehead are seemingly etched in and permanent. He misses his wife and his son, and you know it, and maybe it’s wrong to care about your boss so much that your heart hurts when you see him glancing at the framed photos of his family on his desk, or the tiny polaroids in his wallet, but you do. You think you’re in love with Aaron Hotchner, and you don’t know how to make it stop.

You’re gonna get hurt, you remind yourself every now and then.

Aaron and Spence have just come back from the prison, where they had an encounter with Chester Hardwick that they won’t really talk about. You’d been with the rest of the team in Indiana, and then two days later in Oregon.

Aaron and Haley were divorcing, and it hurt him so much, you knew, because it wasn't for a lack of love. It was a lack of time, a shortness of hours in the day. He couldn’t be the husband Haley wanted and the father he thought Jack needed while being an agent for eighteen hours a day. It hurt you too, seeing him like this. You wish he felt better.

The days and weeks seemed to blend into months. Somewhere in between Hotch’s divorce and JJ’s pregnancy, you had become complacent with your relationship with Aaron. Walking in together from the parking lot, leaving together at the end of a long day—usually alone and sometimes joined by Emily or David. Sometimes you’d have a frothy drink from a nearby coffee shop in your hand—to which you always hear, “My coffee’s not better than that stuff?”

“It’s not coffee, remember-”

“I know, you don’t drink coffee. That stuff is full of sugar. I don’t need you bouncing off the walls like Reid and Garcia too.”

You laugh, and then you wonder if it’s because he really cares or if it was just a passing comment. You share a lot of little moments like that.

When his eardrum was nearly blown out after New York, you almost offered to drive back with him from Ohio to Virginia. It was instinct, because you just didn’t want him to be alone. You had exchanged a glance when he handed you the plate of brownies from the victim’s mother, and you knew he had read your mind. But he didn’t say anything, and you left it at that. You’re not nearly stupid enough to think that your boss reciprocates your feelings for him. Hell, most days you don’t even know what feelings you have for him.

Your seats on the jet are almost permanently fixed; near the coffee machine towards the cockpit. You sit across from each other, and sometimes you don’t even speak. He’ll bring you a cup of hot water, and he doesn’t ask if you need a tea bag from the make-shift coffee station, because knows they’re in your go-bag.

When it’s his weekend with Jack after two weeks of back-to-back cases, Aaron is always working on the reports on the jet. It’s because he’s trying to reduce how much work he has to do at home, and even when everyone’s fallen asleep and your eyes are close to shutting, you get up and make him a cup of coffee. He’s never once told you how he takes it, and he doesn’t know if you’ve seen him make it either, but somehow you know, and it’s always right. When you offer him the steaming paper cup, he looks up at you with an entirely new look—something you’ve never seen before. You two don’t exchange so many words.

He says it all with his eyes, sometimes, even when you’re not looking. It’s gratitude. (When you get off the jet a few hours later, you tease Morgan about his snoring. Derek asks you where his cup of coffee is, and you shove his arm so hard he almost drops his bag.

In the end, it was you who had figured out there was something wrong with the Reaper’s last few victims.

“Why would a nineteen year old girl date her teaching assistant?” You had questioned, looking through a file that everyone’s eyes had already seen. “An honors student, a freshman, I mean, none of this points to an illicit affair with faculty. She knew it was against the rules and her roommates said she’s never so much as skipped class.”

“That could have been because she wants to see him,” Derek interjects. “If they were truly in love like Foyet said, she’d take every opportunity to be with him.”

“But in an environment where no one can know you two are together? I mean, if she was in love and close to getting engaged, wouldn’t she tell her best friends? Her parents? How many teenage girls keep something like that just to themselves?”

The pieces of the puzzle that had once fit together so nicely were coming undone. It felt like the blink of an eye, from catching Foyet to him escaping. Everyone was on edge, no one more than Aaron, and your empathy still knew no bounds. Where you had once been able to focus on work and dedicate all your thoughts to the cases, you now were distracted and distant. Every other thought was about Aaron, as wrong as that might be.

Canada had been something else entirely. It was difficult for the entire team to fathom, but nearly impossible for you. You had lost your temper twice—something you’d never done before— and thrown up when the team discovered all the shoes. JJ had run after you but in the end, Aaron was the one who found you outside.

“I’m sorry, JJ, I’ll be fine—I-I just need a minute,” you breath out, chest heaving and tears brimming.

“It’s okay,” Aaron says, “take your time.”

You turn around so fast, your breath catching, and you hate this situation. You could never hate Aaron but you hate this, you hate that he followed you and that he’s seeing you like this. You look weak, after two and a half years of trying to prove to him that you’re strong—strong enough to handle this job, do what needs to be done, and not cry at a crime scene.

“I-I’m sorry, I-”

“Why are you apologizing?” He doesn’t sound mad, or like he’s belittling you, and you don’t know why that’s what you expected. This is Aaron, your Aaron, and even though he’s not really yours it doesn't seem to matter much right now.

“I’m making a scene. I-I shouldn’t be throwing up on the job or screaming at those unsubs or anything else-”

“It’s okay. It happens.” Aaron says it so concisely, you almost feel better for a second. Isn’t this what it’s always come down to? You need Aaron like air, and somehow he always knows what you need to hear. He doesn’t treat you any differently compared to the others but it feels different today. You can’t describe it in words. If JJ or Morgan had followed you out here, you would have said the same things, but you wouldn’t have felt this way. Like if you crumble here today, Aaron will be there to pick you up.

“Take your time, please,” he repeats. “I know you think you have something to prove to me, but you don’t. You’ve proven it already, to all of us. Admitting that all of this gets to you isn’t a bad thing. That’s what separates us from them.”

At that moment, a dam bursts. Tears flow down your face like they haven’t in so long, as long as you can remember. You think you should feel embarrassed, crying in front of your boss, but Aaron takes you into his arms and you can’t remember the last time you felt this safe. Cheesy, you think, but this is everything I thought it would be and more.

You’re not sure how long he holds you there, but eventually once the front of his shirt is covered in your tears and he offers you a tissue (Does he just carry this around waiting for one of us to cry?) and you head back together. This is the embarrassing part, you think, bracing yourself and biting your inner cheek. But if the team is judging you at this moment, they certainly don’t show it.

You join JJ and Emily inside the house, who ask you if you’re okay when you sniffle for the last time. Spencer asks you later, on the way home. Derek tells you to call him if you need anything. Dave tells you, “You’ll be okay, kid,” and somehow, you believe him. Penelope texts you once on your phone, checking in and promising a distracting, gossip filled girl’s night out soon.

Aaron walks you to your car, and says goodnight. You’re delusional, you think, once you're back at home. You’ve taken the longest, hottest shower imaginable and your record player is emitting the scratchy sound of your favorite Beatles album. You’re in a big shirt that’s getting wet while you brush your freshly cleaned hair and all you can think about is how it felt to be wrapped in Aaron’s arms a couple hours ago.

You are delusional, you remind yourself. You’re checking your phone every couple minutes like a love-sick teenager. You think Aaron’s going to call you to check in, you almost feel it in your bones. You leave the ringer on incase he calls later—maybe he showered and sat down to work on some reports before sleeping. You fall asleep thirty minutes later, exhausted down to your bones, and wake up startled by your phone going off. In your sleepy delirium, you answer without looking who it is—assuming it’s Aaron.

“Hotch?”

“Hey, sorry it’s JJ. We have another case, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, JJ, um, okay, I-I’ll be there in ten. Text the address, okay?” Your cheeks burn at the slip.

“I sent it just now. Listen, I’m sorry, but can you try Hotch’s cell? I called and texted and he’s not answering.” You feel your stomach turn, first because Aaron isn’t answering and he always answers, and second because JJ thinks he’ll answer if you call.

“I’ll try him now. I’ll call you back.”

You try him twice while changing and another time in the car. Your only explanation is that maybe he went to see Jack and put his phone away, but even that doesn’t check out.

When you get to the scene, you inform the others about Aaron not answering.

“Alright, let’s split up for now and I’ll keep trying Hotch,” Derek says. They don’t seem that worried, and maybe that lulls you into not worrying either. After all, they’ve known him a lot longer than you have.

You end up with Spencer and Emily at the doctor’s house, combing through patient files Garcia sent over. There’s tens of dozens, and even though you want to go with Emily to Aaron’s place to get him, you know your experience with kids and in the hospital is vital. You and Spencer start working, but something feels off. You just can’t place it.

In the end, you attribute it to your nerves from the last case. Your fear of embarrassing yourself carried into today, and even though you know no one judged you for losing it in Canada, the feeling lingers. Spencer answers the phone from Emily and says that Hotch was busy with something at the bureau that now requires Emily too. In the end, you and Spence figure it out just in time. Your body is so tired, it hurts, and then on top of that, Spencer gets hurt. You can barely process what’s happening, and you don’t feel better until the doctor says it’s through-and-through.

“God, Spencer, never do that again,” you say, your hands wet with the blood from his wound. You wipe it on your clothes, thinking you’ll change soon.

“Guys, guys listen to me, something’s happened to Hotch.” The blood drains from your face and your breath stops in your throat.

“What?”

“Emily told me not to say anything until we got the unsub, but he’s in the hospital.”

The next hour is a blur. You all show up to the hospital, and Emily is talking to a bunch of agents. Their faces are blurred because you can hardly think straight.

“Em? Is he okay?” your words must be coming out frantically because everyone’s looking at you like you’re about to crumble.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t say anything because I knew we wouldn’t be able to think straight about the case, I know it’s wrong but-”

“Is he okay?” You didn’t mean to cut her off, it just happened like that. Your mind is so clouded right now with a petrifying vision of Aaron dying alone on the floor of his new apartment that he hates so much, while you were waiting for a call for him.

“He-he hasn’t woken up yet.”

You sit on a chair by Aaron’s bed. He looks like he’s sleeping, and a part of you had always wanted to see him like this. It would be comforting, if he actually was sleeping. You’d imagined it a little differently—you thought for sure he snores and sleeps on his side. You always notice sleep lines only on one arm when you guys have just woken up and continue working on the case. You stare extra hard when he rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt on particularly hot days. Everyone would moan and groan about another case in the heat of Texas or Arizona, but not you.

It seems like those memories were a million years ago.

When he wakes up, everyone pours in and it distracts you for a few heartbeats. When they realize what Foyet is actually after, the terror is apparent on everyone's faces. You realize how long it’s been since you last saw Haley and Jack when they finally step into the room. You and Emily leave to give them privacy.

Later that night, you’re back in that chair. Aaron wakes up for a few minutes at a time, and when he finally stays awake, he notices you.

“How long have I been out?”

“Thirty minutes. Give or take.”

“Is there water?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You scramble up to get the pitcher and pour him a glass. There’s a straw too, which you put in the cup and hold still for a second so he can drink.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah.” He can see all your emotions on your face. It doesn’t take him long at all, not anymore. You’ve been crying and your clothes have blood on them. He’s alarmed again.

“Is that your blood?” he asks, swallowing hard.

“No, no, Hotch. We had a case, the-the unsub shot Spence. He’s okay though, it just got on me and I haven’t been back home to change yet.”

“Why don’t you? Go home?”

“I didn’t want to leave you.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I let you go home alone yesterday and look what happened.” You smile meekly at your own joke, hoping he appreciates it. He lies still though, not smiling.

“I think you should go home. Get some rest after everything.”

“You know, Hotch, only you would tell me to go home and rest up when you’re the one who’s currently in the hospital.”

“I just think-”

“Do you want me to leave? If you do, I will. I swear.” There’s silence between you two for a moment.

“No.”

“Good, because I wasn’t going to.” The corners of his mouth turn up a little. You barely even notice it. “I can’t leave now. I don’t want you to sit alone here.” You should stop talking, you think to yourself. But you don’t. “You know yesterday, I got home and the whole time I sat there wondering if you were gonna call my cell. I even turned the ringer up all the way so I didn’t miss it. And I know that’s stupid because why would you call me? But I had this feeling. And now all I can think is why didn’t I call you?”

“Don’t think like-”

“Don’t think like that? Yeah, I knew you would say that. But if I had called you like I wanted to, and asked you to come over like I wanted to, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. But I didn’t because I was scared and I don’t want to be scared anymore. And I know this is the last thing you need to hear right now, but I guess I can’t hold it in any longer.”

You want to clamp your hand over your mouth. Your favorite cheesy rom-coms have infiltrated your brain, and you can’t fathom how stupid you must sound right now to Aaron. He’s just almost died and the kid who was the last to join his team is declaring love for him on his hospital bed. But it won’t stop coming out.

“Can I tell you something Aaron? I mean, more than I already have? Emily said she didn’t tell me you were hurt because she knew I wouldn’t be able to think straight about the case anymore. About anything, anymore, if I knew you were missing or that you were hurt or dead. And I’ve been trying to hide it for so long, because I know you don’t need any more complications in your life right now, but, I think I have feelings for you, Aaron.” Hot tears stream down your face. You try to stop them but you can’t. They’ve been building up for two years.

“Please don’t cry. I don’t have a tissue for you this time.” You smile through your tears, but your entire body is still tense. It’s because you’re still expecting bad news, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Do you want me to leave? I can call Emily, she’ll sit with you if you don’t want to be alone.”

“I don’t want you to leave. And you don’t have to tell me these things, I already knew them.” Another few tears drip down your face. Aaron’s chest hurts more than it has ever before. He thinks back to your conversation on the jet that day, when you told him you cared about him and he hadn’t said much of anything at all. “I hope you know that I have feelings for you, too.”

“You mean you care about me and the team?” you question half-heartedly. You think you’ve already gotten your answer. “I mean I care about the team a lot. And I care about you more than I should, more than what’s right. More than a superior should care about one of their agents. And I think if this hadn’t happened, I would have called you last night. Not because of the case, because of you. Because I need to make sure you’re okay.”

Your heart thumps uncomfortably in your chest. Aaron reaches out his hand a little, and you take it into yours. You sit like that for a long time, and you know there’s so much else going on, but a small part of you sighs in relief. Aaron is okay, and he feels about you how you do about him, and maybe everything will be okay in the end.

The months after Haley’s funeral are tough for everyone. It’s weird going to work and not seeing Aaron. Sometimes you inadvertently make a cup of coffee how he likes it and have no one to give it to. You started drinking some, even though it tastes bitter and terrible, it makes you feel close to him.

How stupid is that, you wonder one day, sipping the coffee and looking over files with JJ. If the rest of the team thinks you're stupid, they haven’t shown any signs of it yet. You’re sure they mostly feel bad for you and your pathetic behavior. You’ve gotten sloppy because you can’t stop thinking about how Aaron is doing.

You and the team will go visit him and Jack at his new place. You make cookies, snickerdoodle for Aaron and oatmeal raisin for Jack.

“What kind of a kid are you?” you questioned, helping Jack scribble in his Captain America coloring book. He’s munching on a cookie while you try to figure out what part of the shield is blue and what part is red. “I mean, who likes oatmeal raisin cookies at the tender age of 5?”

“I did,” Spencer says, taking another one out of the tin.

“You don’t count, genius,” Morgan says, and then directs his gaze at you. “And I mean come on, no chocolate chip for me? None at all? That hurts.”

“I made you some like two weeks ago! I have a job, you know,” you fire back. Aaron laughs, eating the snickerdoodle after dipping it in milk. It’s so domestic, you feel yourself staring. You only turn away when he catches you looking.

When he comes back, you wonder if it’ll ever feel normal again. That silly routine you two had, the chairs on the jet near the coffee machine that you still sit in, walks to your car.

At first, it just feels strange. So much has changed yet the team’s dynamic remains the same. You get through cases with the same ferocity you had when you first started, eager to prove your worth again. Your reports detail every detail and then some, and you stay even later than Aaron some nights. You need something to focus on, and your cases seem like the best option. The other option is to have another conversation with Aaron about your feelings and you think you might die if that happens.

When it finally does happen, it’s plenty embarrassing. You were so sure about your theory about this unsub, so sure that he would confess if he was confronted about his crimes and reminded of the humanity of his victims—three little kids, all under ten. Maybe that’s why it bothered you so much, and that’s why you stormed into the residence even though the rest of the team was screaming at you not to. In the end, you talk him down, but Aaron runs in behind you anyways and nearly spooks the unsub into suicide.

“You do not have the authorization to make calls like that,” Aaron yells at you, and though you had once thought you would die if he yelled at you, it’s all too easy to yell back.

In that moment, when you had known what would happen, dealing with your area of expertise, he stormed in and questioned you and your abilities as an agent and as a profiler.

“I don’t need authorization, I knew what would happen, and I knew how to talk him down without this ending in gunfire—”

“I don’t care what you think you knew. This is a team, and we don’t make decisions that jeopardize a case without agreeing on it!” “You mean you have to agree with every decision I make? I had it handled, Hotch, you almost blew that whole thing up because you didn’t believe in me!”

“That’s not what this is about,” he fires back, and it feels strange to be yelling at you. He can’t recall the last time he’s ever done this. The rest of the team is just packing up in the police station, trying not to overhear but not really having any choice in the matter.

“Yes it is! You don’t trust me! Not to make decisions for this team and for our cases, or for anything. You just proved that back there. You don’t trust me.” It’s happening again. Tears brew in your eyes. They spill down before you can stop it. Aaron softens before your very eyes at the sight of them. “Stop! Stop feeling bad just because now I’m crying, they’re not tears for you, they’re angry tears and I can’t control it-”

“Of course, I trust you.” His voice has dropped from a yell to just above a whisper. “How could you think that I don’t?”

“I’m not stupid, Aaron. I know what I’m doing. My plan was going to work and you shot me down in front of everyone because you didn’t believe in me,” you say between tears. “Nothing’s changed.”

“And what do you think would happen if you stormed in there and I lost you too?” His voice is gentle. You hadn’t noticed that he was so close to you now. You can see the eyelash on his cheek and feel the heat radiating from his body.

“That’s not what this is about.”

“That is exactly what this is about. You think I don’t trust you, so I won’t let you walk into a confrontation alone? That I think you don’t know how to profile, how to handle these unsubs, so I get into a screaming match outside a crime scene? Tell me, does that check with any of my behavior in the years I’ve known you?”

“I don’t know, Hotch, I don’t profile you.”

“You call me Hotch in front of everyone, and especially when you’re upset with me. When it’s just us you use Aaron. You know how I take my coffee even though I’ve never told you, because you pay attention even when no one else is looking. Cases with children affect you the most, especially when it takes us longer to work them, because you think you should be quicker and figure out the unsub faster since you worked with kids before joining the team. You remember the little things everyone says because you don’t want them to think you’re not paying attention to them. You cry about cases when you feel like there’s something more you should have done, even though there’s nothing else any of us can do. And you cry about me the most of all, that time on the jet, in the hospital, and just now because you think I don’t share your feelings. You think I know all this because I’m profiling you, but it’s not. It’s because I pay attention to those whom I love.”

Shell shocked. You are shell shocked at Aaron’s speech, eyes wide and mouth open. You’re sure the rest of the team, hidden behind a bulletin board and the conference table is much the same.

“I’m going to kiss you now. And that’s the end of the conversation about me not trusting you, okay?” You nod dumbly. Aaron’s lips are sweet and taste like his coffee—black, with two sugars. You feel another tear falling but it’s only because you hadn’t expected any of that.

“That took long enough,” David says from behind the partition.

and voila <3

#spent my sunday writing this while rewatching season 3 #putting off prep for my grad school interview b/c this is so much better <3 #hope everyone likes it #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotcher imagine #hotch #hotch imagine #aaron hotch fanfiction

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weemssapphic · 4 months ago

Text

I've looked around enough to know that you're the one I want to go through time with

Larissa Weems x f!reader

It's been years - decades, even - since Larissa Weems broke up with you. Running into the shapeshifting principal at the Weathervane all these years later, she's just as striking as you remember.

This is sort of a part two to my fic do you get deja vu when she's with you? but it can definitely be read as a standalone (which is why I ultimately decided to post it this way).

Words: ~2.7k | ao3 link in title Hurt/comfort with a little angst but a happy ending

For all of the times you ran into Larissa in the year or two after your break-up, you somehow managed to completely lose sight of her in the years to come. Years have passed without so much as a whisper of the woman you once loved - the woman you’d have once given up everything for turned to nothing more than a distant memory.

Moving helped, of course - no longer feeding your daily caffeine habit at the Weathervane, giving up your Jericho library card, taking up a new job out of town, spending your summers traveling and trading your usual haunts for theaters in New York, cafés in Paris, parks in London - never stopping, always looking ahead. Towards a better life, you told yourself, towards something new and exciting. Towards a future worth living for.

You didn’t realize that you were actually running away. Away from heartache, away from her.

A failed relationship and a wave of nostalgia has brought you back to Jericho. It's fall, and there’s a pleasant chill in the air, and you’re craving a latte - for old time’s sake. You haven’t been back here in years, and you’re almost shocked at how time seems to have stood still for the sleepy little town. The interior of the Weathervane has been renovated, but just barely, looking so similar still to how it looked the last time you were here that it sends an uncomfortable chill down your spine. You ignore the overwhelming wave of deja vu threatening to pull you under and step up to the counter, ordering a latte from the teenage boy at the till.

“For here or to go?”

You shouldn’t stay. You shouldn’t indulge your nostalgia. You shouldn’t risk running into anyone you used to know.

“For here.”

If you hadn’t been so lost in your thoughts, you might’ve noticed her sooner.

As it stands, you’re watching the kid steam some milk, watching him pour it into a glass - the espresso at the bottom of the glass mixes with the milk, creating rich brown swirls that wind their way up the walls of the glass. You thank him and take your coffee, heading back to the corner booth you used to sit in - old habits die hard. You’re so preoccupied looking around the little café, taking in the change in upholstery that had apparently taken place at some point during your absence, that you don’t notice that someone is already sitting in the booth until you’re right in front of it, until it’s too late to turn around.

Thin, white eyebrows raise in shock, blue eyes go wide before she’s able to school her features into a look that you’ve seen on her face before, usually when dealing with difficult parents - a polite but vaguely disinterested smile, seemingly relaxed yet with an undercurrent of irritation, evident in the way the muscle between her brows twitches. It’s truly been ages - how long, 10 years? No, definitely more like 15 - but the years have been kind to Larissa. Of course they would be, you think, unable to help the twinge of bitterness pricking at your tongue at the realization. You wonder, vainly, if Larissa will think that the years have been kind to you, too. You hate yourself for caring in the first place.

She’s clearly aged though, you note, the wrinkles at the outer corners of her eyes more pronounced, fine lines etched into her skin - skin that’s a bit looser around her neck, her jaw. Her nostrils flare slightly, and you can tell she’s uncomfortable beneath your scrutinizing gaze. You’re sure she’s growing self-conscious - it brings you a fleeting sense of satisfaction before the guilt sets in, a heaviness deep within your bones. It shocks you to realize that you’re nearly, though not quite, the same age that Larissa was when you first met her, and that she, in turn, must now be nearly old enough to retire.

Retire. Is Larissa capable of such a thing? Surely she’s still at Nevermore. Surely she must be married by now - surely she must have children of her own, like she once admitted to you she’d dreamed of having. She’s alone, you note, but you quickly remind yourself that that doesn’t have to mean anything.

“Larissa.” You hate how smoothly her name rolls off your tongue, like the melody of a beloved nursery rhyme, not sung since childhood yet stubbornly ingrained in the recesses of your memory. “I almost didn’t recognize you.” It's a flimsy lie - Larissa knows it, and you know it, but neither of you addresses it.

“How fortunate I am that you did,” she replies with a bit of a sardonic bite behind her words, no doubt a reaction to your own distant tone. To both your shock and hers, it makes you grin.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” you retort, your smile wide, and Larissa's mouth twists at the corners as she lets out a haughty chuckle - she can’t tell if you mean it as an insult or not and, honestly, you’re not too sure yourself.

You’re expecting her to wrinkle her nose in disdain and tell you she must get going, or perhaps even have the audacity to tell you to leave. Instead, she utters the words “care to sit with me?” with a look of surprise in her own eyes, as if she hadn’t meant to ask you to sit with her at all.

She has, though, and she doubles down on her offer when you hesitate by arching an eyebrow and gesturing to the seat across from her.

“Why not?” You shrug and sit opposite her, annoyed by the way your hand trembles as you place your glass on the table, by the clumsy way your knee bumps against the edge of the booth and sends a shooting pain through your leg, making you grimace. Larissa pretends not to notice.

Her own hands rest on the table, her fingertips grazing the porcelain of a large, white coffee cup. The backs of her hands show her age more than her face does, and a lump rises in your throat - you look away, focusing instead on the faint print of deep red lipstick on the edge of the cup, watching as those hands raise the cup into the air, towards pursed, painted lips, with fine lines stretching out into pale, incandescent skin.

Everything about Larissa reminds you of how much time has passed since you last saw her, and you quickly look out the window to your left instead, taking a strange solace in the fact that the view is exactly the same as the last time you’d sat here.

“You don’t live here any longer, do you?” Larissa asks, her voice a deep, soothing rumble, her accent smooth and pleasant as ever, and you chuckle in response, focusing your gaze back on her face.

“Astute observation.”

“I haven't seen you here in a very long time.” Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but she sounds a little bitter, as if displeased that you had the audacity to try and move on.

“Well, I haven't been here in a very long time…” You sigh, taking a sip of your latte - it burns your tongue. “You’re right, I moved.”

Larissa nods, sapphire eyes mapping out your features, no doubt assessing the visible passage of time against your own skin. Her expression remains neutral - it borders on disinterest, though the twitch of her lips betrays her. At one time, long, long ago, she might’ve asked you why you’d moved. Where you’d moved to. What brings you back. Something, anything, that shows an interest in you, in your life. Today, she doesn’t. And you don’t even think it’s because she doesn’t care, but because you both know it doesn’t matter. You both know that you left Jericho because of her, and no amount of small talk is going to erase the past. It doesn’t matter if she cares now or not - not anymore.

“You still at Nevermore?”

Larissa smiles - it almost upsets you. You wish that she’d smiled at you when she first saw you, as she once did - instead it takes a mention of her career to get her lips to curl up into that familiar grin you once coveted.

“Yes,” she replies, both pride and fondness evident in her tone.

“I don’t suppose you’ll retire soon…”

Larissa’s mood seems to sour a bit. It's a fragile thing, her mood - it always has been, but it seems a little more so today. You can’t blame her, you suppose, not when her ex is ruining her lunch break.

“I don’t think it’s quite time for that yet,” she says bitterly, and you realize that she’s self-conscious of her age, of you recognizing that she’s gotten older in the time you haven’t seen each other. You can see the resentment slowly growing in her gaze, a tiny flame that could turn into a roaring inferno at the slightest gust of wind and burn down everything in its path. Turn you, yourself, to ashes. You smile in spite of yourself.

“Nevermore wouldn’t be Nevermore without you anyway, would it?” you hum thoughtfully, placating her, and it works. A calm washes over her features and her knuckles unclench and she cocks her head to the side as her gaze sweeps over your form.

That gaze makes you feel so small. It makes you feel so worthless, because it reminds you of that time she looked at you in the bar on New Year’s Eve, the first New Year’s Eve after she’d broken your heart - like she was looking at a stranger, like she was looking straight through you, like you didn’t exist to her. And it’s been 15 years and you shouldn’t feel that way, still, after all this time, but you do. And you can tell that she knows. You can tell by the way something in her expression changes that she can see the subtle way you shrink down in your seat, the anxiety swirling in your pupils even as you keep your own expression as impassive as you can.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to sit with me,” she says in a sudden, uncharacteristic bout of honesty. The words are so matter-of-fact, said so abruptly, that they go through you like a cold shower.

She’s probably right, though it angers you to admit it.

“Then why did you?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. “I wanted to know how you were doing,” she says, after a long period of silence.

“You haven’t asked,” you grumble.

Larissa looks down at her cup, twisting it this way and that on its saucer, seeming to study her own lipstick print for a moment. “I don’t suppose you think I deserve to know.”

Her answer infuriates you even more, because, once again, she’s right. She doesn’t deserve to know. But she has a lot of nerve assuming how you feel after all this time.

“Do you think you deserve to know?”

Larissa doesn’t answer - you clench your teeth.

The silence that befalls your little corner booth is almost too heavy to bear. Except it’s not a silence, not completely - there’s music playing over the radio, and the song that’s just started hits you like a punch to the gut.

It’s “Uptown Girl” by Billy Joel, and for a moment you think Larissa hasn’t made the connection. That’s what sets you off - that what you and Larissa had could mean so little to her that she barely remembers any of it - barely remembers something that shoots straight through you and makes you feel, for a single, fleeting second, as though you’re still madly in love, as though you could just reach out and grab her, kiss her and feel her smile against your lips as her arms wind around you and shield you from the world.

“How’s your girlfriend? Or is she your wife now?” you ask - you might as well start asking her questions until you find one she’ll answer. This question is a bit childish, a little petty - you know that before you’ve even opened your mouth to ask it, but you can’t help yourself. You can tell Larissa thinks so, too, by her raised eyebrow. To your surprise, she answers.

“I don't have a partner.”

You’re not sure if the emotion bubbling up inside of you, licking greedily at your insides, is glee or pity - surely it’s a strange, ugly mixture of both seeping into your expression at her admission.

“Did you get bored of her, too?”

Larissa’s lips part ever so slightly as a blush colors her cheeks - a faint pink hue that’s gone faster than it came. You hate that you know Larissa well enough still to immediately recognize what she’s done: shapeshifted away the visible evidence of an unwanted emotional reaction. You hate that you can’t shapeshift away the redness in your own cheeks.

“That isn’t fair,” Larissa says quietly.

You don’t know what’s more interesting - the fact that she doesn’t deny your statement, or the fact that her eyes are swimming with guilt, even as she frowns at you.

“Isn’t it?”

Larissa doesn’t answer - again - and the song seems to get louder and louder as it goes on, filling the space between the two of you, and your hands clench into fists on the table.

“This fucking song…” you mutter bitterly, and Larissa freezes as a flicker of recognition crosses her face.

“You really liked this song,” she says, as if it’s some sort of revelation to her as she sounds, for the first time, a bit regretful.

You can’t help the hollow laugh that vibrates in your chest at her words. “I really liked you, Larissa.”

Larissa seems taken aback at your statement. She runs a hand over her pristine updo, smoothing down imaginary fly-aways, turning her head to look out the window as tension seems to grip her at the shoulders.

“I know I don’t have much of a right to say this,” she says finally, her voice just a bit softer than it was before. “But I liked you, too. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

You’re stunned into silence. In a way, it’s more of an apology than you ever dreamed you could get. On the other hand… she’s making it sound a whole lot like she hadn’t had a choice in the matter, like she didn’t leave you as if it were the easiest thing she’d ever done.

“You’re sorry it didn’t work out?” you repeat, your voice strangely hollow, and Larissa shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “You’re the one who left, Larissa. You’re the one who made it seem like I was nothing to you.”

“I know I did, and there’s no excuse for that.” Larissa pauses, deliberating. “One thing I never did get the hang of was being in a stable relationship.” She pauses again. “I regret hurting you in the process.”

“But do you regret leaving me?” The words tumble out of you before you can stop them, and you could choke yourself to death, you really could, for sounding so helplessly pathetic after over a decade of unsuccessful mourning.

To your surprise, Larissa doesn’t laugh or shrug off your comment. She tilts her head, meets your gaze. “Yes, I do.”

Larissa takes one final sip of her coffee and stands. Red-tipped fingers slowly disappear into a pair of tan, leather gloves that fit snugly around her wrists. One hand reaches for her handbag, lying on the bench beside her, as the other is placed firmly on the table, used to steady herself as she rises from the booth.

It’s not that you’d necessarily forgotten how tall she is, but you’re somehow struck with the realization anyway, as if seeing her for the first time. Her kitten heels add an inch or two to her already towering height, and she tilts her head down to look at you, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

“Where are you going?”

Larissa smoothes a hand nervously over her hair. “I need some fresh air.” Her voice sounds the slightest bit hoarse. “It really was lovely to see you.”

“You’re not leaving again?” you ask incredulously, pushing yourself to your feet and stepping up to Larissa, craning your neck back to get a good look at her face. Her eyes widen and, to your surprise, her lips quirk up at the outer corners.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to go for a walk, then?”

“I would, actually.”

Something within Larissa seems to relax, and she leads you out of the Weathervane with a hand on the small of your back.

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69 @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @milfsloverblog @missdowling @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @fallenbutch @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen

#larissa weems x reader #larissa weems #larissa x reader #principal weems x reader #principal weems

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gloomysoup · 4 months ago

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he's probably worried (not hiding anymore)

@steddiebingo christmas card prompt: secret relationship

rating: teen+ | word count: 717 | tags: post-s3, post- starcourt, coming out | ao3

The air is filled with red-orange flames and smoke as the mall burns to the ground in front of him. His head is still spinning, face throbbing, and he can barely breathe. The adrenaline is starting to fade, and Steve’s injuries are making themselves known. He stands side-by-side with Robin, neither of them saying a word. Everything has changed. Neither of them will ever be the same person they once were.

Steve has a fleeting thought that Eddie must be worried. It's gone just as soon as it was there when the paramedics are ushering them into the ambulance and taking them to the hospital.

Everything is a blur of sirens and lights, Robin’s hand in his, a shock blanket around his shoulders. Doctors and bright lights, wires and beeping machines. He gets set up in a room for monitoring. Robin is okay. The kids are okay. Everyone is okay.

Steve doesn't even register what's happening when the nurse says they're going to call his emergency contact. His brain still feels a little fuzzy, even if things are starting to become clearer.

Everyone is gathered in Steve’s room. Robin and Dustin are sitting at the end of the bed, on either side of his legs. Robin refuses to leave his side. Steve is thinking about Eddie again.

Steve is late for dinner. He's probably so worried.

There's heavy footsteps in the hallway, shoes squeaking on the linoleum. The door flies open, and a head of curls stumbles into the room. Eddie’s eyes find Steve’s quickly, wild and full of fear and concern. He quickly crosses the room, pulling Steve into a tight hug. The room falls silent around them.

“Christ, Steve, I was so worried about you,” Eddie whispers, his voice tight like he's trying not to cry. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I'm okay, promise. Just a little banged up, that's all.”

Eddie sucks in a very shaky breath, not letting go of Steve. “You're not allowed to scare me like that anymore, asshole. I can't handle it.”

“I'll do my best. How'd you even know I was here?”

Eddie pulls back, his hands resting on the sides of Steve’s face. “The hospital called Wayne.”

The door opens again, and there's Wayne. Steve notes that he looks tired, but the older man smiles when his gaze lands on Steve.

“Glad to see you're still kickin’, kid,” he says, the worry washing away from his face.

“Sorry, Wayne, can't get rid of me that easy,” Steve says with a grin that pulls at his cuts and bruises. Wayne barks a laugh at that, shaking his head.

“What the hell is going on?” Dustin says, finally finding his voice.

Eddie's eyes go wide as he suddenly seems to realize they are not alone in the room. Steve grabs Eddie’s hand with a smile and gives it a squeeze. Then he clears his throat and looks at Dustin.

"Wayne is my emergency contact,” he explains. “Has been for a little while now. I've, uh… kinda been staying with them from time to time.”

Dustin frowns, his eyebrows knit together. “But… why?”

Steve glances at Eddie, squeezing his hand again. He takes a deep breath. It's now or never. “Eddie is… my boyfriend.”

It's the first time he's said the words out loud. It's the first time they put an actual label on what they are, what they truly mean to each other. They've been boyfriends for a little while now, but they never actually talked about it. There was always so much sneaking around and secrets and keeping it under wraps. They were both scared.

Not anymore.

Steve isn't scared to hide Eddie away from his friends, from his family. The people who truly matter. Not when Eddie has never been scared of hiding him from Wayne, his family. He's done being scared, because he knows there's so many scarier things out there. He knows that monsters are real, and he knows it'll take a lot more than a boyfriend to run off his monster hunting family.

So he smiles at Eddie, and he calls him boyfriend. Because that's what he is. He's Steve’s boyfriend, and he loves him.

He's done keeping that a secret from the people who have always had his back, despite what they've been through.

#gloomysoup #gloomysoup ao3 #gloomysoup writes #steddiebingo2025 #steddiebingo12daysofchristmas #steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie fic #stranger things fic #wayne munson #dustin henderson

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daydreamgoddess14 · 6 days ago

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The Reading Rooms

Inspired by some other gorgeous individuals, I thought I'd try and compile some of my weekly reading into some kind of list. Since throwing myself into the Marvel fandom and actually writing for these characters rather than just reading, I've followed - and been followed by (cue fangirl shriek) - some epic blogs, and I want to be able to throw as many new readers and followers their way as I can.

Always remember to heed the warnings posted by the individual authors. What I'm happy to read may not be what you're happy to read, so I take no responsibility if you find something you're not into.

And finally, Tumblr is a community. Reblog, gush like you've never gushed before - I promise you, the authors below will love it, and love you for it! We write because we love to, but we share our work because we love the community of it. If you read something you like, let the world know! 💕

The List

Lessons in Love-Making by @artficlly. I've only read the first chapter so far, but this already has me totally hooked! Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss (no names for this exist) by @azriona . This is the very definition of EPIC. A staggering word count, an absolute feat of storytelling. I've barely scratched the surface of this so far, but I'm loving every second. Posted on AO3, so head over there for your fix! Bucky Barnes x Reader.

@mrs-elsie-barnes , the writer that you are! I have a whole heap of recommendations here. First up, Policy & Procedure - if you like your Bucky Congressman shaped, this Bucky Barnes x Reader fic has your name on it. Then we have the little (slightly spoilery) Thunderbolts* drabble - Home Time - Bucky Barnes x Reader. Finally, we have the super hot - I've got to let you know (I need you tonight) featuring Joaquin Torres x Reader.

The 2k Drabble Challenge by @marvelstoriesepic is bananas. The dedication, the range, the heartbreak, and longing... ugh, these are all incredible, but my personal highlights are Misfire, Where We Were When The Stars Came Out, What the Mirror Doesn't Say & Tattoo Me In Flowers. Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Put Your Hands In Mine by @buck-star is so moving and vitally important. I loved it so much. Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Oil & Water by @flowersforbucky was so insanely hot it had me squealing. It is literally perfect if you would like to sit on that man's face. Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Charm and Claim by @ramp-it-up were both so excellent and super hot! Bucky Barnes x Reader.

@aquaticmercy is a genius and the writing is impeccable and when I tell you I RUN to every post... I've so much to catch up on, but Interstate Love Song was gorgeous. Bucky Barnes x Reader.

Let Me Hurt a Little Longer by @daxisyzz was so good! I loved the slightly manipulative POV, who wouldn't want Bucky's hands on them?! Bucky Barnes x Reader.

The Dog Tags series by @marvelwitchergilmore is brilliant! Part 1 is linked, be sure to check out the rest, and what a masterlist to get stuck into - especially for my Slow Horses babes because there's some River Cartwright in there, too! (cc. @cillmequick @dreamer-98 @annaelizabethhenry1 @liquid-confidenc3 💕)

Then we have @navybrat817 , who is pure genius and her post Thunderbolts* fic Not Exactly A Secret. Navy's setting up a Tower Shenanigans list, so expect more from the Thunderbolts*. As well as this, I read the excellent Late Night and Late Night Recap. Bucky Barnes x Reader.

I came across @jobean12-blog 's This Is Love this week, an oldie but a very goodie! Bucky Barnes x Reader.

If you haven't read Security Clearance by @societyfolklore yet, why?! This was soooo hot! Bucky Barnes x Reader.

And lastly, I'm sharing this little New Dad Bucky Headcannon by @sunday-bug , and lemme tell ya, it will not be the last thing I share of Sunny's! I can't wait to get stuck into her Masterlist because it's going to take over my life in the best possible way!

This covers everything I've read this week 🙌

God, I hope the links all work cos that took forever 🤣. Apologies for sharing via my own slightly unhinged reblogs. Next time, I'll try and make sure I share original links where possible!

💕

pressing post and hoping all the tags work 🫡

#the reading rooms #weekly reading list #watch me forget to do this after approx 1.4 weeks #marvel fanfic #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #recommended reading

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darkredsugarcookie · 4 months ago

Text

"The Pressure of His Lips" - ex!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hi! Like three (3) people have asked me to start posting fics on here, so here we go. I'm new to posting on tumblr, but I'm a wattpad and ao3 veteran, so be nice. I'm still trying to figure out the formatting and everything for this place :P

Summary: After breaking up due to your secret relationship being brought to the surface, you are not handling the separation well. Too much vodka and lonely nights end with you accidentally Bucky from the bathroom floor.

Warnings: Alcohol use, heavy intoxication, mentions of smoking weed, slight hint at SA history upon the reader, angst, alpine mention!!!! let me know if I missed any!

DISCLAIMER: This is an excerpt from a bigger fic I've been writing in which the self-insert has a history of SA. It is hinted at for one sentence in this specific blurb.

By all means, I should’ve been the one that managed to keep my head above water. Dad hit rock bottom when he was my age— after my grandparents died. He was no stranger to tell me about it. It was always an example of what not to do. Even Mom had her struggles after she lost her brother.

I had every picture perfect reason to stay away from anything that could drag me down like a weight in still water. Which is why I couldn’t tell you how I ended up at the bottom of a bottle on a Monday night in uptown Manhattan.

For a long time, I refused to drink more than once in heavy social settings after what happened when I was seventeen. But this? I didn’t care anymore. I needed whatever would keep him and my parents and the team out of my head.

The problem I was running into, however, was that by the time I was cross-faded in a mass of bodies in a bar uptown, he was the only thing I had the ability to think about.

Everything I wouldn’t confront during the day when I was sober chased me down until I was curled up in the corner of a bathroom stall.

The smell of weed clouded my senses as the cold tile floor hit the backs of my thighs. The vodka still on my tongue made me dizzy and I could feel my heart beating like a drum in my head.

Every memory axed its way into my head like a migraine I couldn’t shake. I could spend every night like this, I could dance with strangers I didn’t care about, I could swear off men to my best friend and demand that I was completely fine, but I would always end up like this. Thinking about how I could still feel the pressure of his lips on my skin and if I tried hard enough, the temperature of the bathroom tiles almost felt like that of his arm under my fingers whenever we were curled up together.

I couldn’t keep a straight thought. It all flashed through my head in images I couldn’t shake.

My phone was vibrating.

I fumbled for it, where it was tucked into the front of my dress, and I didn’t even check who was calling when I tapped the screen and held it to my ear. I sniffled, wiping my nose. My cheeks were wet.

I was crying. That seemed to be pretty normal for me these days.

“Hello?”

I blinked. Great, now I was hallucinating voices. I’d never reached that point of being wasted. “Nat,” I said, rubbing my eyes. I probably just ruined my makeup already. “What’s up?” I did my best to sound sober. Probably didn’t work.

There was a heavy sigh. “You didn’t mean to call me,” he said.

“You called me,” I replied.

“No, I did not. Are you… Are you okay?”

“I am fine,” I said. “I’m not… supposed to talk to you.” “I know, angel.” Another sigh, a shuffle of something. Maybe blankets. It couldn’t have been that late.

“Are you sleeping?”

“It’s almost four in the morning.”

My head was pounding, swimming… I couldn’t quite breathe right. “You don’t really sleep…”

“No, I don’t. Less now. Where are you?”

“Why?” I felt defensive all of a sudden. No matter the fact I didn’t think I could get up off this floor if the building was on fire.

“Because you’re drunk, sweetheart. And you’re alone. It’s not safe.”

“You don’t know that I’m- if I’m alone.”

A brief pause. “Yes, I do. Do you know where you are?”

I was picking at a loose thread on the hem of my dress. “I’m…” I squeezed my eyes shut. That string wrapped around my finger twice. “I’m in the bathroom.”

“Okay, hold on—” I heard a door shut. It was quiet for a second. “I know where you are. You stay in the bathroom, okay? I’ll come get you.”

“But you—”

“No, you stay where you are.” I shrank a little. “Hear me?”

“Yeah…” “Good. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I think I fell asleep after that, because the next thing I remember was hearing a commotion of voices— only one of which I recognized.

Then it got so bright as the stall door was pushed open and I swear it felt like my heart that had dropped dead almost a month ago was beating again.

Bucky’s face was a mix of emotions as he touched my cheek. “Sweetheart…” He said, letting out a breath.

“Why are you here?” I asked, blinking a few times to try and see clearly. If he was here, I wanted to feel it, see it. All of it.

“I’m here for you, doll.”

“But you hate me.”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “No, I don’t, baby. I don’t hate you. But we need to get you home, come on.”

Without waiting for me to say anything, he lifted me to my feet. “Where are your shoes?” he asked. I just shrugged.

As I limped my way to the bathroom exit, one of the other girls stopped him, demanding that he either explain how he knew me, or set me down. If I was sober, I might have hugged her for that. “He’s…” I started.

She cast a worried glance from me, to the man holding me up. Bucky sighed and pulled out his phone, showing her the screen. “She’s mine, promise.” I barely caught a glimpse of the wallpaper. It was a picture Avery had taken of us when we were in Atlanta, we were in the kitchen, not even aware she was watching.

Once we were past the crowds, he shoved the door open and helped me outside. The chilly air shocked me a little back into my senses, but not much.

He pulled the car door open and helped me into the passenger seat before rounding the hood and climbing in. “I feel like lecturing you on how dangerous this is might be pointless because I don’t think you’re gonna remember any of it.”

I sniffled, wiping my cheeks. “I thought I was… fine.” “I’m sure you did,” he said, pulling onto the street. “Avery would have a heart attack if she knew about this, you know?”

“Yeah… It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “This isn’t like you.”

“Sure it is,” I replied as I looked out the window. “It’s in my genes.” Bucky glanced at me, but didn’t say anything. When we pulled up outside my apartment building, I paused. “How do you—”

“I had a feeling something like this would happen. I got it from Nat.”

“She gave it to you?”

“I had to ask. Beg, actually.”

“That isn’t like you,” I said, quoting his own words. He cast me that same look he always gave me when I said something annoying, but valid. I smiled a little, tipping my head against the headrest of the car as I watched him climb out.

When he got to my side and pulled the door open, he didn’t give me an option. Next thing I knew, he was scooping me into his arms and I didn’t have it in me to fight. I leaned closer, letting my body relax for the first time in weeks. I could scold myself for this in the morning.

“What’s the door code?” he asked me.

“My birthday,” I replied in more of a mumble than anything. “It’s—”

“I know your birthday, angel.”

I sighed and nodded as we stepped into the warmth of the lobby. I didn’t question him as he held me the whole way to my apartment, his fingers occasionally brushing against my body as if it was muscle memory.

He pressed the same code into my door keypad and shoved the door open.

“Don’t let the cat out,” I muttered.

“The what— Oh my god.” I heard my little white kitten meow up at him. “That’s Snowball,” I said. “Or Alpine. I can’t choose.”

He sighed, a small smile on his face. “I like Alpine.”

Bucky carried me to the master bedroom and set me on the bed. I rubbed my eyes, the ache behind them starting to grow. He disappeared for a second and when he came back, he put a glass of water in my hand. “Drink this,” he said, setting my shoes in my closet. I wondered briefly where he found them before he returned from the closet with the Avengers Compound sweatshirt that used to be his, but I had reclaimed. “You can’t sleep in that dress,” he said. “Or that makeup.”

“I’ll be fine—” I started.

“No. You’re gonna change. I’ll give you a—”

“I can’t get the zipper myself,” I said quietly. “It’s not- It’s not a ploy… Promise.”

He helped me to my feet and turned me around before tugging at the zipper. I felt the air hit my back a second before his hand landed at my waist. “Are you gonna remember anything from tonight?”

“I hope so,” I said softly. Other words for definitely not.

Bucky sighed and dropped his head to my shoulder. “I miss you,” he breathed, lips brushing against my skin. “More than I’ve ever missed anyone.”

A pain lodged itself in my chest. It was so deep that in this moment I genuinely didn’t think it’d ever leave me. And if it did, it might just leave a hole where it sat. “Bucky…”

“Get changed. I’ll be right back.”

When I felt his body heat disappear from me, I dropped my dress to the ground and tugged on the sweatshirt he’d set on the bed. I didn’t bother with shorts, just left my underwear on.

I dropped onto the edge of the bed, finished my water, held my hands in my lap.

Bucky came from the bathroom and clicked on the lamp beside my bed. He took my face in his hand and with the warm rag in his hand, wiped it gently along my face. “Close your eyes,” he said softly.

I did as I was told. It wasn’t as in depth as I could’ve myself, but it was enough to keep my eyes from hurting in the morning.

He tossed the rag in the hamper and guided me into bed. “You need to sleep,” he said softly.

“I’m not used to sleeping alone,” I mumbled against my pillow.

“I know, sweetheart,” he replied, fingers combing through my hair. “Me either. But you’re gonna be okay.”

I felt exhaustion coming for me like a thief in the night. “You think so?”

“I know so. Sleep, baby.”

A breath escaped me. I didn’t have the energy to speak anymore.

As sleep pulled me away, I felt his kiss against my head. Then the light clicked off and it was gone like a dream.

#bucky barnes #the winter soldier #breakup fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #marvel fanfiction #self insert #marvel #fanfic #writing #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes

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jungkoode · 3 months ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 11

˗ˏˋ car literature ˎˊ˗

"Halfway across the country to escape your parents' expectations, only to find their voices still echo in your head. Maybe freedom isn't about how far you run, but what you choose to hear when everything goes quiet."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 7.5k

content: jungkook being late, y/n offering him a ride, coffee mainsplaining, new friendships, jimin being a book nerd, jin reserving tables, professor namjoon kim having dimples and giving you a helping hand on your assignement

✧ author's note ✧

OKAY HI LOSERS!!!! Chapter 11 is here, right on schedule like the little miracle worker I am. I actually have ch11, 12, and 13 all done and ready to go but I'm sticking to my posting schedule because SOMEONE (me) knows she'll burn out at some point so you better savor this while it lasts.

Anyway, about Y/N having a car: yes, she has one because I said so and Jungkook doesn't because he's a whole-ass LOSER LMAO. I did love weaving in the reason behind the car though and connecting it to her messy complicated relationship with her parents. God I love how human she is??? Like, she's so conflicted—grateful for what they've done but suffocated by their expectations. THE COMPLEXITY. I'm obsessed with my own creation, forgive me.

I'll give Jungkook some credit here (GASP) because while he has the self-awareness of a potato, he IS observant and perceptive when he wants to be. Boy's too busy coping with humor and deflecting for his own good though. You'll see what I mean… eventually.

Also can we talk about how much I'm LIVING for Y/N and Jimin's growing friendship?? I love how Y/N makes friends for such different reasons—Yeji is the one who makes her feel like she doesn't have to have her shit figured out, Irya is the emotionally intelligent one, and Jimin?? They bond over their shared love of literature and books and isn't that just chef's kiss beautiful?

And I refuse to apologize for the text messages. REFUSE. The texts are staying because I love writing them too much. Deal with it.

FINALLY THOUGH!!! NAMJOON MAKES HIS ENTRANCE!!! MY KING!!! I've actually had him planned since chapter 3 (don't get it twisted), there are hints if you paid attention. But now he's finally here in all his dimpled glory and we love him. Jin, I understand you completely, babes.

ANYWAY. Chapter below. Enjoy bobs bobes and bobas!!!

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

The sound of Jungkook stubbing his toe for the third time this morning is, objectively speaking, fucking hilarious.

You hide your smirk behind your mug, pretending to be deeply invested in your FYP as another muffled "shit—motherfucking—” echoes from his room. The apartment has been a symphony of chaos for the past fifteen minutes: doors slamming, drawers banging, what sounds suspiciously like a guitar being knocked over (followed by more creative cursing).

And okay, maybe you're a little evil for enjoying this so much. But come on. Mr. "I Pretend To Have My Life Together" finally overslept, and you get to witness the glorious fallout while calmly sipping your morning coffee. The universe gives you so few gifts. You're allowed to savor this one.

His coffee sits next to yours, made exactly the way he likes it—because yes, you've noticed how particular he is about his precious coffee routine. Two shots of espresso, a splash of oat milk (regular milk upsets his stomach, not that he's ever admitted it), and just a hint of vanilla syrup. You absolutely refuse to acknowledge how or why you've memorized this.

Something crashes in the bathroom. Griffin, lounging on the windowsill, barely twitches an ear.

"Has he always been this much of a disaster?" you ask the cat. Griffin's slow blink feels judgmental. Fair enough.

More thundering footsteps. A drawer slams so hard you feel it in your teeth. You scroll past a video of someone's cute dog, not really seeing it, too focused on tracking the hurricane that is your roommate having a morning meltdown.

"Fuck—where is my—" His voice cuts off abruptly.

You can practically hear him running his hands through his hair, tugging—that thing he does when he's stressed.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Yeji.

𝐘𝐞𝐣𝐢🖤: 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑?

You're typing back a quick 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚑, 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚝 when Jungkook bursts into the kitchen like he's being chased. His hair is still wet from the shower, shirt only half-buttoned, and—oh.

Oh no.

He's wearing The Jeans.

The ones that make his thighs look like they were carved from marble.

The ones you specifically remember clawing off him that first night, back when he was just Hot Stranger From the Bar.

You take a very deliberate sip of coffee and absolutely do not think about that.

"Late for something?" you ask innocently, like you haven't been cataloging every crash and curse for the past quarter hour.

He whirls toward you, and for a split second, you catch him completely unguarded—flushed, disheveled, one hand still trying to button his shirt. Then his eyes narrow, landing on the coffee mug next to yours.

"Is that—"

"Just drink it, Rogue." You cut him off, rolling your eyes. "Unless you want to waste more time making your own."

The nickname slips out without permission. You blame it on the early hour, on not having enough caffeine yet. Not on how he looks with his hair still dripping, water darkening the collar of his shirt. Definitely not on how the morning light catches the silver ring on his hand when he reaches for the mug.

He takes a sip. His eyebrows shoot up.

"This is—"

"If you say 'perfect,' I'm dumping the rest down the sink."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Actually, the extraction time on this is slightly—"

"I swear to god, if you start mansplaining coffee to me at—" you check your phone, "—eight forty-seven in the morning, I will personally ensure you never make it to wherever you're going."

"It's called sharing knowledge, Phoenix." He's already moving again, a blur of motion that somehow manages to look both graceful and completely chaotic. "And the optimal brewing temperature for espresso is—"

"Do you ever just hear yourself talk and think 'wow, I'm really like this'?"

"—between 195 and 205 degrees Fahrenheit, which you'd know if you actually paid attention when I—" He freezes mid-rant. "Wait, what time did you say it was?"

"Eight forty... eight now."

"Fuck. Fuck." He runs both hands through his hair, making it stick up even worse. "I can't be late to this one."

You can't help yourself. "Don't you skip Film Theory like, twice a week?"

"That's—that's different." He's practically vibrating now. "This is the one where we're presenting our—where the fuck is my phone?"

"The thing you set down right here when you grabbed your coffee?" You tap your fingernail against his phone, which has been sitting next to your elbow this whole time. "This phone?"

He lunges for it, and you definitely don't notice how he has to lean into your space to grab it, or how he still smells like his stupidly expensive shower gel. The screen lights up in his hand and—wait.

"Is that Griffin as your lockscreen?"

"What? No." He shoves the phone in his pocket too quickly. "It's—shut up."

"Oh my god, it totally is. Is it the one where he's sleeping in the—"

"I'm gonna be late," he cuts you off, already halfway to the bathroom. You hear him banging around, probably looking for his cologne. The one that makes him smell like rain and...

You glance at the time again. At this rate...

"Want me to take you?"

His head pokes around the bathroom door, hair falling in his eyes. There's a bit of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth that he hasn't noticed.

"What?"

"My car?" You try to sound casual, like you're not offering to save his ass. "Unless you'd rather take the subway and definitely be late."

He stares at you like you've just started speaking in tongues.

“You got a—" His brow furrows. "Wait, you got a car?"

"No, I'm offering you a ride on my imaginary unicorn." You roll your eyes. "Yes, I have a car. Had it for like, two weeks now. How have you not noticed?"

"I've been busy!" He disappears back into the bathroom, voice slightly muffled. "And since when do you—why would you even—who has a car in New York?"

"People who don't want to deal with the subway at 2 AM after work?" You raise your voice so he can hear you over what sounds like him knocking over every single bottle in the bathroom. "Also, time check: eight fifty-one."

"Shit." More crashing sounds. "Okay, yes, fine, please drive me, I'll never make fun of your tea collection again."

"That's a lie and we both know it."

You drop your mug gently in the sink, leaving washing for later in the day, next to his. Then grab your bag, your sunglasses too—from where they're perched on top of your head. Walk to the door and wait for Jungkook to finish spraying his perfume before he’s darting out of the tiny room and positioning himself next to you.

Then you’re out, glasses sliding on as you lock the door. The movement is automatic, practiced—something you picked up during those long drives when the sun would hit just right and—

"Okay, Gossip Girl," he snorts, cutting into your thoughts.

"You haven't even watched Gossip Girl."

"Excuse you, I'm a man of culture." He's half-jogging to keep up with you, which is... something, considering his legs are approximately twice as long as yours. "Blair Waldorf is an icon and Chuck Bass is—wait, no, seriously." He catches up as you reach the elevator. "Why do you have a car? In New York? Who are you?"

The elevator doors slide open with their usual concerning screech. You step in, leaning against the back wall as he follows, hitting -1 with his thumb. The fluorescent lights make the shadows under his eyes more pronounced—definitely up too late gaming again.

"When I signed the lease," you say, watching the numbers tick down, "Miguel mentioned there was an unused garage spot included. It was actually one of my prerequisites."

"Prerequisites," he repeats slowly, like he's tasting the word. When you glance over, he's looking at you with an expression you can't quite read. "You came here on your own?"

You shrug, suddenly very interested in a scuff mark on the elevator floor.

"Yeah."

"Where from?"

The question hangs in the air between you. It's such a simple thing to ask, really. Basic getting-to-know-you stuff. But something about the way he says it, soft and curious, makes your throat tight.

"Small town," you say finally. "The kind where everyone knows everyone's business and the most exciting thing that happens is when someone paints their fence the wrong shade of beige."

He doesn't laugh like you expect. When you risk another look, he's still watching you, head tilted slightly.

"Must've been quite the change."

"That was kind of the point."

The elevator jolts, making you grab the rail. He doesn't move, somehow keeping his balance like he's got magnets in his shoes or something. Imbecile.

"So what, you just... packed up and drove to New York?" There's something in his voice—not quite disbelief, but close.

"I mean, I applied to NYU first. I'm not completely insane." You're aiming for light, casual, but it comes out a bit defensive. "But yeah, basically. Loaded up the car, picked a playlist, and..." You wave your hand vaguely.

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

He's quiet for a moment, and you can practically hear him piecing things together. The way you never talk about home. How you tense up when anyone mentions family. The fact that your room is filled with things you clearly bought after moving in, nothing old or sentimental except—

"The bear," he says suddenly.

"What?"

"The stuffed bear on your bed. The really old-looking one." He straightens up, like he's solved a puzzle. "That's why you got it. It's from before."

Something uncomfortable squirms in your chest.

“Okay, Detective Kuko, maybe focus on not being late instead of psychoanalyzing my childhood toys?"

The elevator dings, doors sliding open to reveal the garage. He pushes off the wall, but you catch his reflection in the mirrored doors—that little half-smile that he always pulls when he’s being particularly insufferable.

"You know," he says, following you out into the dimly lit space, "for someone who claims to hate nicknames, you sure throw around a lot of them."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Rogue."

His laugh echoes off the concrete walls. "Whatever you say, Phoenix."

The car beeps when you press the button on the key fob, its sound echoing off the concrete walls of the garage. It’s a rundown 2010 Honda Civic, the kind of car that blends into the background of every suburban parking lot.

The kind your father refused to buy you when you were eighteen and wanted to transfer to a college campus just a bit further away.

Funny how that worked out for him. You ended up buying this one yourself, and now you’re in New York City—a hell of a lot further away than that first suggestion.

But your chest tightens at the thought, like it always does when you let your mind wander back there.

What were you even aiming for?

Retribution?

Vengeance?

For what? Daddy not wanting to get you a car? When they’ve paid for your tuition all this time, made dinner for you when you stayed up late studying, and even sat through all of the Avengers movies with you despite hating superhero flicks. Your mom would always cut up fruit for you during finals season, leaving little notes on the kitchen counter that said things like You’ve got this! or Proud of you! in her neat handwriting.

A mix of guilt and frustration gnaws at you. Because what kind of ungrateful asshole feels bitter about something so small when their parents have done so much?

And yet, here you are. Feeling it anyway.

It’s not like they were bad parents—strict, sure, but not bad. They just wanted what was best for you, didn’t they?

So why does it still sting when you think about how they dismissed your creative writing journal as a “waste of time” or how they steered every conversation toward practicality and success? Why does it feel like every decision they made for you came with strings attached? Like love was something earned through achievements instead of something freely given?

You grip the keys tighter as if that’ll stop the spiral forming in your head. Because it’s not fair to them, is it? They did their best. They didn’t know how suffocating it felt to have every move scrutinized, every choice second-guessed.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re blowing it all out of proportion. Maybe they weren’t controlling; maybe you were just too sensitive. Maybe this whole mess is on

you.

But then again... wasn’t it their fear that kept you tethered to that small town for so long? Their insistence on safety and stability that made leaving feel like rebellion instead of growth?

You shake your head, trying to shove those thoughts aside. It doesn’t matter now. You’re here. You made it out. You’re independent and capable and—

“Wow,” Jungkook’s voice cuts through your inner monologue like a knife, dragging you back to reality with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “This car sucks.”

Your head snaps toward him as he stands there, one eyebrow raised in judgmental amusement. He’s leaning against the passenger door like he’s too good to even touch it properly.

Without thinking, you slam the driver’s door closed with more force than necessary. “Changed my mind,” you snap, glaring at him over the roof of the car. “Go walk.”

He laughs, already folding his stupidly long legs into the passenger seat. "Aw, come on, Phoenix. I'm sure it has... character."

"Get out of my car."

"The duct tape on the mirror really adds something, you know?"

"I will leave you here."

"Is that a Fast and Furious sticker? Did you actually—"

"One more word about my car and you're taking the subway."

He holds his hands up in surrender, but he's still grinning.

"Wouldn't dream of insulting your..." His eyes dart to the dashboard where the check engine light has been on since you bought it. "Unique vehicle."

"I hate you so much right now."

"No you don't." He starts fiddling with the radio, because apparently personal boundaries mean nothing to him. "Oh my god, is this a cassette player?"

You swat his hand away. "Touch my radio and die."

"But—"

"My car, my rules."

"What are you gonna do, make me listen to your sad girl hours playlist?"

You turn the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to life with its usual concerning cough. "Bold of you to assume I'd share my playlists with someone who butchers Mayer's solos every night."

"I do not—" He sits up straighter, actually offended. "That was one time, and the strings were new, and—"

"Slow Dancing in a Burning Room doesn't need your creative reinterpretation, Rogue."

And fuck. Why did you have to bring up that specific song? The one he was playing two nights ago, like it was just for you and him in the quiet of the night.

"Didn't know you were such a Mayer purist, Phoenix."

You check your mirrors, definitely not watching how he slouches in the seat, all long limbs and morning-messy hair.

"Seatbelt, Kuko."

"Is that your favorite Mayer song?"

God, why is he doing this? Making small talk about music like he didn't just watch you have a whole crisis about your car?

"I guess." You mutter, exiting the garage once and for all.

You merge into traffic, grateful for the excuse to focus on something other than how he's angled his body toward you in the passenger seat.

But then, because he can’t leave things alone…

"You know any others?"

You lick your lips. Two beats of silence.

“Some ring a bell." You finally say. Swallow. Change lanes. Don't think about summer evenings and vinyl records and— "It's just that one... brings memories."

Silence, again.

You can feel him watching you, that way he does sometimes when he thinks you're not paying attention. Like he's trying to solve a puzzle but keeps finding new pieces.

Then he sighs, a soft chuckle that does absolutely nothing to your stomach. Nothing at all.

“Guess I'll have to play some more for you." His voice drops slightly, just shy of teasing. "You know, expand your musical taste."

And what the fuck are you supposed to do with that? With the way he says it—like a challenge, like a promise? With how the morning sun catches his ring when he drums his fingers against his thigh, keeping time to whatever song is playing in his head?

"Bold of you to assume I want to hear more of your mediocre guitar skills."

It's weak and you both know it.

But he lets you have it, just huffs out another laugh and turns to look out the window.

And you absolutely do not notice how the sunlight catches the edge of his jaw, or the way his shirt is still slightly wrinkled from his rush this morning.

No. No, you don’t.

"Wait, you're telling me you've never read Donna Tartt?"

Jimin's scandalized whisper makes you grin as you both push through the library's heavy doors. There's something endearing about how genuinely offended he is by this gap in your literary education.

"In my defense," you whisper back, following him up the stairs to the second floor, "I was a bit busy reading whatever my parents deemed 'appropriate' until, oh, about six months ago?"

He glances back at you, something knowing in his eyes. It should make you uncomfortable—usually does, when people look at you like they understand. But with Jimin, it feels... okay. Maybe because he was there that night at your apartment, quietly positioning himself next to you like a gentle buffer against the chaos.

"Okay, but now you have to read The Secret History." He leads you to what's clearly his usual spot—a corner table partially hidden behind the Classical Literature stacks. "It's like... Dark Academia meets murder mystery meets Greek tragedy."

"You had me at murder mystery, honestly."

He pulls out a chair, dropping his bag with practiced ease. "I actually have my copy here somewhere. The spine's basically destroyed because I've read it so many times, but—"

"Let me guess—you're one of those people who annotates their books?"

His cheeks flush slightly. "Maybe?"

"Oh my god, you totally are." You slide into the chair across from him, already feeling more relaxed than you have all day. "Do you use different colored pens? Have a whole system?"

"...you're making fun of me."

"I would never." You scoff. "I'm simply appreciating your dedication to the literary arts."

He tries to maintain his pout, but you can see the smile fighting through.

"You know what? For that, I'm not telling you where the secret coffee spot is."

"The what now?"

"Oh, nothing." He starts unpacking his bag with exaggerated nonchalance. "Just a hidden corner where they don't enforce the 'no drinks' policy. But since you're so judgmental about my annotation habits..."

"Park Jimin." You lean forward, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Are you telling me there's a way I can read and caffeinate without having to dodge the library police?"

"I don't know..." He draws it out, eyes twinkling. "Can you be trusted with such powerful knowledge?"

"I will literally annotate a book right now. Any book. Pick one."

His laugh is barely more than a breath, but it's warm, genuine.

“Okay, okay. But first—what's your stance on dog-earing pages?"

You gasp. "What kind of monster do you think I am?"

"Just checking." He grins, finally pulling out his battered copy of The Secret History. "Here. But I want detailed feedback on all my margin notes."

You accept the book carefully, noting the well-worn spine, the sticky notes peeking out from between pages. "Did you... color-code your tabs?"

"That's it." He starts gathering his things. "I'm leaving."

"No, wait!" You grab his arm, laughing as quietly as you can. "I actually love it. Really. Show me your system?"

He settles back down, mock-glaring but clearly pleased. "Fine. But only because you actually seem to care about books, unlike some people."

"Let me guess—Yeji ditched the second you mentioned the library?"

"'Sorry, babe,'" he mimics Yeji's voice with surprising accuracy, "'but I only enter buildings with books if they also serve alcohol.'"

You snort. "That tracks."

"Speaking of tracking..." He pulls out his phone. "Want to see my reading spreadsheet?"

"Your what now?"

"It's color-coded by genre, with separate tabs for—"

"Jimin?"

"Yeah?"

"I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

His smile could power the whole library. "Just wait until I show you my TBR organization system."

And you find yourself smiling back, real and easy, as he launches into an explanation involving multiple apps and something called "reverse timeline sorting." Because yeah, okay—maybe making new friends isn't the worst thing in the world.

Even if they are terrifyingly organized book nerds who probably alphabetize their bookmarks.

Also, the thing about being an English major at NYU is that you end up sharing a lot of classes with the Comparative Literature kids.

It's not really surprising when you think about it—you're both basically studying books, just from different angles.

While you're deep diving into English and American literature (thanks to your very traditional parents who would have probably had an aneurysm if you'd picked anything more "experimental"), Jimin's out here analyzing texts from all over the world, looking at how different cultures approach storytelling.

Which is how you end up in at least three classes together this semester.

Modern Literature with Professor Sullivan on Mondays and Wednesdays (where Jimin always has the most interesting takes on international influences), Contemporary Poetry Analysis (where he somehow manages to connect Emily Dickinson to some obscure Korean poet you can't pronounce), and that one Friday afternoon workshop that everyone dreads but somehow becomes bearable when Jimin starts drawing parallels between Western and Eastern literary traditions.

It's actually kind of perfect. Your English major foundation gives you the deep knowledge of Western canon that his program requires, while his Comparative Literature perspective opens up whole new ways of looking at texts you thought you knew inside out.

Like right now, as he's explaining how Japanese magical realism evolved differently from its Latin American counterpart, you're seeing 100 Years of Solitude in a completely new light.

Plus, it's nice having someone who actually gives a shit about books.

Yeji, bless her chaotic heart, thinks anything written before 2010 is "prehistoric," and your other friend from Modern Lit only reads SparkNotes.

But Jimin? Jimin color-codes his annotations and has strong opinions about Oxford commas.

Which is probably why, when he suggested studying together, you didn't even hesitate. Because yes, okay, maybe you've been a bit... selective about making friends since moving to New York.

But someone who understands why you got emotional about Woolf's use of semicolons? That's the kind of friend worth having.

"Okay, but consider this," Jimin whispers, sliding his Contemporary Literature notes across the table. "What if we compared Murakami's use of magical realism with García Márquez? Because I swear there's a connection between Kafka on the Shore and 100 Years of Solitude that no one talks about."

You lean forward, scanning his impossibly neat handwriting. Of course his notes are color-coded. "For the Modern Lit essay?"

"Yeah, Professor Sullivan mentioned wanting unique perspectives, right?" His eyes light up the way they only do when discussing books. "And since you're taking Modern Literature and I've got Comparative Lit Theory this semester..."

"A cross-course analysis?" You tap your pen against your notebook, mind already racing. "That's... actually brilliant?"

"Really?" He perks up, then immediately remembers to lower his voice when someone at the next table glares. "Because I was thinking, with your focus on contemporary Western literature and my background in Eastern literary traditions—"

"We could explore how different cultural interpretations of magical realism intersect!" You're probably too excited about this for a library setting, but whatever. "Jimin, you're literally a genius."

He ducks his head, but you catch his pleased smile. "I mean, you're the one who brought up the cyclical narrative patterns in class last week. I just thought maybe we could..."

"Collaborate?" You're already flipping to a fresh page in your notebook. "Please tell me you're not working with anyone else for the final paper."

"Was kind of waiting for the right partner." He gives you a pointed look. "Someone who wouldn't just make me do all the work."

"Unlike some people we know?"

"I'm not naming names, but..." He glances around conspiratorially. "Let's just say I've already witnessed Yeji's approach to required reading in our shared Literature and Gender class last week."

"Do tell."

"She showed up to discuss Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own and asked, completely seriously, if it was about interior design." He shudders dramatically. "Then tried to argue that her TikTok research should count as academic sources."

You have to stuff your fist against your mouth to muffle your laugh.

"She did not."

"Direct quote: 'But professor, this BookToker made some really good points about, like, the feminist undertones and stuff.'" He pulls out his laptop, already opening a fresh document. "So, partner? I mean, we're only two weeks into the semester, but I can already tell you actually read the material. Plus, I've got access to some really interesting papers on Japanese magical realism through the Comparative Lit database."

"Only if you let me buy you coffee at Jin's after this." You pause. "Wait, is that weird? Am I being weird?"

His smile is soft, understanding. "Not weird at all. But only if you let me show you my favorite translation of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. The annotations are chef's kiss."

"God, you really are a book nerd, aren't you?"

"Says the person who got excited about cyclical narrative patterns."

"...touché."

He starts typing, fingers flying over the keys. "So, structure-wise, I was thinking we could start with a brief overview of traditional magical realism in Latin American literature, then transition into..."

You settle in, watching him outline your shared project with the same methodical care he probably uses to organize his bookshelf.

And maybe it's the quiet of the library, or the way afternoon sun filters through the stacks, but something in your chest feels lighter.

Because this—this easy back-and-forth about books and ideas—this is what you came to New York for.

"Oh!" Jimin's whisper breaks into your thoughts. "We should definitely include the cat symbolism in both texts. Speaking of..." He glances up from his screen. "How's living with Griffin?"

"The cat or his stupid owner?"

The words slip out before you can stop them. Jimin's eyebrows shoot up, a knowing look crossing his face that makes you want to hide behind your textbook.

"Why? Wanna talk about his owner?”

"I meant—that's not—he is stupid!" You grab your water bottle just to have something to do with your hands. "Whatever. We should focus on the magical realism thing."

"Mhm." He's still giving you that look. "Whatever you say. But you know, if you ever want to talk about... cats..."

"I will literally throw this book at you."

"The annotated one? You wouldn't dare."

"Try me, Park."

His quiet laugh makes a few people look over, but you can't bring yourself to care. Because somehow, in the span of an afternoon, you've gained both a study partner and what feels like a real friend.

Even if said friend is now wiggling his eyebrows at you every time you try to redirect the conversation back to Murakami.

Your phone buzzes against the table, making Jimin glance up from his color-coded notes.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚛 𝚞 𝚛𝚗

You roll your eyes, typing back quickly.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚓𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚗

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚢

The three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. Your screen lights up with his reply.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚛 𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚍𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝟷𝟻𝚖𝚒𝚗?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝟺𝟶

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟺𝟶????

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚝𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚢

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚖𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞,𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝟺𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘? 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚖? 🥺

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚞

Your fingers hover over the keyboard because—what the fuck is he saying right now? What does he mean?

But then.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎

Fucking bitch-ass motherfucker.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎???

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚊𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 🤢

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚍𝚔 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚘

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚛 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚒𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚕

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜?

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝟻 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝙸𝙽𝚂𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳

𝐘𝐨𝐮: "𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚒’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔, 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡”

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝟺𝟶 𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 💅

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚝𝚏𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝟺𝟶

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚡 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚜 𝚞 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚡

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚘𝚌𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 😏

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚍𝚒𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝙼𝙾𝙹𝙸???

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚎

Read 4:47 PM

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙰 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙾𝚆

Read 4:48 PM

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑

Read 4:49 PM

You shove your phone in your bag. Whatever. You've got actual priorities here—like making real friends who appreciate literature and don't judge your drink choices (does he?).

"Actually," you say, straightening up and pulling out your Modern Lit syllabus, "let’s go to Jin’s right now. Because I could use a caramel frappuccino, and I'd love to hear more about your take on Murakami's symbolism."

Jimin's whole face lights up. "Really? Because I have thoughts about the significance of wells as transitional spaces in—"

"Lead the way, book nerd." You start packing up your stuff, already feeling more centered. "But fair warning—I will absolutely judge your coffee order if it's anything boring like plain black."

"You order everything with extra whipped cream, don’t you?”

"It's called having taste, Jimin. And yes, I want the little chocolate sprinkles too."

His laugh echoes through the stacks as you both head out, earning a few glares that you can't bring yourself to care about. Because this? This is exactly what you need. Good conversation, sugary drinks, and someone who gets genuinely excited about literary analysis.

Your phone stays silent in your bag. You don't even think about checking it.

After all, you've got more interesting things to focus on—like whether Jin will let you convince him to add extra caramel to your drink, or finally having someone who understands why you cried over that one Sylvia Plath poem.

Because honestly? There’s just something deliciously satisfying about choosing exactly how you want to spend your afternoon.

And right now? That means ordering the sweetest drink on the menu and diving deep into a discussion about magical realism with someone who actually gets it.

Sometimes the best kind of freedom is just... doing whatever the fuck you want.

The thing about Jin is that he treats his coffee shop like it's a kingdom and he's the benevolent (but definitely judgy) ruler.

"Well, well." He quirks an eyebrow as you and Jimin push through the door, the familiar smell of coffee and old books wrapping around you like a hug. "Where's the demon child?"

"Yeji's allergic to studying." You lean against the counter, already eyeing the pastry display. "Breaks out in hives if she gets too close to academic pursuit."

Jin snorts, wiping his hands on his apron. "That tracks. Haven't seen you in a few days—were you actually at the library? Or is this some elaborate cover story?"

"Studying, actually." You gesture to Jimin, who's hovering politely beside you. "With actual books and everything. Jin, this is Jimin. Jimin, this is Jin, who makes the best coffee in the East Village but will definitely judge your order."

"I don't judge." Jin's mouth twitches. "I merely... evaluate life choices."

Jimin waves shyly. "Nice to meet you. Yeji's mentioned this place a lot."

"All lies, probably." Jin's already moving to the espresso machine, hands automatic in their movements. "What can I get you both? And Y/N, before you say it— no, I will not make you one of those abominations with eight pumps of syrup."

"Rude." You straighten up, pretending to study the menu like you don't order the same thing every time. "Fine. Latte with cold foam?"

He rolls his eyes, but there's fondness there. "Let me make you something better. Just got a new blend in—Ethiopian, hints of blueberry. You'll love it."

"Bold of you to assume I can taste anything beyond sugar."

"Trust me." He turns to Jimin. "And for you?"

"Just an americano, please."

You whirl around. "That's so sad."

"Shut up." Jimin shoves your shoulder lightly. "Not all of us need a sugar high to function."

"Your loss." You're already heading toward your usual spot—eyeing the different tables and settling for the corner one with the best lighting and a perfect view of both the street and the counter. "Come on, I'll show you where—"

"Ah ah." Jin's voice stops you. "Not that one."

You turn back, eyebrow raised. "What? It's empty."

"Someone sits there."

"I literally see no bag?" You gesture at the conspicuously empty table. "No books, no laptop, no nothing."

"Someone," Jin repeats, voice somehow both firmer and more amused, "sits there."

"But—"

"Y/N." He gives you that look, the one that somehow makes you feel like a kid being gently scolded. "Pick another table."

You glance at the mysterious empty table, then back at Jin, then at the table again. Because what the actual fuck? Since when does Jin reserve tables? And for who?

But he's already turned back to the espresso machine, humming something under his breath, clearly considering the matter closed.

"Come on." Jimin tugs your sleeve, pointing to another corner. "That one looks good too."

You let him lead you away, but not without throwing one last suspicious look over your shoulder. Jin pretends not to notice, but you catch the slight smile playing at his lips as he starts grinding coffee beans.

Weird. Very weird.

You sigh loudly, and woah okay you’re starting to sound like Yeji now. Her energy is definitely rubbing off on you. You take your stuff out along with Jimin and start chatting right away.

"All I'm saying is," you whisper-rant to Jimin, still bitter about this morning, "if someone makes you coffee, you say thank you. You don't launch into a TED talk about optimal brewing temperatures like some pretentious—"

The bell above the door chimes, and holy shit.

HOLY. SHIT.

The man who walks in is...

Well, first of all, he's tall. Like, unfairly tall.

And he's wearing these round glasses that should look dorky but somehow don't, perched on a face that belongs in one of those aesthetic academic Pinterest boards. His blonde hair is slicked back in a way that screams 'I definitely know about wine pairings', and his light blue dress shirt paired with navy pants is giving very much 'yes, I read Proust for fun.'

But it's the way he carries himself—confident but not cocky, with a laptop bag swinging gently by his thigh—that really catches your attention.

That, and how Jin's whole demeanor shifts when he sees him.

"Joon!" Jin's voice is different—warmer, maybe? "The usual?"

The man—Joon, apparently—smiles, and oh. Oh. That's just unfair. Because he's got actual dimples. Like, dimples dimples.

They chat for a moment, their conversation too low to hear from where you're sitting, but you catch Jin gesturing toward... wait.

Toward the table.

THE table.

The one you were just exiled from.

Namjoon nods, that devastating smile still in place, and heads straight for what is apparently his designated spot in Jin's kingdom.

You narrow your eyes. Who exactly is this mysterious dimpled giant with table-reserving privileges? And why does Jin look slightly pink around the ears as he starts making what is presumably 'the usual'?

"Hey?" Jimin waves his hand in front of your face. "You good?"

"Sorry, just..." You tilt your head toward the table-stealer. "Trying to figure out who managed to get permanent dibs on prime real estate in here."

Jimin turns, trying (and absolutely failing) to be subtle about it. Then he makes a small choking sound.

"Oh god," he whispers, whipping back around. "That's Professor Kim."

You blink. "Professor who now?"

"Namjoon Kim? From the English department?" When you continue staring blankly, he adds, "He teaches Literary Criticism in my major? Published in like, every major literary journal? Youngest professor in the department?"

"That's a professor?" You peek over again, watching as he sets up his laptop with methodical precision. "Why does he look like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like..." You gesture vaguely. "You know. Like that.”

"Please stop staring," Jimin hisses. "He's brilliant and terrifying and I have to present in his class next week."

"Terrifying?" You snort. "The man has dimples, Jimin. And his glasses are literally round. He looks like a very tall teddy bear who probably reads Keats for fun."

"He once made someone cry by asking them to explain their interpretation of a Emily Dickinson poem."

"Okay, but was their interpretation wrong?"

"Y/N."

"What? I'm just saying—"

Jin appears with your drinks, setting them down with more force than strictly necessary. "Stop gossiping about my customers."

"We're not gossiping," you protest. "We're... conducting academic observation."

"Mhm." He raises an eyebrow. "How's that new blend?"

You take a sip of whatever fancy coffee he made you, and... oh. Oh.

"This is..."

"Better than your sugar milk?" His smirk is unbearable. "You're welcome."

He walks away before you can argue, heading back to where Professor Dimples is apparently grading papers, judging by the red pen in his hand.

"Don't even think about it," Jimin warns.

"Think about what?"

"Whatever you're plotting. I can see it on your face."

"I'm not plotting anything!" You take another sip of your annoyingly perfect coffee. "I just think it's interesting that Jin never mentioned having a designated professor spot in his shop."

"No."

"What? I'm just being observant."

Jimin looks like he's regretting every life choice that led him to befriend you. "Can we please just focus on Murakami?"

"Fine." You pull out your notes, but you can't help stealing one more glance at the mysterious professor. "But just so you know, anyone who makes students cry over Emily Dickinson is definitely going on my list of people to investigate."

"I'm pretending I didn't hear that."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Jimjim."

20 minutes pass by. 20 minutes of Jimin humming as he searches articles on the web. 20 minutes of you two now doing your individual assignments for your different classes. 20 minutes of you nearly losing your mind over yours.

"Who," you groan, slumping over your laptop, "decided that writing a comparative analysis of post-modern narrative structures was a good idea for week two? Week two, Jimin. I still haven't figured out where half my classes are."

Jimin chuckles, leaning over to point at something on your screen. "Look, if you connect these two themes here—"

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. "I will literally pay you to write this for me."

"No you won't."

"You're right, I'm broke. But I'll owe you my firstborn."

"Still no."

"My soul?"

"Bold of you to assume you still have one after declaring an English major."

You're about to argue that your soul is perfectly intact, thank you very much, when you feel it—the weight of someone's gaze. You glance up and oh fuck.

Professor Dimples is looking right at you, one eyebrow raised slightly above those round glasses. Because of course he heard your entire breakdown about his colleague's assignment. Of course he did.

You drop your eyes back to your laptop so fast you probably give yourself whiplash. Maybe if you slouch low enough, you'll just... dissolve into the floor. That's possible, right?

Jimin swats your arm. "Stop being dramatic."

"I'm not being dramatic," you whisper-hiss. "I'm just saying, who assigns a five-thousand word analysis before we've even figured out the coffee situation on campus?"

"Having trouble with Professor Lee's class?"

You freeze. Because that voice—deep, warm, and definitely coming from right next to your table—belongs to exactly who you think it does.

Slowly, you look up. Professor Kim is standing there, coffee cup in hand, looking far too amused for someone who apparently makes students cry over poetry.

"I, uh—" Words. You know words. You're literally majoring in them. "No? I mean, yes? I mean—"

"She's struggling with the comparative analysis assignment," Jimin supplies helpfully, the traitor. "The one about narrative structures in post-modern literature."

"Ah." Professor Kim's dimples make an appearance. "Mind if I...?" He gestures to the empty chair at your table.

What are you supposed to say? No? To the professor who apparently has permanent dibs on the best table in Jin's? Who probably knows seventeen ways to destroy your GPA with a single red pen mark?

"Sure," you manage, shooting Jimin a panicked look that he completely ignores.

Professor Kim settles into the chair, setting his coffee down carefully. "The thing about post-modern narrative structures," he says, like he's sharing a secret, "is that everyone overthinks them."

You blink. "What?"

"It's actually quite simple." He gestures to your laptop. "May I?"

You turn the screen toward him, watching as he scans your document. His brow furrows slightly, and you resist the urge to slam the laptop shut and run away.

"See, here—" He points to a paragraph. "You're actually onto something interesting. The way you've connected the unreliable narrator to the fragmented timeline... that's good. You're just getting caught up in the academic language instead of trusting your instincts."

"My... instincts?"

"Mhm." He takes a sip of his coffee. "Tell me—without thinking about theory or criticism or any of that—why did this particular narrative choice catch your attention?"

You open your mouth. Close it. Because honestly? "It reminded me of those dreams where you're trying to remember something, but the memory keeps slipping away? Like, you know it's important, but every time you get close, it sort of... dissolves?"

His smile widens. "Write that."

"What, the dream thing?"

"Exactly that. In exactly those words." He leans back, looking pleased. "That's what post-modern literature is about—the messy, fragmented way our minds actually work. Not the polished academic analysis we think we're supposed to write."

From behind the counter, you hear Jin snort. "Are you corrupting my customers with your literary theories again?"

"Always," Professor Kim calls back, and something in the way they smile at each other makes you think of your earlier observations.

"Thank you," you say, already starting to rework your intro paragraph. "That actually helps a lot."

"Any time." He stands, gathering his coffee. "And Y/N?"

You look up, surprised he knows your name.

"Don't worry too much about Professor Lee's assignments. He likes to seem tough in the beginning, but..." He adjusts his glasses with a slight smile. "Let's just say I've heard his Emily Dickinson lectures. Man cries every time."

As he heads back to his table, you turn to Jimin with wide eyes.

"Did that just happen?"

"Yep."

"And did he just..."

"Give you permission to basically write your paper in normal human language? Yep."

"Huh." You look between your laptop and Professor Kim's table, where he's already absorbed back in his grading. "Maybe the dimples aren't so terrifying after all."

"Please stop talking about our professor's dimples."

"I'm just saying—"

"Whatever you're about to say, don't."

Fair enough. You turn back to your laptop, fingers hovering over the keys.

Maybe this assignment won't be so bad after all.

Even if you do kind of want to investigate why Jin keeps stealing glances at Professor Kim's table and thinking he’s being subtle about it.

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw

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bbyquokka · 9 months ago

Text

fizzy pop

– yn has a habit of bottling up their emotions, chan comforts them & explains the importance of communicating about feelings/emotions.

pairing | bang chan x gender neutral reader

genre | angst w comfort – 18+ is strongly advised!

cw | established relationship, mental health (low moods, low/no motivation, lose of interest in hobbies/things), pet names.

words | 2k ~ ( 2,042 )

notes | idk why but i've been putting off on posting this for months, maybe bc im nervous 🤔 don’t forget to leave feedback, reblog and tell me what you think here. i hope you all enjoy! ‹3

m.list — wips list — you can also read it on my ao3

dont repost. dont translate. minors, ageless & default blogs; dni! feedback and reblogs are highly advised and appreciated!

it's just another day. another day of just being there. another day of feeling like you have no purpose in life except to please others. another day of wondering “what is the purpose of me being here?” you fake smiles, say you're "ok" because saying how you actually feel is exhausting.

aside from it feeling exhausting, you also don't want to draw attention to yourself and when you do speak, you feel stupid for doing so, so you keep it all in, bottle it up until it's too much for you to handle. some days you wonder why you even bother to get out off bed.

is it because of the birds you hear outside? the sun's heat that you want to feel on your skin? could it be the laughter and chitter chatter of others? or maybe you want to hear the rain on the leaves–who knows. all you know is that everyday is the same and it's tiring.

the days merge into one. what day is it even? monday? tuesday? oh wait, it's saturday morning. time doesn't exist anymore. in your mind you see no point in getting up out of bed because again, what's the point?

so why is it that your boyfriend is gently shaking you, asking, no, begging you to get up.

“darlin'. please get up.” chan whispers as he gently shakes you by the shoulders. you sigh deeply, a tired sigh that causes chan to swallow and his suspicions to come to light.

you pull the duvet over your head, body curled in a small and fragile ball. the curtains are still drawn providing darkness despite the morning rays that wish to peak inside.

chan has been up since the crack of dawn. he has showered, made breakfast and managed to get dressed. he gave you some extra time to sleep in because he knows you're not a morning person but when the number nine on his watch turned to twelve and you're still not up and out, does he grow concerned.

he's had his suspicions for a while. he's noticed how defeated you sound. how there is little to no energy in the words you speak. he's tried everything to cheer you up, thinking, hoping you were just having an off day. but that off day turned into an off week which slowly, but surely, turned into an off month.

you lost your passion for being creative, lost the will to make anything which you despise. being creative is one of the many pleasures you have in life, to be able to make something and share your creations with others is exhilarating but when you feel like this, your mood turns bitter and cold towards everything you do which results in you resenting everything you create.

you lost the energy to speak to people. to pick up the phone and just talk. you're not deliberately ignoring nor trying to be difficult but keeping conversations flowing is just too hard right now and when you think they're giving you the same energy back do you feel so guilty.

what have i done to deserve this? why am i forced to feel like this. you find yourself questioning everything late at night. your head loud as soon as it hits the pillow and no amount of music you blast down your ears can silence those thoughts.

everything is so exhausting. everything is the same. you just want to disappear whether that be for a few days or forever, you're not quite sure, but certain people around you wont allow that to happen. they are keeping you afloat, head above water. you desperately and silently wish they never let you go, no matter how hard you fight and push them away.

“baby, please.” chan's words dripped with desperation. his knees on the bed behind you as he kneels causing the mattress to dip. his hands on your shoulders gently as his eyes bore into the duvet, burning holes into it until he is burning holes into you. tears threaten to spill down his soft cheeks as he becomes increasingly worried for you.

“chan..“ you whisper, your words shaking. “please.. leave me alone.”

he swallows. those three last words he hates to hear. now he is left in a difficult position. should he do as you say and leave you? leave you to fester and rot in your own thoughts and feelings. watch you melt into the mattress and become nothing but a lifeless shell. or should he force himself, force you to acknowledge him. show you, tell you that's it's going to be ok–even if you don't believe him in the beginning.

but this is chan and you know more than anyone how stubborn chan can be.

“lets go take a shower yn, together! and maybe we can go out and get lunch at that café you love so much?”

silence.

“or how about we go to that art shop! pick up those water colours you've been eyeing up for months?”

silence.

“ok well, what about some new cloth–”

“chan please!” you snap, causing him to jump. “what part of leave me alone don't you understand?!”

you don't mean to sound harsh and you hope chan doesn't take it to heart. the last thing you want is to hurt the one person you adore so much. luckily, chan knows you don't mean it but it doesn't hurt him any less.

“all of it.” he softly speaks. you feel the weight being lifted up off the mattress and footsteps against the wood flooring before the bedroom door squeaks open at the hinges.

your heart breaks. hot angry tears finally being set free and rolling down the bridge of your nose and cheeks, soaking into the material of your pillow. you sob, curling up into a ball even more as your heart aches in your chest. you grip onto the pillow as you silently cry out for chan, thinking he has completely left you alone.

but you did ask for it so why do you feel so guilty?

the duvet gets pulled back from you, the cold air hitting your hot and sweaty skin. the mattress dips once again as an arm snakes over your midriff. chest being pressed against your back as chan spoons you.

“don't cry, darlin'. i'm here, your channie is here.” his soft words provide you with a sense of comfort and an indescribable feeling of warmth as well as relief. his hand strokes your soft stomach, his lips kissing your neck so tenderly you worry that he isn't really there.

“c-chan…” you sob through your words as a way of confirmation. you can't breathe, the pain of everything that's built up over the past months is making it impossible for you to breathe. your mind fogs over as your chest heaves up and down.

you struggle to take breaths as tears stream down your face. your pillow becomes soaked with your tears. chan strokes your unwashed hair gently, hushing you and singing softly to help ground you.

“sh sh sh. you're ok, you're safe.” he whispers.

“sorry! i'm sorry!” you repeat over and over again in your fits of tears. chan continues to hush you, noticing that it's not working so he gently rolls you over to face him and pulls you into his naked chest.

the warmth and softness of his skin calms you down in an instant. his natural scent hugs your nostrils and sinks into your heart, soothing your heartbeat as well as your mind. you grip onto him, desperately trying to cling onto something before resulting in wrapping your arms around him tightly.

he gives you a bear hug. arms around your shoulders gently, fingers raking and massaging your scalp. his chest wet with tears as he continues to hush you through your episode.

there isn't much he can do when you're crying like this except wait. wait for it to pass–and it does, fifteen minutes later.

“better?” he gently asks. you peer up at him to notice that his own cheeks are wet with a few tears slowly falling.

“you're crying..” you whisper as you reach up and wipe the tears away. chan laughs softly before leaning into your touch. “why?”

“because it pains me to see you like this, my love.” that guilt comes back, settling in your stomach and wrapping itself around your heart, like black fog. you look down, tears falling from your lower lash line.

“sorry..” you mumble.

“hey.” chan unwraps his arms from you to gently lift up your head. “it hurts because i can't do anything about it. it hurts because i love you! seeing you in so much pain is rough darling. and it's not physical pain either, it's not like i can put a band aid on your wound.”

“i'm sorry i'm like this, chan. sorry i'm so difficult and such a disappointment.”

“oi.” his tone of voice turns stern which causes you to look up at him. his brows furrowed together as he reaches and strokes your cheek. “you're not a disappointment or difficult baby. it's ok to feel like this, to have off days and feel like nothing is right, however, you have to come to me when you feel like this! or if you can't come to me, talk to a friend.”

“but i hate talking about my feelings, chan.. i feel like a burden and that it just bores people and when i do confined in people, it feels like i don't get the comfort i expect to get so i'm left thinking if it's worth it and if i just expect too much from people.”

“what have i told you about bottling things up, mhm?”

“that it's just going to keep building and building until i explode.” you mumble to which chan hums and nods too

“imagine you're a bottle of fizzy pop. your body is the bottle, your feelings are the fizzy liquid. what happens when you shake a bottle of fizzy pop?”

“it bubbles and explodes, creating a huge mess.”

“and what happens when you bottle your feelings up?”

“i get shaken up by the smallest of things, which causes me to bubble and explode..”

“mhm. you have to remember, my darling, that how you feel is valid. your feelings are valid. you might seem like it's something so small or stupid, but that something small could build and build and build.”

“so i should come to you whenever i feel negative?”

“yes.”

“even if i'm frustrated at a piece of work? even if i can't get a recipe right and it annoys me?”

“yes.”

“but that is so small and not as important..”

“yn, if it's bothering you then it's big. if it's bothering you, it's important to me. if you feel angry, upset, energy less, i beg that you come to me or to a friend! it's important that we voice these things, let it be known because you'll feel better.” he tucks your hair behind your ear gently before you nuzzle into his chest, thinking about what he's saying.

he is correct. he always is and that's the thing that sometimes bothers you, but in a good way! it just means that you can't hide anything from chan, whether it's good or bad and when you are feeling down, chan is always there to pick you back up and dust you off, providing you with love and comfort.

“shall we go shower together to start the day?”

“isnt it a bit late for that? besides, hasn't your day already started?” you mumble against his chest.

“it's never too late to start the day and besides, i don't mind ‘restarting’ my day if it means i get to do it with you.” he kisses the top of your head gently, stroking your back as you tangle your legs with his.

“soon.”

“soon?” he questions.

“i just want to spend some more minutes with you..”

“we can spend as many minutes together as you like, my darling. as long as you're happy and content.”

“i'm always happy and content with you, chan. you're my safe space.”

“and i hope i continue to be and provide you with that safe space, yn.”

#kwritersworldnet #wkcnet #straykidsland #skz angst #skz comfort #stray kids angst #stray kids comfort #bang chan #chan #chan x you #chan x reader #bang chan x you #bang chan x reader #skz x you #skz x reader #stray kids x you #stray kids x reader

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redfoxwritesstuff · 8 months ago

Text

Misdemeanor of the Heart (Chapter 12) Human Alastor x Married Reader

Chapter Trigger Warnings: Domestic violence

AN: I'm sorry for the delay, I've been sick since Thursday and most of today. Please accept a 5k word chapter in exchange for being a day late.

(optional fucking off AN): I did try to quickly edit it quickly for posting today but alas, my illness quickly slipped out of control and I quickly slipped into a four hour nap and my condition quickly slipped worse. We must spare a moment of thanks to @redvexillum for quickly slipping in and quickly plunging her fingers into MisD's raw core. This is how I repay her.

Masterlist AO3 KoFi

The couch was uncomfortable under you. Was it the couch or the way you sat with your back straight and teetering on the edge of the seat? Emotions curdled in your stomach, settling in a ball you struggled to identify as anything more than an overwhelming feeling of dread as you watched Laurence slip on his coat.

For the majority of the week, your husband had hardly been home. At first, it was a welcome reprieve. You took solace in the peace and safety of having the home to yourself in the evenings. You made simple, small dinners that you enjoyed and didn’t require much clean up. The radio kept you company, the rich tenor of Alastor’s voice carrying through the house as you cooked and cleaned.

When Laurance wasn’t home, he wasn’t hitting you. When he was away, he wasn’t desecrating your body for his own carnal pleasures, leaving you sore and broken from serving your wifely duties. When he was away, you could eat to your heart’s content without his biting remarks about how much you ate and didn’t eat. You could indulge without having to hear his cruel excuses about why he refused to let you update your wardrobe to stay on top of the latest fashion trends.

How nice it was to have the house to yourself did nothing to change the simple fact that him spending so much time away from your marital home didn’t sit right with you. It was a wife’s protection to have her husband present in the evening. His absence left you vulnerable, even though his presence had its own danger, at least it was familiar and predictable.

“Where are you going?” The question was out before you could stop it. You feared you already knew the answer, but what harm was there in letting him lie to you?

“Got a business meeting,” Laurence said despite not being dressed for a business meeting. He looked too casual for that, open collar and sweater vest clinging to him, highlighting the frame that had once been nothing but muscle but now held a layer of softness.

It reminded you of how he looked when he would take you out to dinner during the courting days For a business meeting, he would wear a meticulously pressed suit, his hair perfectly styled, and every detail about him polished to a shine.

“Is that so?” It wasn’t your intention to question him but the murmured words were out before you could stop them. It wasn’t a wife’s place to question her husband’s whereabouts or his business. Stay home. Take care of the home. Raise babies when they come along. Don’t ask questions.

Long strides took him across the room before you had a chance to soften your words or make yourself scarce. He loomed in front of you, reaching out quickly and for a moment, a panic you had never felt before flooded your body as his hand wrapped around your neck and squeezed.

Laurence inflicted countless horrors on you throughout your marriage. He’d violated you against your will, used your body while you slept. He’d taken you against your will, he’d taken your body in your sleep. He’d struck you and thrown you, filling your days with screams and pain. But through all that, one thing he had never done was make you truly fear for your life - until now.

“It’s not your place to question me,” Laurence reminded you, squeezing. Your hands reached out, wrapping around his arm as your eyes widened. Gasping breaths struggled to push through the constriction of his hand. Your heartbeat drummed against your ears, beating rapidly from the adrenaline that flooded your body as Laurence ensured your eyes had nowhere to look but at him. “Unless you want to piss me off again. Is that what you want, sweet thing?”

“No, Laurence.” Your voice trembled as his grip slowly loosened around your neck while his lips curled into a sadistic smirk.

His thumb caressed your jaw as his smile suddenly softened. Leaning in, he closed the final gap between you. He pressed a sickly sweet, mocking kiss to your lips, a cruel imitation of the stolen kisses lovestruck girls would dream about.You had never understood the desire to have the lips of another on you. You were thankful when he pulled away and his hand completely dropped from your neck.

Laurence reached into his pocket, pulling his wallet free. It was a crisp leather billfold. It was newer, a recent gift from his father before he had passed. His final gift to your budding family was leaving Laurence, his only son, the family business. The clinking of coins was loud, almost louder than the heartbeat still thundering in your ears as he moved coins around, hunting for a few quarters.

“Here,” he grabbed your hand, turning it palm up after slipping his wallet back into his pocket. The weight of the coins settled into your palm and he curled your fingers around them, touch soft. It was nothing like the harsh way he had been grabbing you just minutes prior.

“Don’t lose them,” he teased you softly. The smile on his face and the tone of the teasing had reminded you of the hopes and dreams you held in the past, when you were little more than a girl dreaming about what married life would be like. You could see the young man, hardly more than a boy himself sitting between his parents on the other side of the table from you and yours, looking at you with curiosity and hope. Was this what that young man had thought married life would have been like? “Buy yourself something nice. Treat yourself.”

“Okay,” you said as you watched him turn, making his way out of your marital home. A small voice in the back of your mind screamed that he was going to the bed of another even though you dedicated your life to being a good wife for him, taking beatings and affection without complaint. You took everything he gave you without complaint in the name of being a good wife. You silenced that voice, strange and out of place though it was. It was just a business meeting. Nothing more. Just a casual business meeting.

It was like you were frozen in place as you waited for the sound of the car leaving the driveway. The memory of the kind man with sweet words you had met a lifetime ago warred with the still too fresh feeling of his hand around your neck.

As the engine faded in the distance, you finally stood and made your way over to the small table that held your purse. There was nearly nothing in it at the moment, it was a few more days until he would give you the money for the week’s shopping. The quarters clinked together as you dropped them into the small coin purse, rattling against a few pennies.

It would be nice to go out, you told yourself as you absently rubbed your hand against your neck, trying to rub away the memory of Laurence’s hand constricting around it. It wasn’t like he had squeezed that hard, you told yourself as you walked through the house, shoes echoing with each step. It startled you, that was all. You overreacted, you told yourself as you stepped out of the back door and onto the porch.

The absence of sun didn’t mean you were taking the day off washing. The air was cool but the clothes would dry just the same, as long as the rain held off, that was. First you would finish scrubbing the smear of pink off Laurence’s collar, ink he assured you, and then you would head to the pharmacy.

The pink smudge on his collar screamed liar. It screamed that he was lying to you. It screamed that you were lying to yourself.

It was just ink, he told you. Paint. Don’t be daft. .

Don’t be a silly woman.

Heavy clouds covered the sky for as far as you could see and the chill of early spring was biting in the air. If you were unlucky, they could mean rain for you but their light color told you it was doubtful, though not impossible.

Excitement sparked in your chest, spreading through you as you saw a familiar mop of brown hair on an imposing figure. He looked tall and lean, even wrapped up in a long coat that would leave other men looking softer and wider.

“Alastor!” You called out to him, waving your arm over your head to catch his attention.

He turned toward you, his smile radiant and welcoming, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that made your breath catch. You hurried to his side, heart racing, though you had managed to maintain some semblance of composure despite the way you had called out to him on the street. It was something you’d normally never do, it drew attention. You had to remind yourself to walk, not run, no matter how much you longed to close the distance.

What would people say?

“Darling! Lovely to see you.” Alastor greeted you, his warm smile making your pulse quicken, though you couldn’t understand why. “What are you up to today?”

“Just finished at the pharmacy.”

“And what’s next for your adventures of the day?” Alastor motioned for you to join him, walking down the sidewalk together. He kept himself between you and the street, ensuring you were shielded from traffic and the dangers that they could pose. There was nothing his presence could do to stop a car going off the road but he was far less likely to be overlooked than you.

It was strange how the same action Laurance would do felt different coming from Alastor. Why was that? Was it the way he rested his hand on your back, ensuring you felt secure? When his hand would drop, he would take your hand and tuck it around his arm. Somehow, he was always connected to you, not just walking alongside you but walking with you.

“Probably nothing,” you confessed before remembering, “Oh!”

“Oh?” Alastor mimicked the sound though it did not sound mocking coming from him as it would have if Laurance had done it. There was something about him that put you at ease. Perhaps it was his smile?

You pulled your coin purse out and fished out two dimes. Again, propriety slipped your mind as you grabbed his hand, turning it palm up. His hand was warm in yours. The coins clinked against each other as you softly dropped them into his much larger palm.“I still owe you for how you took care of me.”

“It’s unnecessary,” Alastor offered you the coins back, however you just pushed his hand back. “Helping pick the curtains was more than enough.”

“Then to pay you back for the handkerchief,” Alastor could see that you were not going to let this go. The pace had slowed as you both gave each other near total attention.

“Please? I would feel better about it if you took it. I,” you hesitated, “I don’t want there to be any debt between us.”

“If it’ll put your heart at ease,” Alastor smiled at you as he let the coins fall into his breast pocket.

“It’ll put my mind at ease,” you corrected him, marveling at the fact that you felt safe enough with him to do so. If you had dared to do the same to Laurance you would have been swiftly reprimanded. It wasn’t a woman’s place to correct a man. If you were unlucky, it would be a painful lesson that would leave bruises healing over a few days.

“That too,” Alastor’s smile twitched a bit higher. “I have a suggestion, rather than going straight home and wasting away as a lonely housewife, how about you and I pass some time? Or is he waiting for you?” There was a tone to the way he said ‘he’, refusing to say your husband’s name as if speaking of him more directly than necessary was poison or would ruin the day.

“That wouldn’t be proper.” You pulled your lower lip between your teeth, feeling the twinge of pain as hard teeth grazed over a still healing split you hadn’t realized was still present.

“So, he’s waiting for you?” Alastor looked at you, eyebrow raised.

“No,” you admitted and his smile grew wider, beaming at you.

“Wonderful, let’s get coffee.”

Your eyes grew wide as you looked around. It would be bad enough to be seen walking together so closely, you realized but to be overheard making plans? You couldn’t agree, this was already far too much risk. Temptation to agree wrapped around your heart. “Alastor, someone could see.”

“Nonsense, the alley is just ahead. My car isn’t too far. You can wait for me, I’ll grab it, swing by for you and we’ll be off.” Alastor motioned toward an alleyway ahead.

“What?”

“Just tuck yourself into the alleyway and you can jump in the car when I pull up.” He snapped his fingers, emphasizing his perfect plan, “I know a hole in the wall joint on the other side of the city. We can sit out of view, have a cup of coffee and pass some time. I can drop you off on my way to the station.”

You hesitated as Alastor held the car door open for you. This wasn’t the best part of the city. Trash gathered, swept into the corners and against the curb by wind. People wearing tattered clothes milled about, some clearly intoxicated. Poverty colored everything, from the people to the buildings and yet the sound of children’s laughter carried down the street, reminding you that there was joy everywhere if you were just willing to see it.

That didn’t make you hesitate any less when it came time to step out of the car. Eyes flitted around, trying to reassure yourself that you would be safe. Would someone run up and snatch your coin purse? Could you blame them when it looked like many of the people were rubbing pennies together?

“It’s alright,” Alastor’s fingers wiggled as he held his hand out for you. “There’s no one around here who would tattle to him about where you are or who you’re with. They’ve all got bigger things to worry about.”

“Is it safe?” After a moment more of hesitation, you offered him your hand, letting him enclose it in his. He steadied you as you braved stepping out of the car.

“Of course, my dear! I’d never take you somewhere I wouldn’t be able to assure your safety.” Alastor tucked your hand around his arm as he led you from the car. Your heart pounded in your chest, only speeding up when his arm would brush your shoulder as you walked closely together as your simple heels clicked along the sidewalk along with his polished shoes.

Part of it was fear. Part of it was something you couldn’t name. Maybe you could, if you let yourself think on it for longer but you were not sure if you wanted to. You were married. This was improper, yes, but it was still just a coffee shared between friends.

The hinges of the door squeaked loudly, screaming in pain from years of lackluster maintenance as Alastor opened it. He held the heavy door open and ushering you inside with a hand on your back, just a bit too low to be proper. Was it intentional or accidental? Did it matter? Why did you care?

His hand remained on your back as he guided you to the counter. It was a small, informal cafe with lively talking filling the air. Most of the small tables were filled with people, talking, reading newspapers but almost all with a cup in front of them. It had a neighborhood feel that transcended social and financial class lines but lacked the suffocating weight of eyes found in your local cafes.

“What would you like?” Alastor leaned into you as he spoke, shoulder brushing against yours, breath washing over your cheek and down your neck. Closing your eyes, you tried to ignore the feelings that were trying to spark to life within you. “Are you hungry? The beignets here are wonderful.”

“Oh no, I’ll just get coffee.” There was a tremble to your voice that you couldn’t understand. You didn’t want it there. You wanted to sound cool, calm and confident. There was no reason for Alastor to get to you as much as he did and even less reason to let him find out that he was.

Alastor stepped up to the counter, keeping his hand on your back. You could swear that you felt it run a little lower down the small of your back as his attention was focused forward. Or was that your imagination?

“Alastor!” As Alastor reached for the bell, the door to the kitchen burst open in a flurry, a woman with a curly crop of graying hair and rich dark skin carrying a tray of confections. “It’s been a minute since you’ve been around these parts.”

“I drive through these parts every day, Delores.” His voice was different talking with the woman, you realized. The showy transatlantic accent was softer, just a smidge and his words were lighter.

“And now you bring a pretty little thing on your arm? Oh, and she is a darling, isn’t she?” The woman may have been around for a few years but she was as sharp as ever, Alastor was pleased to see. It had been a while since he had stopped in, though as a young man he had frequented this cafe.

“Oh, thank you, ma’am but-”

Alastor’s voice cut you off, “Two coffees, Dee?” He held up two fingers as if his order was confusing before pointing at the steaming pastries on the tray. “Those fresh?”

You could have protested being spoken over but instead simply let his words wash over your ears. It was strange to hear him now, his voice warmer and richer. Whatever this place was to Alastor, it was a place he felt secure enough to just be in, even a little.

“Of course they’re fresh, boy.” Delores laughed, swatting Alastor’s shoulder with a towel. “Ya want some too?”

“Of course,” Alastor laughed and it was lighter, “Two?”

“One for you and one for your lady.” Dolores made quick work of setting the tray down and putting pastries in baskets.

Alastor pulled the coins you had given him from his pocket and set them on the counter as Dolores worked. His hand dropped from your back as he pulled the wallet from his pocket. From his wallet he added a few more pennies and you realized with a flash of annoyance that he was paying for you both and using the coins you had given him to even your debt to do so.

“Hey, wait a minute,” you rushed to grab your own coin purse. He didn’t wait for you in the slightest as he pushed the coins across the counter, ignoring your attempts to cover your half.

“That was supposed to pay you back.” You protested as Delores took the coins, eyebrow raised and a slight smile on her face. She told you both to go sit down and wait rather than do anything to allow you a moment to cover your share of the bill. “Now I owe you again.”

Alastor guided you, soft pressure on your lower back constantly keeping you connected to him as he led you away from the counter. You wanted to argue, to continue to protest but what good would it do? All it would do is cause a scene.

“Oh, no.” Alastor pulled out a chair for you, finally letting his hand drop from your back. He grinned at you, eyes dancing with mirth as you sat in the chair. “Whatever will we do. I guess that just means you’ll have to see me again.”

“Alastor?” You wanted to ask him what game it was that he was playing. You wanted to ask him if he knew how he was acting. Did he know the way it looked? Any of the people here could look at the two of you and see you as a couple. He made it so easy for anyone to assume you belonged to him. Did he care at all about that? Did he care how the idea tried to worm its way into your heart?

“What’s on your mind, dear?” Alastor’s warm brown eyes looked into you from across the table. In another lifetime, maybe this could have been your life. In another lifetime, maybe what everyone saw looking at the two of you could be true.

“You know, Al-” Delores came up to the table, drawing attention before you had a chance to make a fool of yourself in the moment. She carried two mugs, hanging off her fingers with practiced expertise, a pot of coffee and two plates with beignets covered in powdered sugar in her other hand. “You two make a handsome couple. She’s a bit bright, you know, and well dressed but she must not be too bad if you got her on your arm.”

“Oh,” a flush climbed up your neck and face as you realized the misunderstanding.

“You know, your dear Ma would be proud to know you finally married.” Dolores was all but beaming with pride at Alastor as she filled the coffee mugs.

Oh. It was worse than you thought.

You blanched, looking to Alastor with panic in your eyes. This had to be explained, corrected, somehow but you were at a loss how. Anyone could overhear such a bold statement and it could get around town. If you told the truth, right here and now to this kind woman, wouldn’t that look too much like an affair?

“We’re only friends, Dee.” Alastor said with ease, as if he wasn’t digging your grave.

“That so?” The older woman looked pointedly at the ring on your hand. Her eyes on it made the band feel more and more like a shackle as you covered it with your other hand. “Well, we’re not ones to talk around here, missy. What you two get up to and your so called friendship is between you and the Good Lord Above.” She flicked her hand up, waving away some unseen force for emphasis. “We got bigger things to worry about ‘round this neighborhood so don’t you get to fretting.”

“We’re not-” You tried to protest.

Delores cut you off with a warm smile of her own, “It don’t matter to me. I just want to see that boy not alone for once, even if it’s just for a while.”

“It’s fine,” Alastor said simply as Delores walked off. “She’ll think what she thinks but she’s not one to talk.”

“You know her well?” You refocused your attention on him, only to dart your eyes down. It was too much to meet his gaze. It was easier to take in the scuffed and scratched table top and the swirl of the cream you poured into your mug.

“Grew up around here.” Alastor had his transatlantic accent once again perfectly in place as he watched you. You could feel the heat of his eyes on you, burning into you. “I know how these people are, no one will talk. Plus, we’re just getting coffee and Mrs. Dee does make the best beignets.”

“She thinks we’re…” you were scared to even voice what the kindly woman thought. “And that doesn’t bother her? Or you?”

Alastor shrugged and pushed the small plate closer to you. “You should try it, it’s lovely with coffee.” He was silent for a moment, taking a long drink from his still very black mug of coffee before speaking again. “Dee would look the other way if it’s what I wanted. Maybe not approve but she’d look the other way.”

You ripped off a piece of pastry and shoved it into your mouth. It was the only thing you could think to do to keep words you shouldn’t, couldn’t say from tumbling from your lips. Sweetness exploded on your tastebuds, washed away by bitter coffee as you forced down the question that almost rushed past your lips: did he want that?

It was silly. Pointless. Don’t be a silly woman. You were just getting swept up in a fantasy. He was a friend and that was enough. A friend was more than you could ever dare to have hoped for. There was nothing wrong with having a male friend, you were sure, beyond appearances so why did you feel your heart beating faster? Why did your face flush so easily?

“Is she close to your mother?” You asked instead, stealing a glance at the woman behind the counter. You had so many questions about her and her connection to your new friend. “You were right, by the way, this is lovely indeed.”

Alastor’s lips twitched up, mouth opening slightly before closing again as he hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head as he weighed if he wanted to answer. There were things he held back from people, you could have guessed that. A man like him, walking the line of too dark to be a welcomed member of polite society would have things kept to himself.

“They were close for as long as I can remember,” he finally said, “Right up until she passed. Dee’s been like an aunt to me, regardless of if I wanted it.” He chuckled though it sounded dry, forced.

“She’s passed?” Reaching out, you rested your hand over his. Though you didn’t know the pain of losing a parent, it was etched on his face. His smile fell for a moment, lips twitching down and his eyebrows furrowed and then the smile he seemed to always wear was back in place. “I’m so sorry.”

He looked down and a single eyebrow rose as he looked at your much smaller hand atop his. Instantly you realized the move was too much. Reaching out to hold his hand was too forward. That was something limited to female friends, family or your husband.

You pulled your hand away quickly, as if the touch burned you as you looked away from him. He caught your hand as your fingers dragged down his, preventing you from making any real distance. It was his turn to be forward, weaving his fingers between yours.

“I miss her dearly,” he admitted, “She never stopped pushing me to make something of myself, to not let my blood limit me.”

“She’d be proud of you,” you had no doubt at all of your words. Alastor’s smile, soft but bright, told you how much such a thought meant to him.

“For some things.”

“What do you mean?” You asked as Alastor popped a chunk of sugary beignet into his mouth. You couldn’t help but watch as his mouth worked, sugar dusted on his lips.

“Not everything I’ve done is things that would have made her proud.” Alastor finally said, washing the sugary treat down with a sip from his mug.

“I can’t imagine the great radio host doing anything that would make his mother feel anything less than pride.”

Alastor only laughed, a knowing glint in his eye before changing the subject to you and your childhood. As you sat, talking in that dingy cafe one cup of coffee became two, though eventually he did allow you to take your fingers back.

While he hadn’t been willing to offer much of his life story, what he would share fascinated you. You couldn’t imagine being raised without both parents with the bayou stretching out behind your home. He had come so far and found himself an informal family to make up for the lack of family connections.

All the while, he didn’t make you feel ashamed for your much more comfortable upbringing. He listened attentively as you spoke of lessons and expectations that all resulted in your arranged match with the much more well off Laurence.

“If you don’t love him, why did you marry him?” Alastor asked and you were struck by the thought. Never had you questioned if you loved Laurence or not, you just expected that you did because you should and if you didn’t, you would.

“I- I do love him?” A snort of disapproval came from across the table. “Why wouldn’t I love him? He’s my husband.”

“If you say so.” Alastor smiled at you like you were the only one not in on the joke.

“I do say so,” You protested as Alastor stood from the table, offering his hand to assist you out of the chair. It wasn’t needed but you indulged in the chance to touch him again.

“I’m not sure,” Alastor admitted as his hand took up its guiding presence on your lower back while you walked to the door. “But I’m told love is something magical that can solve the world’s ills and if you have it, even for a moment, you’d risk anything for it. I don’t recall anyone singing the praises of the beatings one delivers on those they love though.”

“Maybe we’ve been told different things” you said, a hollow laugh escaping your lips, the sound shattering like glass in your own ears. “Your idea of love sounds like a child’s story I’ll never get to experience because it’s not real.”

“Who says you won’t?” Alastor smiled down at you before looking up, focusing on bringing you safely to his car. As promised, he needed to deliver you home before it was too late and he would, though he was far from eager to be rid of your company.

Oh well, he thought as he settled you into the passenger seat. There would be other times. He would ensure that he got to spend more time with you later. It would just be a matter of time.

AN2: A note on word choice- I've spent way too much time on 1920's slang and phrases. Calling someone 'bright' in relation to another person was often how one would subtibly remark on differences of skin tone. While this is a Reader insert, by nature of social and class standing, it is needed that reader have some traits to be historically accurate. This is what Dee is remarking on, not Reader's brains.

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sugoi-and-spice · 3 months ago

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Chapter Thirty-Two - One Step Forward and Three Steps Back

Summary: Tomura Shigaraki was her dad’s boss’s son. He was the creep that stole girls’ underwear and tried to grope her in his room. But it’s not like he could get her Dad fired just because she wouldn’t sleep with him, right? …right?

CW: Quirkless!AU, Explicit Smut, Dub-Con, Coercion, Blackmail, Cheating, Sexual Guilt, Humiliation, Unhealthy Relationships, Power Play, Hate to Love, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Slow Burn, Racism (New, This Chapter) Suicidal Ideation, Psychiatric Wards, Forcible Sedation, Depiction of a Suicide Attempt

A/N: I'm alive!!! Thank you all for your patience during my bigger than usual gaps between chapters. As I've said in a few posts here (as few and far between as they've been) this has been a pretty crazy Winter that's left me with very little energy to write. I just had to take ANOTHER sudden trip to Florida only five days after I got back from Philly. Rip my sleep schedule TT_TT But I never stop thinking about Play Nice! So I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and thank you all again for your constant support. ❤️

Read Full Chapter on AO3

[excerpt]

She had to admit, Iguchi went above and beyond the call of duty as far as friends go.

The rain had only gotten heavier by the end of their talk, but he still drove her home to Setagaya, stopping at a Uniqlo on the way there so that she wouldn’t be walking into her house wearing his oversized clothes. He even paid, since her wallet was trapped back with the rest of her possessions in Shigaraki’s room. It was definitely necessary, she could only imagine the ridiculous explanation she’d need to come up with for walking into her house this late at night, wearing some boy’s clothes without any shoes, after hours of missing her parents’, no doubt, countless calls. But it still felt like more kindness than she deserved at this point.

Never before had she felt so guilty over a knit sweater and yoga pants.

Luckily, she wasn’t in quite as deep of shit as either of them might’ve expected. Her dad was away on a business trip this week. And while her mom certainly wasn’t happy to be up so late waiting for her daughter, nursing a cup of tea at the dining table, she did at least take her explanation of “losing track of time at Shigaraki’s and losing her phone at school” at face value.

Or maybe she just noticed the puffiness of her daughter’s eyes and sunkenness of her shoulders, and decided to postpone the consequences to a day where she didn’t look so utterly broken.

Given the fact that she went straight to covering her with a blanket and pouring her a fresh cup of tea, she had a sneaking suspicion that it was the former.

They sat in silence as they sipped their tea, the same brand she’d just left cold at Iguchi’s, she noticed with a sad smile.

She looked up to her mom across the table. The woman was clearly bothered. She wanted to ask her daughter what the hell was going on. Why was she getting in so late? Why was she spending so much time away from home? Why was it that every other time she saw her, she was either crying or about to cry?

Why wasn’t she talking to them anymore?

But she didn’t push. After all, she was a good mom, and an even better person. Understanding beyond belief when it came to isolation and hurt in particular. Because she’d gone through a world of it.

“People like you, like your father… They mean the world to those of us who’ve been broken.”

The similarity between her mom’s past and Shigaraki’s was definitely a line that she’d drawn before. They both came from foster care, both didn’t like to talk about it. Because of that latter part, it was something she never told either about.

She definitely considered telling Shigaraki, particularly the few times that he’d opened up about his past, but ultimately, it didn’t feel like it was her story to tell. Especially given the fact that she really didn’t know a lot about it.

Regardless, there was definitely something similar about him that her mother had managed to pick up. Whether it was the exact shared experience or a worldview more nebulous, she wasn’t sure. But it was clear that she held a lot of sympathy for him. And an understanding that she just couldn’t fathom on her own.

An understanding she needed.

“Hey mom…”

Her mother looked up, unable to hide her eagerness to tackle whatever her daughter was struggling with.

“Yes sweetie?”

Her hands tightened around the mug, letting the warmth seep in, hoping that it could give her some strength.

“I… I need to ask you about something…”

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iwantmyprizepet · 17 days ago

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𝒱𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝒽 ℐ𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒴𝑜𝓊 - 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 4/?

Summary: Your doubts started to fight off any hope you had surrounding feelings for Agatha. Then of course…she looked at you. (??? so dumb. did I mention I hate writing these yet?)

Warnings: Just a little..something naughty, 18+, Alcohol.

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: It’s dawning on me how silly it is to drop a story that takes place around Christmas as summer nears. It’s when I started writing this and I guess it kind of just happened. Oh well, too late to back out now. I promise it’s not super hardcore holiday centered. If it’s not your cup of tea I apologize. Agatha will very much so start to shadow any care about dumb holidays soon. Christmas in May? Here we come? - Mich (I've been dreading posting this I think it's such a boring chapter. I promise the next one is better…I hope lol)

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I felt on edge the rest of the night after Agatha left, unable to place exactly why.

After closing up, I ran to the grocery store which nearly pushed me into overload from the chaos inside.

Little visions slipped in here and there as I ran the aisles. Visions of tackling the public mayhem with Agatha by my side.

When I got home, the quiet of my apartment elevated the sound of my thoughts.

Hateful little things nagging at the back of my mind now as I put groceries away. Not pretty enough. Too young. Not good enough. Not an ounce of a chance.

My flustered state continued into the morning.

I was already running late to get to my parents and couldn’t find my annual thanksgiving sweater. It wasn’t anything special, just a dark green sweater I wore every year. It was completely ridiculous, but I felt near tears searching for it.

I hadn’t felt this generally overwhelmed in a long time.

I debated calling Chloe, but resisted knowing she’d have enough on her plate today. Some of her family members were quite, interesting. Interesting in a concerning political view type of way. I knew she’d be stressed enough on her own by now.

Finally, after digging for a century I found the sweater in a far corner of my closet.

I hurried out the door after finding it nearly sending myself sailing down the stairs.

——————————————————————————

I got swept into cooking as soon as I arrived. It was blazing hot in the kitchen and while they meant no harm by it, my parents were asking too many questions.

I wanted to be present so badly, but a dark pull constantly brought my thoughts to her.

I felt near a boiling point by the time everyone else started to show up.

After about twenty minutes after the whole family arrived I excused myself. My kitchen duties were finished and I was in need of a huge distance from the pulsing entertainment of the house.

Mom’s concerned stare followed me until I was out of sight.

Usually the loudness of my family was endearing, funny and I’d join in. Right now it just felt like being in the middle of a thousand cymbals crashing.

My mood was probably more obvious to everyone than I let myself realize.

I shut the door and sunk onto my old bed letting out a long sigh.

After a mere few seconds Agatha eased into my mind. It was settling and distressing all at once.

As I stared at the ceiling a thought came over me and I reached for my phone.

Opening the browser I typed in her name along with our town and state.

My brain consumed the word CEO right away.

A scroll down led me to an article about her house. Some local news site showing pictures of the listing before she bought it. It was like something out of a movie.

I was spiraling the more I looked. Closing the tab I tossed my phone off the bed. It landed on the carpeted floor with a soft thump.

The fact that I even allowed myself for a second to think I stood a chance with her. The clear age gap aside, paled in comparison to the wealth she seemed to have. Obviously so with the fifties she threw around like change.

Shaking my head I brought my hands to my face. I sucked deep slow breaths in and out trying to steady my wobbling chin. How could I have allowed myself to fall so fast for her?

The search dug it in deep how despite my inner turmoil, I really had let myself form a bit of hope.

Now I just felt silly with a pang in my chest.

Every memory I had of myself around her was causing me to cringe. I felt like a blade of grass to her sun.

A little while had passed, my body temperature dropping back to a normal level. I knew I had to get back soon before a search party was sent up.

While I had calmed down, I was laced with constant unwanted thoughts. My mood soured more and more by the minute.

With force, I made my way back down stairs plastering a smile to my face.

The usual joy my cousins kids brought me just seemed to wear me down.

I of course still entertained their games, but even at their young ages they seemed to pick up on my emotional absence.

Dinner passed in a blur of conversation. I interjected enough to fly under the radar.

It’s what I told myself anyways.

Knowing Agatha was alone today was just another lingering plague on my brain.

After we all finished eating I shooed everyone away taking it upon myself to clean everything up.

The kitchen was spotless when I walked out of it and into the living room. I sunk into a corner half listening to everyone around.

Finally, just after seven my final aunt left the house.

I poured myself another glass of bourbon and breezed past my parents as they walked back from the front door.

“I’m gonna shower quick. I’ll be right back.” I called over my shoulder not waiting for a response.

I grabbed the bag I packed and headed for the bathroom joined to my room.

I took a long sip of the bourbon I’d poured and placed it down a little too heavily.

Walking to the counter, I took in my appearance. Every little imperfection seemed to be obvious today. I closed my eyes, Agatha’s face dripping into view.

After my shower, I headed back down with an empty glass.

Mom and dad were at the kitchen counter laughing at something. They both went quiet upon my entrance.

I placed the glass on the counter, keeping my eyes away from theirs.

After a moment dad grabbed the glass, refilling it with a couple of cubes and some more bourbon. I looked up to him with a small smile, nodding and grabbing the glass.

“Something bothering you, honey?” Mom asked quietly.

I shrugged swirling the ice cubes in the glass.

“Just, overwhelmed the past couple of days. Nothing to worry about.” I responded and finally looked up to her. “Really, work has just been a lot no big deal.”

I was grateful they dropped it there, even though they both clearly didn’t want to.

The three of us settled into the night. Our annual tradition of watching The Griswold family Christmas commenced. A growing guilt from how distant I was today mixed into everything else.

My moms concerned glances lingered throughout the whole film.

The movie ended and I hugged them both goodnight before slipping off to bed.

Typical thoughts of Agatha drifted me to sleep. Swirling around me in a grey cloud.

——————————————————————————

Morning came, the smell of breakfast drifting through the air stirring me. There she was at the forefront again, right off the bat.

Agatha fucking Harkness.

I pulled myself out of bed and made my way downstairs, desperate for water and distraction.

My parents had Christmas music playing softly, dancing about the kitchen singing along. I laughed shaking my head at them as I walked to the fridge. “Good morning my beautiful daughter.” Dad said brightly as I poured myself a glass of water.

“Morning.” I mumbled draining almost the whole glass in one swig.

Mom eyed me closely as I finished off the glass. Always worrying.

After breakfast I was coerced into going to tag a tree.

Sitting in the back of my dad’s truck had me feeling like a kid again. Usually a welcome feeling, now had me only thinking myself inferior to Agatha.

Agatha this, Agatha that I was sick of it at this point. Sick of how bitter it was making me ruining usually enjoyable moments.

The breeze whipped around the tree farm. A woman with her children were searching next to us. Her hair lay dark and wavy.

I of course thought of Agatha.

My parents chose their usual ten footer. I could foresee it now, dad and I fighting it through the door after picking it up in a week.

I picked myself a modest five foot tree, full with strong branches.

We made our way back and I found myself itching to get home. Craving the silence and comfort of my own space.

With hugs and arm fulls of left overs, finally I got into my car and headed home.

The strip was empty when I pulled up. It took two trips to drag everything upstairs.

After a shower and filling up on a plate of leftovers, I sunk into the couch heavily.

For the first time since meeting her, I found myself dreading seeing Agatha.

——————————————————————————

The overwhelming churn bled into Saturday.

A demanding, entitled wave of customers rattled through the doors consistently. Even Chloe seemed to feel the weight of it.

“Is it just me, or is everyone being extra rude today?” She asked annoyed, arms crossed.

I groaned elbows dropping to the counter. “I thought it was just me.”

“Must be ass hole convention in town.” Janice chirped into the conversation from the back.

I nodded in agreement with a light chuckle.

I slumped around more and more as closing time neared, no sight of Agatha. While I was definitely dreading seeing her, it was worse not to. It started to solidify my worries about myself, how I looked to her.

I finished up cleaning twenty minutes to closing. Chloe and Janice left thirty minutes ago.

The idea of seeing Agatha was slipping away.

Just after that thought I heard a car door. My head shot up, heart thumping hard seeing a black Maserati.

With a rush, Agatha breezed herself in.

A tension soaked relief moved through me.

After all this time worrying about seeing her again, now that she was in front of me all I could think about was folding into her.

“Hey, you.” She said it so casually, like we’d known each other for years. I wondered if she had any clue how much turmoil she was causing me.

“Hi.” I replied steadily trying to calm my nerves.

“Sorry to come in so late.” Her hair fell in it’s usual waviness today, soft and windswept.

“Oh, it’s fine no problem.” I walked myself closer to her. I stopped halfway clasping my hands behind my back, anxiety growing under her gaze. “The usual?” I asked fighting to put a smile on my face.

“No.” She answered stepping right to me, perfume sweeping my senses.

My eyebrows pinched together, head tilting looking up to her. I waited for her to answer my silent question.

She smiled softly fiddling with a gold ring on her pointer finger.

“I was in the neighborhood and just wanted to see how your holiday went.” It was the first time she’d said something to me with a hesitation.

I let out a sigh shoulders dropping. I imagined my forehead falling onto her chest, her arms wrapping me up tightly. Instead, I sat on the nearest stool. “It was alright. Stressful, but good.” I admitted.

She sat on the stool next to me, her knee brushed mine on accident as she did.

“How was your ‘just another day’?” I asked mimicking her explanation of the holiday.

She laughed looking down, hair falling on either side of her face.

“Takeout and a bottle of wine. Quiet, but okay.” She said smile not reaching her eyes just like the other day.

My heart ached for her. The idea of her being so lonely on a holiday seemed unfathomable. Someone as kind and beautiful as her having nobody. It didn’t seem possible.

“Agatha?” I paused building the courage to ask. “Don’t feel the need to answer, but how is it possible you have no one to spend a holiday with?”

Her lips pursed, finger tapping on the counter as her eyes darted around everywhere but on me.

“My father was never around. Mother passed away years ago, not that we were ever close. Any other family lives far away and well, I find myself having mostly acquaintances and colleagues. Not so many friends.” She answered me honestly.

A confidence tried to mask the uneasiness on her face.

“No great love in your life?” I asked bracing for the answer.

Long distance relationships were a thing, complicated situationships and also me not having a chance either way was a thing. I reminded myself of that over and over again.

She let out a laugh, rings clinking on the counter as she slapped it.

“It’s always about money or power.” She rested her chin back on her thumb, pointer finger brushing her lips. “I think I’ve given up on it all together.”

It sent a dark feeling through my chest. Not that I couldn’t agree with her sentiment.

“Yeah, I kind of agree.” I forced a laugh. “Well, not the money or power part but ready to give up on it all together part.”

She nudged my knee. “A pretty young thing like you. Why’s that?”

I fumbled on words, her own sending a mix of dread and want through me. The words young and pretty being side by side felt bittersweet.

Against all of my better judgement, I decided on the truth.

“Well, I suppose between cheating and manipulation and” I faltered for a second looking over her shoulder. “And disappearing I guess, I don’t know. It doesn’t seem worth the ache.”

I looked back to her, her whole face pinched in anger. My face dropped searching her for any sign of what caused the change.

“Someone did those things to you?” She asked in a gritty tongue.

Uneasily, I laughed waving my hand. “First long relationship cheated, we were young. Second long term well, I suppose I didn’t realize how much control she had until it was over. How much I lost being with her. She just up and left one day, no word.” My light hearted explanation didn’t seem to ease the anger seeping off of her. “But.” I said clapping my hands to my legs. “The past is in the past I suppose.”

I smiled trying to desperately change the atmosphere around the subject.

Her face softened then, an anger still lingering a presence around her forehead.

“That is despicable that someone would treat you that way.” There was no joking behind her words, she spoke them seriously.

I shrugged rubbing the back of my neck, regretting even mentioning any of it.

“It’s the reason I’m back here and I am perfectly okay with my little life here so, I suppose it was meant to be. Despite how awful it was in the moment.” She finally smiled then fingers dropping just shy of my arm on the counter.

“Well, I suppose I can even be a little thankful for that.” A smile so soft, aimed right at me and my pattering pulse. “Although, if you need me to track someone down and destroy them, do let me know.”

I leant forward laughing at that, arm pressing into her hand that lay so close a moment ago. She laughed too, fingers pressing up into my arm impossible to ignore.

It was joking the way she said it, but something in her eye told me she was only half joking.

“My own personal hitman, just what I’ve always wanted.”

We laughed, her fingers flexing into my arm again making my heart nearly stop. Every second felt like slipping on ice around her.

“I do aim to please.” She said it in a devastating tone.

Free hand making a show of flicking her hair behind her shoulder, chest puffed and chin up.

I held back an audible groan looking at her. As if on it’s own wave length, my arm brushed into her hand underneath it. In an instant, as if in reply her fingers moved against me again.

In this moment with bated breath and a racing heart I thought, how could she possibly not feel it too? I instantly started feeling that annoying budding hope slip in.

The next thought was the clear age gap. It just couldn’t be possible, her forming an interest in me.

Stop getting your hopes up stop stop stop.

Her eyes flicked behind me as my thoughts raced. Her face dropped fractionally and looked back to mine.

“I suppose I should get going.” She said quietly, thumb pressing light as a feather against my skin.

My head snapped behind me, the clock reading five past closing.

“Right.” I looked back to her nodding my head. “Yeah, I guess so.”

I pulled my arm away from her hand and stood. I missed the feeling instantly. She stood and I followed, both of us walking to the door.

“See you tomorrow?” She asked shoulder pressed into the door, pausing as she always did.

I nodded smiling. “I’ll be here.”

A push against the door, a nod, a wink and she was gone.

I stood in my usual daze she left me in, skin still tingling where her hand was.

——————————————————————————

Sunday was flying by since the start of it. The later the day went on, the more my nerves built up.

I grew to expect her later in the day now. I let Chloe and Janice go again, the act becoming a regular thing. It was often before, but not like it was now.

I started pushing holiday storage boxes out after they’d left. I needed something distracting to do.

Changing the playlist coming through the speakers to one with holiday songs instantly cheered me up.

I’ve always loved the holidays. No matter the drama, it brought people together. Despite the stress, it still seemed to always bring out an extra kindness from most. Made you want to be kinder to someone who looked like they were going through it.

Now if you asked me before I moved back if I liked the holidays, it would have been a bahumbug.

A young couple sat in a corner table talking and laughing. I did a quick clean before cracking open the totes. The couple left not long after.

Two stragglers popped in for drinks in the ten minutes that followed and then I was alone.

It was just shy of an hour until closing when her Maserati pulled up.

I placed the small step ladder I was carrying down in the corner.

I had just lined up our Christmas mugs on the counter after cleaning them. A mixture of green, white and red mugs. Our logo on either side surrounded by Christmas lights.

Anne fought me a little on ordering them, arguing it was a waste to get mugs for one month.

My pleading convinced her and we sold so many the first year. Every order that came in sold out near instantly.

Needless to say I already had a fresh batch on the way for the season.

I watched her as she walked in, unable to help the smile she always put on my face.

Everything was black apart from her red sweater. As if she somehow knew the occasion she’d be walking in on.

“Hey.” I greeted, the chipper mood decorating had me in obvious.

“Well, hello smiley.” She replied only making it grow.

She peered over the counter at the red and green totes. Her intoxicating scent mingled with the air distracting me as it always did.

“Am I going to be coerced into being a helping hand for decorating?” She asked playfully.

“Oh, you don’t have to help.” I laughed leaning closer to her. “Might have to watch though.”

One of her inviting hums sounded at that.

“Well, give me something festive for the occasion.” She said placing her purse down and shrugging her coat off. “Not too sweet.”

A delicate, thin gold chain hung around her neck. Gold rings on random fingers to match.

Her hands straightened and brushed down her sweater after she got her coat off. A questioning eyebrow raise from her struck me to realize I should be making her requested drink, instead of staring.

“Festive and not too sweet.” I said a little too loud. “Yes ma’am.”

Another hum sounded from her behind me. I could feel her eyes on me as I grabbed a red and green mug.

I placed a single squirt of peppermint and mocha into the bottom of both cups. Filling the rest with coffee from the pot I stirred them well. With a finishing touch, I shook them with a light dusting of the peppermint chocolate shavings we kept in a jar. Just enough for the eyes to enjoy.

I turned to her with both mugs in and took a sip of mine. Nodding with a shrug I accepted it, placing mine down and handing the green one to her. She eyed it smirking, cupped hands warming around the mug.

“I like the mugs.” She said before taking a light sip.

Another warm hum came up from her, eyes closed. I wanted to be close enough to feel the vibrations of it.

“Approved?” I asked softly.

Her hooded blue eyes opened with a nod.

I took another sip from my mug before turning back. I’d cleared the shelves where we kept our mugs out front for drink orders, storing the usual mugs on shelves in the kitchen.

I boosted myself up, kneeling on the counter to place the holiday mugs precisely. Red, white and green in that order. Finishing they all sat in an even line ready to be used.

I turned, hopping down just catching the tail end of Agatha looking away from me. I tried not to read into it too much.

“I’m sorry.” I laughed and took a sip of my coffee. “This must be very boring for you.”

Her head snapped to me. “I’m thoroughly enjoying myself.”

I almost took it as sarcasm, but the look she gave had me taking it as a serious statement.

“Give me something to do.” She requested fingers flexing as she played with her chain.

“You really don’t have to help.” I felt I needed to make that clear, she didn’t seem too into holidays. The last thing I wanted was her to feel forced into participating.

Agatha clapped her hands to her thighs before standing.

“I’ll just start putting things out.” She stated heading over to a tote. I held my hands up. “Okay, wait wait wait there’s a place for everything.” She laughed, hand to her stomach. “I knew it.”

“What?”

“You just seem very particular about things, I was right.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t respond. She was right, I did tend to be a bit precise with everything. I could tell if someone had moved something an inch in my house.

Chloe regularly informed me of how neurotic I was with making sure everything was in it’s rightful place. I always shot it right back, that I would’t be as neurotic at work if she wasn’t so messy. She refused to help me decorate for Christmas after the first year she was here. Hence me dragging everything out after she had left.

“Okay.” I started to change the subject. “You can put these on the third shelf down by that table.”

I pointed to where I wanted them and gestured to the four snowmen in one tub.

“Any particular order, sarge?” She asked waiting with a look like she knew I’d say yes.

There was in fact a precise order I put them in every year. Just to prove her wrong I shook my head and turned away.

That’s how the next half hour passed. I had just started to hang the last strip of garland in the back corner. It was the highest spot out of them all, I struggled with it every year.

I usually didn’t have anyone around when I did, so it usually got hung with me in an odd stretch across multiple objects to get to it. It was almost a tradition at this point, risking my life for a string of garland.

I was very aware of Agatha watching me as I reached for the corner, stood up at the very top of the step ladder on my tip toes.

I could bring my full size ladder in, but that seemed like a lot of effort for a single strip of garland. That’s what I told myself every year and every year I nearly died hanging it.

I nearly fell to the ground when I felt warm hands press to my lower back and left hip. They strongly steadied my fumble. When I did regain balance I remained frozen under her touch.

“Don’t want you to fall.” She said gently and low. I began to falter for far too long, every second was loudly ticking from the clock. All I could get my brain to focus on was her touch on me.

Shaking hands finally moved as I reached to hang the garland again. The hand on my hip held a little tighter, the one on my back pushing slightly harder as if to give me an extra boost.

Finally I reached the hook it latched to securing the strip of shimmering gold.

Her hands didn’t leave me until I stepped to the floor. I stilled again when I did, her body dangerously close behind mine.

She did exactly what I could only think of doing. Stepping closer she pressed ever so lightly against my back. My eyes fluttered closed for a second. “Dangerous maneuver.” She said on a warm peppermint breath. “It does look nice though.”

I knew she could hear my shaky breathing. There was not a possibility it wasn’t audible to her.

“Yeah.” It was all I could muster in response.

The bell above the door broke the trance. Agatha stepped back in an easy way.

“Hey bud.” Brooks greeted bustling through the door. Chloe followed smiling sheepishly, like she knew something was disturbed.

“Hey guys, what are you doing here?” I tried to ask out casually, hands and voice still trembling slightly.

Nothing felt casual at all. The worst part was how uncomfortable Agatha looked now. I’d never even think she possessed the ability to feel anything but in control of all situations.

Her head hung down now, hands behind her back a pinching look tracing her face.

“Wanted to see if you would care to join us on a trip to Tempests tonight?” Brooks asked casually as if he didn’t just shift an entire balance.

It was a restaurant we regularly went to.

“You should come too.” Chloe said gently towards Agatha, clearly grasping the gravity of the moment with how carefully she said it.

I stepped closer to Agatha just as she moved away. She made a show of looking down at her phone.

“I actually have to get going.” She picked up her coat and started to slip it on. “Business call in twenty, can’t miss it. Have fun tonight.” Everything about it felt like a lie. Dismissive and hurried, an almost irritation behind her words.

She finished buttoning her coat and grabbed her purse. Her hand went to, I’m sure fish for her wallet. I took long strides over to her and stopped her hand. “I’ll walk you out.” I said quietly. Her eyes wouldn’t hold mine, but she nodded.

I stepped out first holding the door for her. The cold air fell nicely on my warm face. In a silence, we both stepped to the drivers side door of her car.

“I had fun.” She said finally meeting my eyes.

It seemed honest, but an uneasiness hung behind it.

“Are you sure you have to go?” I asked inching a bit closer.

“Yes.” She nodded and her eyes ghosted over me before looking off to the side. “Yeah, I hadn’t been paying attention to the time.”

I nodded back looking down at my shoes.

Her hand fell to the door handle. In a rush of insanity I reached out placing my hand over the one that held her purse.

“I had fun too.”

A true smile reached her eyes at my words. The hand that lingered on the door handle reached over, sandwiching my hand between both of hers.

“I’ll be away on business for a few days, I won’t see you until next weekend most likely.” She said it with a slow hesitation.

“I’ll be waiting.” I replied instantly squeezing the hand that was under mine.

For a second I felt like I might have the high point. Like I somehow, maybe might be effecting her like how she effects me. The voice telling me to keep my hopes down was duller than the rest in the moment.

Her demeanor changed like wiping a chalk board. She held herself to her usual punctual poise. “Good.” With a wink she turned, opened the door and got in.

I moved behind the car and to the curb, watching her drive away.

I thought about dramatically running after her car for a few seconds. Making her roll down her window and kissing her. I shook the daydream away.

I walked back in, Chloe wincing and shrinking down as I did.

“I’m sorry.” She apologized “We really didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I shrugged her off and walked over to the decoration bin. “It’s fine.”

“We saw what happened.” She paused. “With the ladder.”

I scoffed grabbing the battery candlesticks for the window sills.

“So you’re just spying through windows now?” It came off more irritated than I meant it to.

“Really, it’s not like that.” Brooks chimed in cooly. “We were walking up and just saw it happen through the window. We legit both froze, dude. Then we thought it would be weird if you saw us driving away or turned and saw us staring so we waited a minute then came in. Honestly, we were like two fools outside fumbling with what to do.”

I laughed at the thought and it eased the tension as they joined in.

“Listen, there was nothing to interrupt anyways. It’s all good.” “Lady.” Chloe nearly yelled, her eyes wild and wide. “Don’t give me that bull shit. That was not nothing.”

“Easy tiger.” Brooks said patting her shoulder with a chuckle.

“Yeah, tiger.” I jested placing the last candle in the window with sticky tac. “Now if you wanna get to the restaurant, help me finish up and put these bins away.”

Luckily, Chloe and Brooks took the hint that I didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

Dinner was nice and easy as usual. The topic of Agatha Harkness didn’t return. Still, it didn’t displace her from my thoughts.

They pulled away after dropping me off, leaving me to admire the lights and decorations through the cafe window. The view settled a warmth in my chest and I couldn’t help but smile. I’d beaten everyone on the strip to it this year I realized, for the first time.

The ladder still left in the corner sent a chill down my spine. I pretended it was from the wind and walked up the stairs.

——————————————————————————

Monday came and went nicely. I spent all morning decorating the apartment for the first of the month.

Chloe and Brooks came over later on in the day. I invited them over for dinner and a movie.

The rest of the week on the other hand? Passed at an agonizingly slow pace. The memory of Agatha’s touch had a sick twisted way of infiltrating every other thought.

I found myself wondering just as often, if she was thinking about me.

——————————————————————————

I opened my eyes slowly in bed, the strand of Christmas lights in the kitchen the only thing lighting my apartment.

A sound from near the window startled me to attention. Slowly a figure inched forward into the light. “Agatha?” I asked confused, sitting up in bed.

A low drawn out hush pushed past her lips.

As she stepped closer to the bed, her arms crossed over her torso. Slowly, her hands grabbed the hem of her sweater pulling it above her head.

“Agatha?” It came out in a croak this time.

She threw the sweater to the floor, gold necklace and a purple laced bra the only thing covering her upper half.

Her mouth formed another hushing sound.

Stopping just a foot shy of the bed, her hands found the button of her pants. In a blink she undid them, bending to drag them down her legs.

“What…”

She cut me off. “Quiet.”

Smiling a wicked grin, her hands disappeared behind her back. Another quick second had her bra falling to the ground. I let out a whimper heat pooling low inside of me.

“Good girl.”

The door bell rang snapping my head like a rubber band breaking. I went to turn back to her, but it rang again.

~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~

I woke with a jumping start to my alarm blaring. My breathing was at a panicking level, heart racing to a concerning degree. An ache between my legs stole almost every ounce of my attention.

A fucking dream.

“Oh, fuck.”

I said it out loud just to assure myself, how absolutely screwed I was.

#agatha harkness #agatha x reader #agatha x you #soft agatha #agatha all along #agatha harkness fluff #agatha harkness x reader

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singukieee · 11 months ago

Text

—my all time favourite bts fics (pt. 3) ᯓᡣ𐭩

consists of my personal favourite bts fics that I've read countless of times. including those from other platforms, such as Wattpad, AO3, and Patreon.

For some works that are cross-posted between tumblr and wp/ao3, I'd only link them to the latters bcs I find it easier to read and navigate the stories on those. but I also tagged all the authors I know are here and linked the rest so you can check their blogs out yourself!

I'll also separate this list into several parts simply because there's too many... So it'd be easier for you guys to navigate!

red means unfinished

blue means finished

🗯️ curator's note

(sorted by alphabetical order)

Merilia by saylilirose

"Mermaids are not real!" That's what you and Namjoon hear everywhere you go. It's funny that you're hidden in plain sight, although perhaps popping a tail in front of strangers wouldn't end well for you. That's what you've come to learn. You've also learned, to hide yourself very, very well. Until- "NO-DON'T JUMP-SHIT!" You and Namjoon are joined by others, not by choice.

🗯️ mermaids and insane drama oooh yes

Moonchild by @yoongiofmine (paid on patreon but so worth it)

Working at a coffee shop that only opened in the late hours of the night was the most exciting thing about your life, really. You never had that many friends, your love life was nonexistent, and you just couldn’t explain the feeling of not belonging that chased you no matter where you tried to find your place. It was when seven very handsome strangers came into your life that weird things started happening around you and within you. Could they be the ones to fill in what’s been missing? Or would getting involved with them and their world put you in danger?

🗯️ aaaah so good!!! so well-written, gahh plott so great, identity crisis (human or...?), werewolf drama.

My Muse by Zennnoe

I felt my lungs suddenly stop and a coldness brush onto my face, I gasped loudly clutching onto my chest. Dropping down onto my knees trying to grasp whatever air in-front of me. But I was at dance practice. So why did it feel like I was breathing underwater? I soon felt the hands of my close friends lift me up and lay me down as I try to takin in as much air as possible, for her. Soon the staff swamp me and I hear them talking about her, my other half. I soon clutched onto my stomach and I shouted loudly in so much pain, pink fluorescent patches bloom onto my skin. Yes they looked pretty. But the reason why they were there was not. As I try to reach out I grab one of my friends hands tightly and request for one thing. "My music. Pass me my music." I beg. This is the only way for me to reach her…to help her. My beloved soulmate.

My Soulmate are IDOLS by tinyeyecat

In a world where soulmates exist and people receive their soul bonds (a red string of fate, body exchange, timer tattoos…etc) when they turn 20… Wet dreams are not the norm for Amber. She should not be haunted by men she doesn't know, let alone by the world-famous boyband, Bangtan. But on the day of her birthday, Amber switches bodies with the idol on stage and finds out that the members of the boyband are her soulmates. All seven of them.

🗯️ this is one wild story... aren't all emi ree's stories so wild tho? but also well-written. (epilogue is on Patreon).

Not My Hybrids by Ghosstwriterss

When Y/n is pressured to volunteer at a hybrid rehabilitation/adoption Center, and asked to house 7 hybrids to help them become comfortable with humans and the idea of adoption, who is she to say no?

🗯️ the kind of story where mc's so freakin nice I don't think she's human. but yea it's all worth it.

One Kiss by DuraWrites

In a world where soulmate exist, where you can only know your soulmate through a dream. Confirm through a kiss and complete the bond through love-making. Han Bora just celebrated her 22nd birthday and not long she started having dreams of her soulmate. Correction. Soulmates. Already being a fan of this popular K-pop group, she immediately knew that her soul is tied to all seven of them. It was a dreadful yet thrilling thought as the realization of being the soulmate to her favourite artists hit her. But it isn't just as easy as it seems. Because she was the only one who had the dreams. So She has to prove to them she's their soulmate. And the only way to confirm that is through ONE KISS. How will an average girl find her way to that untouchable top to prove to the biggest boyband that she's their soulmate? Come along and let's dive into this crazy mess of a journey together.

🗯️ one kiss is all it takes... literally

Out of Time series by Alphathyx

🗯️ so freakin sad wtf but that is why there's an alternate ending. soo good and heart wrenching.

❶ Out of Time

A story about a girl named, Hana who has suffered a chronic condition all her life that would soon take her life one day. But with her final wish, she uses it to see BTS, but the boys decided to have more in store for her. Join Hana, and the members in a fluff filled adventure before time runs out.

❷ Out of Time: Young Forever

The alternate ending for 'Out of Time' and bonus chapters

Parfait by fullspectrumfangirl

Alpha bands are a popular entertainment schtick. Handsome, powerful, talented, they sell the fantasy of availability as much as they sell their music. After all, everyone knows a pack is incomplete if it only contains alphas. Omegas and betas dream of being a part of the balance. Unfortunately, this is more than just marketing. A band needs to function as a pack, but with only alpha members, bickering and infighting are almost unavoidable. Beta managers help, but there is another common tactic that helps the talent maintain equilibrium: house omegas, hired companions who stand in for the missing pieces. BTS is a wildly popular seven-member alpha band. They are known to be particularly kind and humble, but they are still struggling to keep house omegas for their pack. None of the prior candidates have wanted to leave, but one member has protested them all. What is the missing ingredient in their otherwise winning recipe?

🗯️ again, idk what to say but it's good! a really well-written story with great plot.

Peculiar Pack by @daydreamindollie

You’re a successful hybrid writer and psychologist, who takes in seven hybrids one stormy night after finding one of their pack stealing from your garden.

🗯️ cute T.T

Petrichor by @purpleyoonn

You had been working at Bangtan Corporation for almost two years now, and not once have you ever laid eyes on your bosses. That was, until you met them when out with some of your coworkers. Now, you almost wish you hadn’t. Almost.

🗯️ courting... yes please! and again, I love possessive mates.

Plump by koozip

Meeting Namjoon's close friends was something you've been anxious about since meeting him. You wanted them to like you. Starting off with a group chat seemed like the perfect way around your fears. You weren't sure how they'd feel about you in person. So when they fell in love with you and your lovely curves, you were taken by surprise. You soon realize that you're stuck with the seven handsome men for the long run. The chronicles of chubby y/n and her new smitten friends. Based around the group chat named 'chubbybear' that started it all.

🗯️ gosh this one's just warm and sweet, especially for fellow chubby girlies out there!

Rainy Days by Peanut_The_Sugar_Glider

Life had dealt you a rather crappy hand, but you kept on fighting, you kept on existing day by day. On a gloomy day however, you feel as if it all means nothing, as your beloved pet had past away and she always was there to cheer you up and enjoy the gloomy weather, making it less sad and depressing. Be it fate or otherwise, movement catches your attention outside. And your life is never the same after. You never will have to worry about being alone, and you find yourself enjoying the rainy weather.

🗯️ despite the title, this story feels like a warm hug.

Redamancy by strawberheecake

In which Yn met an unknown pack of hybrids living on a land she inherited. Feelings bloomed as the pack helped her weather the storm that is her greedy family.

🗯️ another neat and well-written story <3

Retribution by Babydoll_Blue

The Bangtan Boys were known around campus for being heart breakers, but when they made poor Seul-ki cry, Y/N and Mina decided it was time for retribution. Forming a plan to ruin their images, Y/N sets out to seduce them all.

🗯️ revenge gone wrong... or right? wtf am I typing, just read it guys.

Rose & Thorns by @minniepetals

A lone rose, a little broken, until Jungkook came along and the two of you saved each other, and in doing so, Jungkook showed you a world where he shared with his six other mates.

🗯️ a dramatic and warm story. I'm such a simp for soft but strong MCs like this one.

Safe House by SweetBreadFictions

In a dystopian universe where hybrids exist, the government had turned a blind eye to the mistreatment of hybrids. These persons were used, abused and treated in the most unfair ways. To escape the evil owners, hybrids make their way to the rumored district of freedom called Area 613. To help these refugee hybrids, an underground railroad had been developed by kind people. Being sympathetic to these persons, you run a safe house stop for the hybrids during their journey. As you help these hybrids, seven of them decide that your safe house might be better that any rumored district of freedom.

🗯️ I love when the relationships develop one by one so you got attached to allll of them.

Sanctuary by @softykooky

Some people are lucky enough to be born into a family that loves them. others meet their family in a coffee shop while on the run from the korean ambassador, while they’re holding a man at gunpoint and beating him to a pulp for treason against their syndicate.

🗯️ :")👍

Seven by Worldwidehandsomeyouknow

Life is boring. Same thing, day in and day out. Nothing new or exciting ever happens. I just want something, anything to happen! Well something happens alright. Seven somethings in fact

Sheltered by Gracie30102

What Namjoon thought was trouble turned out to be a blessing as he rescued a wounded kitten who would capture his packmates hearts little by little.

🗯️ s o f t.

When a vaccine leads to unexplained symptoms, the world erupts into panic. What happens when one girl finds out she is soulmates to all seven members of the largest group in the world?

Shifted by dailyJinspiration

You were property, a casualty of an archaic law, but he didn't see you that way. You're an elemental witch, leaving the country of your birth to be mated to Hoseok, the leader of a pack of brothers who were forced to come together or risk being exiled forever. They are broken, discarded and angry, they can also shift into giant feline predators in the blink of an eye. You thought you would have a simple life, try to win them over one by one, but there are bigger plans in motion and it will take every skill you possess to keep what's yours.

🗯️ defo one of my absolute faves fanfic in 2024. it's got intricate issues, steamy scenes, sassy and strong witch mc, and the guys as hybrids. writing's so neat!

Soulmate to You by OT7oramI

🗯️ another well-written soulmate story! this synopsis doesn't give justice to this freaking good story so just read it please.

Spring Day by @nunchiimagines

Becoming a part time english teacher wasn’t exactly the ideal startup you had hoped for yourself when you first moved to Seoul, South Korea. Luckily, you loved working with children and you were grateful to have found a well paying job with housing included so soon after university. Amongst your class, however, are 5 boys who seem to be constantly ostracized not only by the rest of the students but also by the other teachers and staff members. Becoming attached to you fairly quickly, you’re unintentionally tasked to be their permanent caretaker during their stay at school, even staying past the hours you were needed until they were picked up safely. However, what you didn’t expect was to catch the hearts of their seven older brothers, the leaders of a notorious and well known mafia family in Korea.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 4 | NAVI

#san recs #hybrid bts #bts poly #bts x reader #fics recs #bts ot7 #bts ot7 x reader #bts fic

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taintandviolent · 1 year ago

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Knead ; Kit Walker x reader

summary: Kit hasn’t been coping well with Briarcliff life, and developed an unhealthy solution to the numbness he feels on a daily basis. You’re a perfect, beautiful part of his plan.

word count: 1.7K

w a r n i n g s: hurt, angst, depression, kind of whump, brief mentions of smut, female receiving, violence, fist fights and brief mention of injuries.

a/n: my first official Kit Walker fic!! requested by an anonymous!! anon; hope this is what you had in mind and I delivered!! I tried to focus more on Kit’s motivations and issues than the smut, so that’s why it’s a little lighter on the fucking this go round! I dunno why I struggle writing for Kit so much, aaaaah! also written at work, so usual apologies for any disjointed or clunky writing!!!

full fic under the cut! / ao3 link here! / I don't have a taglist, but please turn on post notifications if you want to be notified of future fics!

The storm raged on outside, a horrible deluge that had lasted days. Kit's dark eyes flitted to the clock on the wall. The hands ticked by but time never seemed to change. Not here. He needed to feel something. Anything. The days turned into weeks, weeks into months and nothing ever changed. He was an accused man, previously compos mentis, but with his surroundings, that title deteriorated gradually.

Kit Walker was losing it. Slowly, but surely. The cold, grey tone of Briarcliff was swallowing him whole, like a starved, but fading beast. Days were the worst - at least come evening, he could sleep. With sleep, came dreams. Dreams of somewhere else, dreams of you. Days were long and dreary, and Kit soon realized that the only thing that mattered were physical feelings. His mind wasn't a safe place to be. The truth of it was, Kit felt his fire burning out, and started acting out.

First, it was intentionally burning the biscuits. He was reprimanded and sentenced to biscuit duty for the next two weeks. Then it was sneaking out from the common room on repeated occasions, sulking along the hallways as though he wanted to get caught. Deep down, he did. Reprimanded again, and confined to solitary as punishment. But that afternoon, he craved something deeper. He needed something that would last, and Sister Jude had an unusual streak of mercy lately. It had to be good.

"Hey, sugah’."

Your tired hands stopped their kneading. You looked up, wide-eyed, with a smear of flour across your cheek. He didn't know it, but you'd had a thing - a silly little crush - on Kit Walker since you saw him in the common room during your first week. You'd heard the rumours, but every time you exchanged words, he was the nicest guy you'd ever met. Seemed like he had good, strong family values and manners -- which was more than you could say for most of the men you'd met.

Kit spotted the dash of white and reached out, wiping it away with the pad of his thumb. You really were one of the cutest girls he'd seen since Alma. It wouldn't be hard to do what he wanted... what he needed to do to feel again.

"Hi, Kit." You murmured, frustrated before returning to the pile of off-white dough. The last thing you needed was a distraction; the biscuits were already hard enough to get right, and Sister Jude was a stickler for them being made correctly.

"Whatsa' mattah'?" He could sense your irritation, and furrowed his brows. Maybe his plan wasn't going to work after all.

"I can't... get these darn biscuits right! Every time I try, they come out too hard and I'm just..." You grit your teeth and shoved the mound of dough away from your hands. "I'm so frustrated!"

"Dough duty, huh?"

You nodded, and pushed a strand of hair out of your eyes with your wrist.

"Here, sweethaht', lemme' show you. I've done enough of 'em to know how to do it right."

He was suddenly behind you, his arms stretching out to the table in front of you. He rested his hands atop of yours, and slowly began moving them, kneading them slowly. Much slower and softer than you had been.

"Just like that," he murmured, his lips close to your ear. "You gotta' be gentle with 'em... firm, but not too much... or they'll seize up on ya', makes 'em tough." His words were low and sweet, and you didn't have to try very hard to find another meaning to them. They evoked a deep, body-rocking shiver from your core. It travelled up your spine and made your teeth chatter. Kit laughed breathily behind you.

"Am I doing it right?" You whispered, your voice sweet and demure, laced with intention. "I have a tendency to wanna'... go fast."

"Slooow, sugah', nice n' slow. Othawise..." His teeth grazed your ear. "The dough won't rise."

Without warning, you rutted your ass against his groin, moaning aloud. You ground your ass against him slowly, just like he told you to. Kit made a fist in the dough over yours, forcing your hands deep into the flour. This was progressing faster than he expected. He hadn't known you'd be so willing to his advances. His cock twitched to life, tightening the front of his pants.

"You want it bad, sugah'?"

"I want it bad," you echoed. Suddenly, all worries of getting caught went out the window, you were no longer concerned about which Sister would find you - you just wanted him.

It had been weeks since either of you felt intimacy, felt that clawing hunger as it boiled in your core. You whimpered and dropped your head to his shoulder.

"Let me feel you, Kit... please..."

Kit ripped his flour-covered fingers from the dough, and reached back to his crotch, pulling his throbbing cock from his pants. He flipped the edge of your uniform up, and pressed his heavy cock against the curve of your ass. The sensation was indescribable, and he let out a throaty groan.

The hunger had him. The hunger, and the promise of punishment. Your body was soft and sweet like the dough in front of you two and had him going, that was undeniable, but the threat was what was really driving him forward. He needed to feel everything he could. He took hold of his cock, stroking it slowly against your ass cheeks, feeling the precum as it leaked into his hands.

Kit's free hand wrapped around your hips again, urging them backwards into his own. You whimpered, letting him take full control. Your fingers were still embedded in the dough, squeezing through the spaces between your digits.

With a deep sound, Kit slipped himself inside you. Your walls squeezed around him as he plunged himself as deep as he could, humping you hard. His thrusts were determined, but steady and slow. Just like he'd said...

You reached around to take hold of his soft brown hair, making a fist in the locks. He didn't care that your fingers were covered in flour, and it was falling into the collar of his shirt. He didn't care about anything except what he was feeling.

Touch-starved, it didn't take him long to climax. Kit emptied his load inside you, pumping it deep. You whimpered, rolling your lips inward to soften the moans. You were close behind him, and when he whispered in your ear, begging you to do it, you did.

Kit heard the heavy bootsteps before you did. But he didn't move. He was ready.

"Hey! What in the hell do you think you're doin'!?" The orderly bellowed, and Kit yanked his softening cock from you. Your legs twitched together as it left you, the slippery feeling sending another wave of pleasure through you.

Phase two of his plan was in action. Kit stepped in front of you, fists raised in front of his face. He pumped, and threw the first punch, making contact with the guy's cheekbone. He reeled back, touching his skin to see if he'd broken skin -- he hadn't. But he was going to pay for that.

Fortunately for Kit and his now-sick need, he hit him back, harder, splitting his lip immediately. You spun around, pressing your back against the table, covering your mouth in horror as the two men fought.

The man threw a hard left hook and Kit went down, falling to the cold cement floor with a thud. You could do nothing but scream, begging for him to stop. Through winces, Kit looked up at you and shook his head. To you, he was being noble. To him, he was revelling in the pain he was feeling and wanted nothing to interrupt it.

"Assaulting an orderly, Mr. Walker?"

"Yes, Sistah'. He looked at me sideways."

"He interrupted your fornication, is what he did." She sternly remarked. Kit swallowed, looking down at his feet. The punishment was coming - he wouldn't have been called into her office otherwise.

"Seems like he got the better of you." She gestured to him pointedly. He had, that was true. Kit had gotten a few good punches in, but the orderly was bigger and brawnier, and had walloped him as soon as he'd gotten the chance. The cut on his lip stung every time he spoke, and his ribs were definitely bruised from the steel-toed berrage that he'd endured earlier.

"Over my desk," she rasped. Kit was almost excited -- a disgusting, disappointing feeling that he knew, deep down, he shouldn't be feeling. But a feeling was a feeling and he had to ride it out, in whatever way he could.

"Sistah' Jude," he interjected, as he bent over the modest wooden desk. "I'm sahrry' for what I did but don't punish her. She didn't do anything. It was all me."

"Mr. Walker," she replied. "I'll do exactly as I see fit."

The first hit stung. She was using the wooden switch, and it sliced through the air with an audible thwip. It burned against his skin, sweltering hot heat coursing over his cheeks and the back of his thighs. Tears bit at the corner of his eyes, it felt so terrible. That was just it -- it felt so terrible. He hadn't felt this much in weeks.

She hit him again, just above the spot where she'd previously hit. Kit winced again, clenching his fists hard atop her desk. Another one, and the tears streamed down his cheeks. He inhaled through clenched teeth and exhaled hard through his nose with each hit. Sister Jude's kind streak had ended, and she was unrelenting.

Twelve hits later, she finally stopped. Kit was sent back to his room, welted and bruised all over, but hell... at least he felt something.

#Kit Walker #Kit Walker x reader #Kit Walker x you #kit walker x y/n #ahs asylum #myfics #AHS smut #AHS fanfiction #Evan Peters #fanfiction #kit walker fanfiction

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californ1asnow · 2 years ago

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Call Me Up Again - pt. 2 Mike Schmidt x Reader

Part two of All Too Well Angst!!! So much angst everyone I've decided to turn this into a miniseries, this post being the second part. I'll continue to link chapters as I post them This is also being updated on ao3 (cough cough) No warnings this time 1.9k words

Snowflakes fall silently, coating everything around them in a white dust. The wind blows with a crisp chill, nipping at all the rose-pink noses. It sends shivers down the backs of those who dare be out in this weather. The pumpkins and fake graveyard decor that had once littered every home’s front yard has long since been swapped for tinsel garlands and pine wreaths.

The Schmidt residence beams with colored string lights and holiday music. A tall, sturdy evergreen sits patiently by the window. Its branches are decorated with years worth of homemade ornaments, ranging in all size and age from both Mike and Abby. The red skirt beneath it falls relatively empty of presents, only donning the few small ones Mike could afford to buy this year. They’re wrapped pathetically in an old birthday paper, the only wrapping Mike could find to reuse.

Usually, the tree is so full that he’s had to store things in his closet, but that was when you were still a part of their Christmas. Stockings hung happily above the fireplace and a love so innocent it wraps the house in a warm glow. However, it’s void of that feeling now, instead Mike is left to pick up the pieces that you once fit together. Abby doesn’t understand why you don’t come over anymore, or why Mike has been so quiet lately. All she knows is that something went wrong, and now everyone is upset. She’s stopped bringing up your name in conversation when talking to Mike, because it always ends with him withdrawn and retreating to the solidarity of his room.

That didn’t stop her from drawing you, though. Sometimes she’d sit at her desk, tears collecting in the well of her eyes, and doodle old memories of the three of you. She remembers them being happy, but by the time the crayons were set aside and the picture was finished, it was a glum mess of dark blues and frowning faces.

After a drawing is finished she’d slip past Mike’s room, quietly tiptoeing out the front door, and make a break for the house across the street. Your house. She’d work fast, her feet carrying her quickly to and fro. It was unclear from her perspective whether you paid attention to what she’d give you, but by the time she slipped a new piece of paper underneath your door, the old one she had gifted you was gone.

Mike was unaware of it all.

He had found a new job in town where he could bury all his thoughts. It was working construction for a local contractor, a job that certainly wasn’t ideal but it paid better than what he’d been used to. Unfortunately, it required longer hours and ate up all his free time, meaning Abby needed a new babysitter. A job that was once happily filled by your company, now replaced with an afterschool program suggested to him from a flyer he found at work. He hated the thought of her sitting in essentially another classroom, surrounded by strangers and snotty kids, but it was his only option left.

With a third of his paycheck dedicated to it, Abby now spends her weekdays at the nearby YMCA.

The first time he told her about the new program didn’t go over very well. He remembers it clearly.

“Abby please,” his irritated voice interrupts her incessant protesting, “listen, it’s the only place that can watch you.”

“No it’s not!” She yelled at him, her finger pointing to your house across the street, “I want her back!”

A pang of guilt struck his chest at her words. The lack of your presence has clearly been taking a toll on the both of them, but it’s the first time Abby’s ever been so vocal about it. He crossed his arms with a sigh, watching his little sister stare up at him with solemn eyes. Her lip quivering ever so slightly, evident that she’s holding back tears.

He crouches down to her level, just like he had done to you so many nights ago, “I’m sorry,” he pleaded with her, “but she’s not coming back right now.”

Her head shook with disbelief, stubbornly stuck in her spot, “Then make her come back.”

–

You’re not sure when the Mike shaped hole in your heart stopped aching, but it’s significantly less sore compared to a fresh wound. That’s not to say the constant reminder of him and Abby living across the street from you doesn’t sting. It’s hard enough to ignore all his calls, but trying to get to your car while avoiding his gaze is even worse. Eventually, he gave up on contacting you by the third month of radio silence. It hurt both of you, but you knew deep down neither of you could continue functioning like how you were.

The back and forth pull of his affection took too big of a toll on your mental well being. You can remember every moment down to the exact detail of how much you craved for him to just do something, anything.

All those times you held him in your soft embrace whispering sweet nothings in his ear, reassuring him everything will be okay, just for him to turn around the next day and never bring it up again. Or when you’d run your warm fingers through his hair to calm him down after a panic attack, and he’d let his head rest in your lap. Words of affection dripping off his lips like a rich honey, warming you up from the inside out. Then he’d disappear for a while, claiming he needed some space to figure stuff out, all the while you’d beg and plead for him to tell you what’s on his mind, only for him to give you nothing back.You stood by him regardless though, keeping a silent promise that you’d always be there for him when he needed it, a love that was never reciprocated back.

A long sigh escapes from you, eying the new delivery that just appeared by your door. You shuffle towards it weakly, unsure if you really wanted to torture yourself by looking at it. It’s one of those things that curiosity will drive you to do, unable to ignore it like a pedestrian passing by a car crash. The paper crinkles under your touch, unfolding it reveals the familiar childlike style of Abby’s drawings. A man drawn in green crayon frowns up at you, holding hands with an equally sad looking child. Your gaze drifts over to the other side of the paper, highlighting a person relatively similar to you standing alone with their arms crossed, angry. Your heart hurts at the sight of it, knowing that Abby is implying that you’re angry at the two of them. You shake your head quickly, trying to evade any tears that threaten to spill. It’s not fair for Abby to be caught in the middle of whatever is going on between you and Mike, and you realize that.

The sound of your phone ringing breaks your train of thought, and when you check the caller ID your breath hitches. Standing in the middle of your living room frozen with indecisiveness, you stare at the screen while chewing on the bottom of your lip. Without thinking, you accept the call.

“Hello?”

There’s a sound on the other end of the line, somewhere in between a choke and a gasp, and then your name is mumbled out in disbelief.

“I didn’t think you’d actually pick up…” Mike’s voice is still a little startled, mimicking the internal panic in your chest.

You suck in a deep, steady breath before answering, “Yeah, I didn’t think so either.” There’s a slight pause from both of you, unsure how to continue the conversation. It’s felt like years since you last heard his voice.

“Are you…doing okay?”

“...Yeah.” Your answer is unconvincing, but Mike doesn’t have any ground to be able to question it. So it’s left like that, timidly dangling in the air between you both.

You hear shuffling in the background, and a smaller voice asking a question before he dismisses it. Your heart lurches thinking about how Abby is there, trying to figure out who her older brother might be on the phone with. It almost makes your cool demeanor crack, urging you back into your savior complex.

“Uh, sorry about that,” your phone crackles back to life, “anyways, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Oh okay.”

“Can you,” he stops, leaving you on edge, “meet me somewhere?”

The lack of response from you causes him to start rambling, going on about how it would be better to talk in person, and how it would be easier if you could see each other’s expressions. Soon afterwards, a string of apologies ensue, and you pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration.

“Okay Mike. Promise me this will be worth it.”

“I promise.”

–

A young waitress stares nervously at your booth. Orders continually piling up, hungry customers giving her rude looks whenever she ignores their impatient huffs. It’s been a good thirty minutes since you first showed, and she’s checked up on you at least a handful of times by now. Mike had suggested this little diner down the street from your house, and you agreed to meet here.

However, it seems like you’re the only one who showed up.

Your back is pressed against the uncomfortable foam board of your seat, a leg bobbing rapidly out of habit. You pick at the pills on your sweatshirt sleeve, trying to avert your gaze from the sympathetic waitress. Prior to your predicament, she had asked if you were dining alone, and you told her no. However, It’s starting to look like you just might be. With anger bubbling inside of you, a voice in the back of your head is saying you should have seen this coming. It’s so typical of Mike to make promises that he’s unwilling to keep.

The air smells like grease, mostly from the old fryers sitting in the back of the kitchen. Oil bubbling and brooding in their tanks, waiting for someone to drop a morsel of food so it could shrivel in the scalding lard. Stomach stirring with disgust, a wave of nausea washes over you. It’s unclear exactly what’s causing it, you’d like to give credit to the sleazy restaurant, but something deep down points to the lack of a certain person’s company.

You keep your attention trained on the dwindling heat of your coffee. Both corners of your mouth scrunch downwards at the smooth ceramic now held in your cold hands. When did watching a cup of coffee become so interesting?

“Would you like some more?” The sweet but timid waitress asks you, now back at her spot beside your table.

A joyless smile flashes across your face, a futile attempt at masking your dejection. Pushing the cup forward, silently accepting a fresh refill from her kettle.

“He’s not worth it.” She adds, tipping off your mug. Her eyes refuse to meet yours as she does so, and you are thankful for that fact.

“No,” you respond back, “he never is, I guess.” Your voice is shaky, as are the hands that are folded in your lap.

Mike is not worth the years of being hurt and pushed away. Not worth the tears that fall after coming home from a night spent at his house, inconsolably sobbing because you know no matter what you do it leads back to the same thing. To give up all your time, love, and patience just to receive nothing in exchange.

It’s not worth the unrequited love.

“Can I have the check please?” You ask quietly, still avoiding the gaze of the girl next you.

Her head shakes with pity, fingers wrapping around the arm of the kettle, “it’s on the house.”

TAGLIST - @wriothesleysbimbo @psbc @victimsofadownn @that1lxnlybxch @callsignwidow

#mike schmidt #mike schmidt angst #josh hutcherson #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x y/n #taylor swift #all too well #angst #fnaf

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astracora · 5 months ago

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A Mandated Holiday Break - Chapter 1

Characters: Sylus x gn!mc (poly lads)

Warnings: None

Word Count: 779

Written: 21st December 2024

Notes: This is the first fanfic I've posted, it's not proofread, I don't know how many chapters there will be. Pray for me. Post-relationship Sylus/MC-centric but poly LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11

Masterlist AO3

It's one thing to take their government mandated holidays, as a hunter. It feels wrong, they know they need to take time off. People need breaks. If they don't rest, they fray. As a hunter, being sloppy means letting someone get hurt.

They know that.

Still... they've never been good at taking time off. It was easier with their family around, if Caleb hadn't dragged them home occasionally, they'd have burned themselves out frequently.

Now they just face the disapproving looks of their dear doctor... who is far less enthused, but far too professional to do any dragging.

It's another thing when their favourite captain tells them to go home because they look like shit. Alright, maybe not in that many words, but the sentiment was there. They try to imagine Jenna cursing and while it feels right, they also feel like they've seen something they really shouldn't.

She's right though, they muse. Dark circles, clothing tattering, ache in limbs.

If they'd been asked when they last took a holiday... well they couldn't answer.

Tara nudges them, warm smile on her face, "I'll text you. Go sleep." And with a warm hand on their back, she pushes them towards the door.

They're tempted to look for Xavier to say goodbye for the day, but it's late and he could be anywhere. (Though they're willing to bet he's stolen a break room for a nap.)

Instead they leave the Hunters Association, standing in the street below, staring up at the holiday decorations lining the street. It's cold enough that their teeth chatter...

And they come face to face with the loneliness of being stood here, an empty home and the knowledge that all their loved ones are still busy, working, wrapping everything up.

They could go visit Zayne, but he's got such an important job they don't want to intrude. (The voice in their head that sounds a bit like his tries to remind them they could never intrude.) They could message Xavier, but if he's finally resting they'd had to disturb him. (They never could, he's pleased whenever they spend time with him or join him for a nap.) They could go check in on Rafayel, but he's preparing for an exhibit and they don't want to break his creative flow. (How could they when they're his muse? The reason he found purpose in a paintbrush again.)

Instead they stand and stew and struggle. Internally debating how much they can exist in a space, before a caw snaps them out of their shuddering. Arms wrapped around them through the too thin coat, not at all built for the snow and chill.

Mephie perches on their shoulder, his red eyes gleaming. They're hit with the strange feeling that the robot bird knows and sees far more than he should, before the non metal feathers puff up, snuggling into the crook of their neck.

In seconds all the tense strain in their limbs ease up, and they breathe out a long exhale. "Hey." They manage, forcing their teeth to stop chattering and their smile comes gently.

They're unsure if it's for the birds benefit, or for his owner, but they realise it doesn't matter. Both bring unrivalled comfort.

Their new companion, caws again, tone deaf and glitchy, before clacking his beak at them. Extending his foot, a small message tied to it.

Why Sylus doesn't send them messages in any normal way, they'll never understand. He enjoys phone calls, texts them constantly, but whenever he wants to be dramatic, in flies Mephisto with a letter or a note, on a blaze of feathers and metal.

Gently, they untie it, patting the pretty bird's head as they do so with one hand.

He preens and coos at them happily, glitchy static and very real pleasure at their attention.

'You have time off. I'm booking it for the week.'

They'd question how he knows, but he always seems to know. They should find it creepy, but they've since learned if he doesn't watch their back constantly, people who want them hurt do.

Perhaps they've grown too soft on him, his attentions, his affection, his constantly presence, but they find it more soothing than unnerving.

Still. They would like to know how many ways he's keeping track of them.

If only for the curiousity lurking under their skin, one of the traits he teases them for.

"I guess you're my accompaniment then Mephie?" The bird puffs up, proud and preening, and he looks far too much like his prideful master for a moment for them to not chuckle. As their guide kicks up into the sky, flying off, they follow him a little lighter.

#wonder writes #love and deepspace #sylus #lads sylus #lads x reader #lads x mc #sylus x reader #reader x sylus #lads #love and deepspace sylus #a mandated Christmas break #please don't perceive me I feel sick just uploading this I don't write for fandoms and the idea truly makes me want to cry 🙈#but I also can't stop writing shit about this man so... this is where I got #anyway... ye...#this isn't specifically a Christmas thing but umm #it is based in winter because it's cold here #and I want to lie in front of a fire with sylus

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n0ahsebastians · 10 months ago

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hello loves!! this is my first post on here EVER!!! that's kinda crazy HAHA this came from a special place in my heart, the first noah fic i've ever written (it's also posted on my ao3 account teehee) but i finally decided to post them on here. i hope you all enjoy and let me know what you think! i'll post more if y'all like this one :D

18+ content; PLEASE DO NO READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18!!

warnings: smut (not too much but enough), lots of fluff and lots of love.

sugar on the blood cells, carbon on the brain (title from 'aqua regia' by sleep token)

They arrived late back home. The plane ride felt excruciatingly long and he was so glad to be on solid ground again. The tour was long, long but one of the best they’d done in a long time. One of their favorites, he thinks, as he’s grabbing his luggage from the carousel. The airport’s quiet; an almost ominous humming sounds from the escalators moving up and down and the lights above them. The few people that are flying late are sleeping in the chairs near gates or waiting for their rides to arrive out front. The guys and crew assist in hauling the equipment out to the bus, pulling suitcases of clothes and instruments and whatever else they can grab in the meantime. It’s freezing outside, colder than the weather they just left hours ago. Goddamn East Coast winters.

He can’t wait to get home, to the comfort of his own space again. To his kitchen, his couch, his bed, her.

He keeps looking at the last text she sent him before he boarded the plane, see you so soon, be safe. i love you ❤️

She was asleep hours ago; time differences are a bitch but he replied to her anyways just landed. on our way home. love you baby 😚

He can’t stop smiling at the message, knowing he would see her again in mere minutes. The thought of holding her again, kissing her, lying next to her for the first time in 3 months, was enough to make this whole tour worth it.

Years ago when they first met, it was nothing more than a few words here and there between them. He dropped out of high school, she continued her studies. He started a band, she became an event manager. They stayed in touch here and there over the years but nothing was ever serious. They didn’t want to complicate things within their lives, disrupt the process or the flow.

But then the calls became more frequent. The texts became flirty, they were telling each other about their days and making sure to check in on one another. She called him when she was having rough days and he did the same. He was always willing to make the time to talk to her, to calm her down, get her breathing under control again. He was her lifeline you could say, in more ways than one.

Then there was that time they Facetimed and she told him she missed him. How she missed seeing him everyday. How she missed coming home to him and even the little things like holding his hand and watching movies together. They’d only officially been together three months, but there was something there. Something so much more than just phone calls and long distance texts. It was something real.

It started innocently. Until it wasn’t so much.

“How much do you miss me?”

She could see a gleam in his eye, one she hadn’t seen before but she liked it. A lot.

“So much.” Her voice was soft, her t-shirt was riding up over her thigh; he could see the soft skin of her hip in the glow of the lamp from their bedroom; she was only wearing underwear and all he wanted was to put his mouth there. Fucking hell.

“I fucking miss you so much.”

His words made her stomach flutter and she hummed softly. She watched as he shifted on the hotel bed, adjusting the laptop to have a better view of her.

“Can we…do something?” He sounded so nervous, he didn’t know why he was nervous but he was. Maybe because this woman was absolutely sexy and he wanted her so bad. Wanted everything with her. He didn’t know it then but he’d always wanted her.

“Yeah.”

“I wanna see you,” he said lowly, running his hand through his hair, “all of you.”

She gulped, trying to process his words. They had never done this, any of this. They hadn’t even taken that step yet. It excited her that he wanted this with her. That closeness, that intimacy. Finally.

“Noah…I-“

“Do you trust me?”

She took a deep breath, smiling softly at him. She did. She always had.

“Yes.”

“I got you. Trust me, baby.”

She loved hearing him call her that. It slipped off his tongue so effortlessly. His tongue. She started thinking about the way it would feel on her body then, how he’d kiss her, mouth at her to bring her to the edge. It suddenly made her squeeze her thighs together. Noah noticed, smiling at her from the laptop screen.

“What’re you thinking about right now?” He situated the laptop screen so she could see the length of his body now, his sweats clinging to his long legs and his bare chest in view, tattoos on full display.

“You. I’m…thinking about you.”

“What about me?”

She was embarrassed. How was she supposed to tell him she was thinking about his tongue inside of her, how she wanted to feel his lips on her skin and his fingers tracing the skin of her hips, her thighs, his teeth nipping at her stomach and everywhere he could, when they hadn’t even made it to that point yet?

“Tell me.” His voice was low, sexy. It made her entire body ignite.

“Your…tongue.” There it was. She felt her cheeks heat at her own words. She couldn’t believe this was happening right now.

“Fuck. Tell me more.”

“Noah…”

“Baby, there’s no one else here. Just you and me,” he assured her. She took a deep breath and tried to relax herself, tried to think of something that wouldn’t make her want to bail out of this. There was no way she could now; she told him she wanted his tongue on her. She was in too deep now.

“Honey, look at me.” His voice was soft, caring. He was sweet, so sweet, and she adored that about him. He knew she was just as nervous as him, just as vulnerable. This was a big step for them. For her even. She hadn’t been intimate with anyone in years. There had been no one after high school. Until Noah.

When she was finally able to look at him again, he was smiling sweetly. God she wished he was here with her. Wished she could touch him and hold him and kiss him. Lay next to him, inhaling his body wash and hints of cologne that still lingered on his skin.

“Just trust me, okay?” he says finally. She closes her eyes and nods again, keeping eye contact with him as she begins to remove her shirt. He stops her though.

“No, leave that on. Take off your underwear.”

Fuck. Fuck.

She bit her lip, lying back against the headboard. She hooked her fingers into the thin material, slowly sliding it down her legs. His eyes nearly rolled back in his head as she tossed them onto the floor. She folded her legs over one another, pulling her t-shirt down a bit so her lower half was hidden from the camera.

“Fuck, I wish I could touch you right now. Kiss you.”

She decided to finally play along. She was feeling braver now that she wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“Where would you touch me?” She ran her fingertips over the sheets, looking up at the camera just as she heard him softly whimper.

“Between your legs. Fuck, you’d be so warm and wet. You’re wet now aren’t you?”

She was. She could feel the heat between her legs and she needed something. Needed a release.

“Can you touch yourself for me?”

“Mhm.”

She hesitated before slowly parting her legs, making sure he could see her. She heard him gasp when she touched her fingers to herself, laid her head back against the pillows. She started slowly, listening to his breathing become more and more ragged. This was so out of her element, but she was loving the reaction she was getting out of him.

“Fuck, you look so good. I wish I was there with you.”

“Mmm…Noah…”

“What do you need, baby?”

“Talk to me more.” She started moving her fingers faster, not too fast though. She didn’t want to come yet.

“Does it feel good, you touching yourself?”

She nodded.

“Tell me how it feels.”

“Mm…s’good…” She moaned, making the fabric of his sweats tighten. Fucking hell.

“What was that you were saying about my tongue? You want me to taste you, don’t you?”

She whimpered, her legs tensing at his words. Yeah, that’s all she was thinking about. His tongue inside of her. It was making her brain short circuit.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I wanna taste you so bad, you have no idea.” He practically growled as he continued watching her fingers move in and out of herself. It was the fucking dirtiest, but hottest thing he’d seen, probably ever. And it was driving him crazy.

“Fuck, look at you right now. You look incredible.”

That made her sigh softly, a smile forming across her lips and her brow creasing as she continued to touch herself. She needed him to keep talking though, the silence was not helping her.

“Keep going.”

He groaned, palming himself through his sweats. She sounded heavenly, like nothing he’d

ever heard before. Everything about her was unreal.

“Spread your legs more. So I can see you come.”

She did, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t in the room with her and was thousands of miles away in a hotel, watching her through a laptop screen. She tried to bite her lip to keep quiet but he didn’t want that. He needed her to make more noises.

“I wanna hear you. Don’t be shy anymore.”

“Fuck, it…feels so good.” Her moans were the sexiest thing he’d ever heard. He could

feel his sweats tightening some more and he wanted to touch himself so fucking badly. So he did.

“Yeah? You wanna come?”

“Fuck, please,” she whined, her fingers moving faster.

“You’re so sexy like this, Jesus fuck.” He wished he could see the way she looked when she was coming. The moans and whimpers leaving her mouth as she fucked her fingers in and out of herself was the hottest thing he’d ever seen or heard.

“Noah…I’m…”

“I know, baby. Come for me.”

That was it. She gasped, her release hitting her harder than she wanted it to. She came on her fingers, her legs shaking and her toes curling. Watching her fall apart from his words was enough for him to finish himself and he wasn’t far behind her.

She pulled her t-shirt back down over her legs, lying sideways on the bed again so she could see him. Her cheeks were flushed, so were his. She smiled lazily at him and he did the same.

“Think I need to shower now,” he said, making her giggle. She didn’t even know he was touching himself until she saw him wipe his hand on a towel hanging from the chair next to the dresser. It made her legs squeeze together all over again.

“I wish you were here,” she said, her fingers reaching up to the screen. He smiled at her again.

“I know, me too.” He mirrored her actions, placing his fingers against hers.

“Umm…that was…”

“Hot.”

She giggled again and he wanted to kiss her so badly. He wished he was home with her

now.

“Yeah. Maybe we could…try it for real. You know…when you…come home.”

He smiled again, his lips curving up in the widest grin, making his eyes crinkle in

the corners.

“I am absolutely not taking my hands off of you when I get home.”

And she knew he meant it.

He’s home now and all he can think about is lying down. He’s exhausted and feels like a 200-pound weight has just attached itself to his shoulders. He tells Matt and Jolly they can unload the truck in the morning after they all sleep. It’s almost 2am and he just needs to lie down. That’s all he’s thinking about. And her.

The three of them enter the house after the rest of the group heads out, saying they’ll see each other in the morning for breakfast and some much needed relaxation outside of a busy tour schedule.

He unlocks the door, tossing his bag in the corner by the couch, not even bothering to bring it the fifteen extra steps into his bedroom. He doesn’t care, he’ll take care of it later.

Jolly and Matt go their separate ways as well, hugs and goodnights are traded before Noah makes his way to his room finally. He quietly opens the door so as to not wake her. She’s fast asleep when he squeezes into the room, shutting the door softly and locking it. He doesn’t really need to lock it but it’s been three fucking months since he’s been home and he wants to just spend as much time with her as possible in the confines of their bedroom.

She stirs gently as he makes his way around the bedroom, opening drawers to grab fresh boxers and a clean t-shirt. A routine he hasn’t been used to in months. She’s wearing one of his shirts, he sees now, the way it hugs the curves of her body so fucking well, it makes his chest tighten and his stomach flip.

It’s been two years now. Two years since they decided to try this thing out. Besides his friends and the band and all the other things he worked endless hours to make his own, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was everything to him, she was his lifeline.

He changes into his clean clothes, tossing his traveling wear into the hamper by the bathroom. He rubs his hands over his face, trying to function for a few more minutes to brush his teeth. Turning the water on wakes her up and he swears under his breath as he attempts to crack the door to keep the light out of her eyes. It’s too late though, she’s up now.

He rinses his mouth out, turning off the water just as the door opens to reveal his very sleepy but incredibly beautiful girlfriend. She smiles lazily at him, reaching up to embrace him in a hug. He laughs gently as he reaches down to wrap his arms under her thighs and hitch them around his waist. The feel of her skin against his after all this time, the warmth of her breath, the goosebumps that raise on her legs as he runs his thumbs over the skin. This. This is all worth it.

“Hi baby,” he kisses her forehead, her cheek, holding her tightly against him.

“Hi bub,” she says into the skin of his neck. He hears her sniffle and she pulls her face away to rest their foreheads together. He kisses her for the first time in three months, forceful but full of love and everything they missed while they were separated from one another.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he says against her lips. She presses her hands into his face, holding his jaw and rubbing her thumbs over the smile lines in his cheeks. He feels tears running down her cheeks and he wipes them away with his thumb.

“I missed you so bad.”

“You smell so good,” he says, pulling away from their kiss to press his nose into her neck. She giggles, wrapping her fingers in his hair which he’s cut a bit more since the last time they saw each other.

“You cut your hair.”

“Not much. Just a little bit off the back.” He runs his hand through it, keeping one underneath her legs which are still wrapped around him.

“It looks good,” she smiles, placing another kiss to his lips. She feels him smile against it, turning off the bathroom light and walking them to their bed. He lays her down against the sheets, lifting her shirt to press kisses to her stomach. She giggles again, her fingers in his hair as he continues down her body.

“Noah, it’s 2am,” she says, with no indication that she wants him to stop. He hums, taking one of her hands from his hair and intertwining their fingers. The gesture makes her stomach flutter, she loves when he does that.

“You’re not convincing me of anything.” He kisses her hip, tugging at the material of her underwear to expose more skin. She looks down to watch him, his tongue running the length of her hip bone and she bites her lip.

“You need sleep, bub.” A sigh leaves her lips as he tugs down her underwear. His fingertips against the skin of her thighs raises more goosebumps and she lifts her legs to kick them off. He laughs gently.

“I know,” another kiss to her hip, “fucking exhausted”, open mouthed kiss to her pelvic bone, “but I just want to be with you for a little bit.” He looks up at her through his eyelashes and she really can’t resist this man no matter how hard she tries. He has her in too deep. He’s drawing circles in the skin of her thigh, she traces her finger over the tattoo on his throat, her favorite, and feels his pulse quicken at her touch. He kisses her wrist, her thumb running over his bottom lip. Touches that they’re trying to memorize again.

“Yeah, okay.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “‘Yeah okay what?’”

“Yeah, okay. Put your mouth on me then.”

He smiles at her. “There she is.” He presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh before bringing her legs to rest over his shoulders. Her fingers find their home in his hair again, tugging gently as he presses his tongue to the skin of her thigh.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he whispers, moving closer to where she’s needed him the last three months. His breath is warm, icy from his toothpaste. The combination against her center sets her whole body on fire.

“I missed–unhh!”

“Sshh, ssh ssh you’re so loud,” he laughs gently against her, the vibration making her gasp softer this time. His hand flies up to cover her mouth.

“Sorry, shit.”

He laughs against her thigh. “Be quiet for me.”

She closes her eyes, letting his lips make their way back to her center. He blows against her before pressing his tongue into her, a groan leaving his lips as she presses her heels into his shoulder blades. It feels so good, not just the sex but this. Him. Being with him again. Her hands in his hair, his hands on her legs, everywhere on her skin. He was her home. They both needed this.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growls against her, bringing her back from her thoughts. She moans again, her hips lifting to meet his mouth, his tongue moving against her in the most sensual way, she feels like she might explode from this entire moment.

“Love…you…” she manages to say between heedy breaths and tugs of his hair.

“Fucking love you.”

“Noah…baby, I–gonna…”

“I know, baby, doing so good for me. Come for me,” he breathed against her. She absolutely hated when he said things like that, it made her come too fast. She wanted to sit on his face, fuck his mouth forever. Besides making love, this was their favorite.

“Stop…saying that…”

“What, that you’re being so good for me?” He tongued at her again, her legs shaking against his head. She gasped as she came against his mouth, her heels pressing farther into his shoulder blades if that was at all possible. She tugged at his hair again as he coaxed her down from her first orgasm in almost three months (there were several Facetime calls but they weren’t always alone to have phone sex and the release was everything she needed).

He hummed against her before pressing several kisses to the inside of her thighs. She nearly smacked him for getting her off so quickly.

“Fuck off,” she laughed, sitting up to pull him from between her legs. “Get up here and kiss me.”

He did. He smiled against her lips, his tongue pressing into her mouth. She could taste herself on him and she didn’t exactly hate it. He breathed into her mouth, laying back against the headboard and bringing her with him. She laughed gently, reaching down to lift her shirt over her head. Noah’s eyes widened, staring at her naked body in front of him again for the first time in three fucking months. The longest three months of his life.

“Are you gonna take your clothes off, fool?”

Fuck he loved this woman so much. He leaned forward to bite down gently on her bottom lip, a gentle moan leaving her.

“I can’t when you’re sitting on me, you ass.”

“You started this,” she jabbed at his chest then reached down to drag her fingers along the waistband of his boxers. She started tracing his tattoos again, the letters and the scriptures he had, all his anime characters across his sternum and thighs. She was distracted, he was distracting. His body and his hands and his lips and everything about him. He lifted her chin to look at him.

“Hi,” she said, smiling. He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her nose.

“Hi. You went away again.”

“Yeah, sorry. Just…missed this.” She traced the ink on his chest again, placing a kiss to

the skin there.

“Me too.”

She pressed a kiss to his chin, then up to his lips. His hands came to rest on her bare waist, slowly dragging her center across his clothed one. She moaned into his mouth, digging her fingers into his chest.

“And I missed your mouth but I wanna make love to you before we go to sleep.”

She hummed, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him forward so he was on top of her again. He kissed her neck, down her arms, across her breasts, her nipples. He swiped his tongue across the nub, earning a low moan from her again. He trailed his lips down to her stomach, open mouthed kisses pressed against her thighs and hips.

When he reached her ankles, he lifted her leg so he could press one last kiss to her tattoo there, earning another giggle from the beautiful woman beneath him.

“I love you.”

She smiled up at him as he stood from the bed to remove his boxers. She could feel her body heating up again as he came to rest over her, lifting one of her arms above her head and intertwining their fingers. He spread her legs gently, pressing his fingers against her to open her up again.

“I love you,” she moaned at the sensation of his fingers and the head of his cock beginning to brush against her. She closed her eyes, her lips falling open as he pressed their foreheads together and rolled his hips forward gently to meet hers. It felt like the whole room went still, their fingers squeezing one anothers above her head and his other hand on her thigh, dragging it up to wrap around his waist.

“Fuck, I missed this, you feel…so fucking good.” Noah began to move slowly, careful to not hurt her or go too fast. He wanted this to last as long as possible.

“Oh my…Noah…”

“Fuck, baby…can you come for me again?”

“Mhm.”

She was close again, he could feel it in the way her thighs were starting to shake again and the way she was whimpering into his mouth. Her fingers gripped his shoulder, digging into his skin as he rocked against her gently.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I went this long without you,” he breathes out, a low chuckle coming from her lips.

“I missed you…so much.”

“Fuck…I missed you.”

“Noah..unhh…”

That sound. That fucking sound. He was absolutely gone for this woman. She was everything to him.

“Come for me, baby. I…I got you.”

Her eyes squeezed shut, she tensed around him and gripped the skin of his shoulder again. The feel of her coming around him was enough for him to lose his fucking mind; he wasn’t far behind her, groaning into the skin of her neck and gripping her hip with the hand that wasn’t holding onto hers still. His hips stilled, rocking against her one last time before releasing a deep breath against her neck. Her fingers petted through his hair, against the nape of his neck, across his back, his shoulders. He could feel her heartbeat starting to slow again, a thin sheen of sweat was settling over their bodies and he didn’t want to move, wanted to stay like this with her forever.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she finally said as he was lying on top of her. He chuckled, placing a kiss to her cheek. He tried to get up but she pulled him back down on top of her. He smiled at her.

“I’m glad I’m home too.”

“Did you guys have fun though?” Her lips were swollen and her cheeks were flushed, her collarbones glistening and a red mark was forming in the corner of her mouth from where he’d bit down on her lip. Goddamn she was so beautiful.

“Yeah we did. Always do.”

“I’m proud of you bub,” she whispered, running her fingers over his cheek, pushing his hair back off his forehead. He smiled lazily down at her, pressing his lips to hers gently. She hummed, parting her lips to let his tongue press against hers again.

“I love you so much,” he says, rubbing their noses together. Another hum from her.

“I love you.”

#noah sebastian #bad omens #fanfic #smut #love #fluff #first fic #noah x reader #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fluff #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian fanfiction

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