#the sun has burst the sky
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ky-landfill · 3 months ago
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astralnymphh · 1 year ago
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fuck and pretend ౨ৎ
𖤐 .ellie williams with a breeding kink⊱.
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౨ৎ "gon' make you a baby mama, hm?" 🌸
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from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸 READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.
⋆' summary; bright blessings, aphrodite. hazy harbor of your lust, loose ribbons, and smooth touch. a strawberry sun kisses the earth with its sunset, a gradient so divinely captured above your picket fence visible from the kitchen window. a front row seat to dusk settling as you get fucked, the soppy wet clashing of your loins erupts. ellie, with her goddess given right, will knock you the hell up.
⋆' cw; dom!ellie, horndog!ellie, farm!ellie, breeding kink obv, depictions of cum + spit + nipple play + slight food play + spanking + fondiling + very slight lactation kink + rough mannerisms + dirty talk + rough talk + cum kink-ish + gentle dominance + cocktip teasing + strap sex + fingering (r, barely) + finger sucking + multiple positions (bent over, on the counter) , 'her cock' used more than 'strap', some plot + backstory, very detailed descriptions of fucking, smut heavy, reader has fem style/wears skirt, petnames; babe, baby, mama(kinda), slut, whore(not in dialogue), bitch(not in dialogue)
⋆' pairing; farm!ellie x housewife!reader
⋆' a/n; i'm horny. ⋆' wc: 6.7k ellie's masterlist 𖤐
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a brilliant orb in the sky permeates a hot singe to your skin, making a day meant for mundane mutilation of vegetable roots drinking up the rich soil, dreadful. oh how you longed to be inside with your girlfriend, ellie, the rufescent headed mutt that pawed you to take a break, on the bed, in her lap. 'later, baby.', you just had to say that. but no, you just had to work, huh? the autumn sun bearing tidings of a good harvest just had to sing an enchanting tune, lulling you to the outdoors.
a heap of green already lines your wheelbarrow, a yelling chance to dip and jump into ellie's arms, who ensconces her bottom to the pleasures of a springy sofa in the family room, scribbling away matters that clot her noggin. oh, it would be so divine to just die of exhaustion in her grasp, straddling that tepid lap beckoning a cozy seat, melding your fingertips with the tense ache that mantles her neck, while she lewdly palpates the chub fat of your ass she deems 'a cute tush' with those strapping hands of hers.
"fuck it." the barrows handles drop to the grassy ground, giving the produce in the basin a bit of a bumpy ride.
the most salivating notion wins, food, fucking food. you burst into that kitchen with a sugar craving, a hellacious craving that puppeteers your fingers to fondle the beige flour into a meshy dough, powdering up your fingertips til it caked under your nail. eugh. 
 a strawberry and cream pastry of crispy golden beige delight is your end goal, pictured to be a celestial five star treat in your rather delusive fantasies. the butts of ruby strawberries stabbed through as you pull the stems out, gleaming juices of a translucent pink coating up your fingers so sweetly, you just had to pop them in your mouth. sucking all that flavor off, like a fuckin' lollipop.
you drift your finger out clean, a long smack squeaking from your lips, and then hum in rumination, "hmm, lemons– or no lemons? lemons.. or no lemons?" quietly spoken, tossing your eyes between a ripe lemon and the pulped strawberry.
"no lemons," ellie, bearing the element of surprise, intrudes on your introspection. speaking with a low, coarse timbre, pitch breathy, "hi babe." her body is then suddenly pressed into your backside, hand slithering down your hip and caressing your pantyhose– clad thigh gently. 
"oh shit– ellie!" you yelp, instinctively pushing your rump back on her groin devoid of purpose, "ya' spooked me.." a throaty whine thrums from you.
"nah– u're just easily spooked." her brows pinch opposingly, slowly creeping her jaw in the cornered nook of your neck, parched lips nipping the flesh with summery hot licks.
"hehe– that tickles.." you jerk away slightly from her scruffy tuft of coppery hair like a plume stroking your skin.
a smile grows pliable against your skin, "good.." muffled ellie, wet smacks eliciting from her hungry latch.
"bored of ur' journal?"
"uh–huh.."
"or just happy that I'm here?"
"mhm.." she dozily agrees, slinking her head off your scruff, "missed you' out there."
"oh, i bet." you frolick kittenly, snatching up the same strawberry you pulped through earlier to cut it, "got fucking tired of hauling that barrow 'round anyway." you complain, speaking with discernable strain in your tune.
"hmm." she hums in consideration, worried about the amount of work you lug on your shoulder from a day–to–day basis, "l'mme help." 
her fingers cottonly twine through yours, biceps hugging yours, chin perched softly upon your neck, taking both the strawberry and knife from you and cutting it deftly, chhp, chhhp, chop!– goes the sound of buttery slices.
you slump your head aside, just relishing the warmth for a moment, at genuine peace that your girlfriend was there. she was so soft with you, softer than petals, gently domineering at any split mention of fatigue. laying the midday away on the couch? joins you instantly, pressing and kneading the tender skin of your swollen feet while discussing more than humdrum topics. stomach rumbling loud enough to raise the dead? she immediately rounded the kitchen's trim to cook you a plethora of meals, taking every picky craving into heavy consideration. indecisive about your outfit? she would glide an oaken chair up to the dresser, plant you on her lap– in your undergarments, and choose what she personally fancies, sneaky hand groping your thigh.
"there you go." she mutters ardent to your shoulder with throaty rasp, knife clanking as she sets it aside.
"thanks baby.."
"n'problem.." her lips fumble the words, settling on bespattering the biome of your stretched neck with wet kisses– subtly hungry ones, and reposes her arms to slink over your hips, enticing them closer into her groin.
you scoop one pile of diced strawberries into the gullies of both palms, letting them plummet into a plastic green mixing bowl, plop.. plop, humming a tune, "hmmmm…hhmhmmm…" 
you hear her chuckle, a small vibration amassing the length of your skin with an accompanied smile growing.
"you laughin' at my song?"
"mhh, that's not a song." she criticizes, lips pursing into a bud.
"hmph, rude." you circle your eyes in offense, faintly swaying your hips while you pestle the fruit into a sweet puree.
her hips react and ungulate a sluggish grind into your rump, acting impassive to it, "s'bored.." she croaks, clammy forehead sticking to your jaw.
"hmm?"
she doesn't clarify, instead, begins to nick your neck with pinched lips, letting the skin gingerly spring out each time. her hips, however, grow rough– wanton. little bounces of her humps smush your thighs into the counter, mind clearly anchored in her imagination.
"els?"
her relentless chafing continues, piling up the fabric of your skirt into a creased mess which only gets worse when her hand wedges between your bodies, palming her crotch with a few squeezes, "mhhn.." 
your fingers nearly slip off the pestle, the stimuli of her humps withering away that poise calmness, "baby.." you whine.
"so, so– bored, baby." her grubby mitts fall and knead the shallow flesh of your hip bones, applying detectable pressure in the crevice beneath your hip bone. smutty, balmy prints sunk into your skin.
this fucking horndog, this auburn maned lovergirl could never let you rest on a busy afternoon like today. all the time, she was just pleading for pussy– pussywhipped, grinding her pelvis on your thigh amidst cuddling, to nudging your butt against her groin with both hands, whenever you bend over. you can hear the indecencies boiling on her wicked tongue right about now, pleading for a tryst.
a long suspire whorls from your nostrils as you turn in her embrace, nudging her fervid laps off.
she pouts a petulance, wet lips sheer in the frosty panes light, "why'd you move?"
"talk t'me," wisped sweet like honey, "what's on your mind?" you lace your fingers with hers, swinging your linked hands side to side playfully.
she pours a groan out, screwing her lids tight and throwing her head back, "baaabbee.." ellie was plagued, at minimum. lewdly plagued. a notion that topped her mind and wouldn't let go.
you thought it was, temptingly cute. the way she reels her head back down, jarring her weary eyes open to beadily gaze upon you, lips parting moistly.
"i have this.." a sharp gust waves off her throat, humbled to even say this, "dirty fuckin' idea.."
"enlighten me."
"i just think.." her eyes deviate from yours, staring at the cupboard, "you'd be really hot as a mama." a hint of smokiness grits in her voice, gazing at you with the most haunting bedroom eyes known to womankind.
"oh really? that's illuminating." you knit your brows, feigning marvel.
"tcch–" her textured lips creak into a cresten grin, hissing shortly, "like.." her fingers flee yours, drifting two brawny grips on your waistline, inching closer with each idea she lists, "i could take care of you, start baths for you, cook you meals and carry you to–"
you intervene gently, "you say it like you can get me pregnant." and laxly cross your arms.
her forehead creases in offense, "uh, i mean," and eyes barrel roll to the ceiling, then on you, chiseling a smirk opulent with smutty intention, "don't need a baby t'do.. whatever."
"whatever?" your tune curls.
"could just.." she pulls your groin snug to hers, pelvis protruding farther than her torso, thighs melding together, "fuck, and pretend." 
you blush, mouth gaping in muted elation observing the way she pushes her crotch into you, "so foul.." you giggle.
"so?" a hand lifts from your hip, notching your chin firmly up to face her, "can i convince you?"
"how?"
an absolutely mischievous look casts over her features at that 'how?' , prominent dimples that plot her next words to flow out.
"here," she releases your chin and swipes a grip on your wrist, jerking you forward as she tugs that hand between her legs, "feel that, baby?" whispering a fingerbreadth away, toasty breath misting like perspiration on your earlobe.
you palpate the inseam, knobbing over a phallic bulge with her hand guiding you. oh my goddess, she's been wearing that shit all day.
"can i fuck y'with it, hmm?" she begs, voice drenched with silken clemency, and leathery callousness– control awaiting your word, lips of coquetry avid to your ear.
truth of the matter, at the back of her perv–diluted noggin, she knows she can't exactly get you pregnant. however, that's the hidden perk nobody talks about. play the part, make it feel real, and it still sticks the same. she can fuck you over, and over– and over again, sow her seed and never reap the physical consequences.
that girl can pretend well.
you feel the heat clump on your cheeks, turned on by her forthright request, "here?" you question foxily, feeling the excitement slowly trickle through your loins.
"yeah– right on this fuckin' counter." unfiltered and dirty, so suddenly, so tantalizing. her hands pitch up and draw upon your skin like a woven page, lurking the entire span of both arms around your hips.
"god, els.." you cling your arms around her nape, chest pressing firmly on hers, "i'd fucking love that." 
her face lit up brighter than all the stars combined. reclining brows, smug–smothered eyes, and the most uneven smirk to ever jerk her lips. a brightness– so carnal.
"yes.." sounded so relieved in her breathy mutter, wetting her chapped lips before she slinks onto yours, dragging hers over the plush of your buds with a passion.
"mhh..mh.." you moan onto her lips, pushing with tantamount force to her hungry kisses.
a wet smack snaps the huddled space as she parts, "can taste those strawberries, ooh~" she huskily frisks with arching brows, returning to your lips with a pucker and slobber.
all during your tepid makeout eggs you both on, pink muscles entwining, mouths nearly trying to swallow each other up, bodies rocking like a ship riding the tide– her willowy digits tuck under the fat of your asscheeks, groping and pulling the two globes apart in rounded circles tight enough to cleft the chub with creases, frilly fabric of your skirt snagging on the ridge of her bouncing palms.
"love' this cute tush." she states with a satisfied scratch in her voice, a deep laugh gusting onto your lips.
"a fuckin' slut for it huh?" 
"yeah baby!" she halfway hollers into your mouth, gripping your asscheeks like crab claws and giving a good shake– featherlike slap included.
you buck your ass out for her usage, urged to wave your hips in a figure eight motion, which she really likes, too much maybe. a booming smack! resounds the kitchen as her hand draws back to indulge a harsher slap, rubbing the red streak left in its path.
you yelp throatily, spitting from her avid lips, "fuck! ellie.."
"hey– c'm back here." her head follows your retreating one, plastering your mouth sealed and tongue–fucking you with that pushy muscle worming past your teeth.
her horny ass just kept spanking both cheeks, which triggered a proud "mmm.. mhm…" to intone on your lips as you jolt in reaction, caressing the flush heat gathered by each whack.
"more?"
"ghhnn– elli.."
"fuckin' take more." she veers that hand back and lands another blow, creeping over your shoulder to perv at the nylon–confined skin. right, your pantyhose.
you tuck and bat your lashes in the crook of her neck, whining right into the ears eager to hear you break.
but, she couldn't do that with all this fabric, could she now?
"nice.. but.." her grubby claws then prod the cloaked crack of your ass, a shrill ripping through the air as she tears a massive hole in your pantyhose– wholly for better access, now exposing your full behind.
you quench a lapse in your throat, "oh, my god." and peek over to eyeball the torn material, noticing how discolored your butt has become and poking your hip out.
"hurt too much?"
"n–no.." you swallow again, reverting your pupils to her, "hurts just right.."
she smirks merry to one cheek, hollowing an alto, "makes' you a dirty fucking slut, amiright?" spoken on a crescendo, second–guessing with her lips gravitating back to yours, but she pauses.
it dawned on her.
something even more impure tethers her attention, down– down, on that chest of yours.
the rustiling of fabric chafes as her hands slide from torturing that delicate rump further, then splutters, "take ur' fuckin' tits out, 'gunna suck on them." just straight up, stern edge like metal to her tone.
no hesitation hurdles your hands, straying from her neck you pleat your shirt over your head and stretch back to unclasp your bra with a pinch, letting it tumble off your chest and hit the ground with a padded thud. the gale of cold air hardens your nipples, perking up two nice targets for ellie to ogle– both in sight, and in taste.
a sweet– tart taste. 
"hmm," ellie's pupils wander off your drooped chest and fixate on the separate dish of intact strawberries, glowing pink in the dying suns' radiance. her elbows straighten and forearm extends towards these gems of interest, scooping one up with her thumb, index and middle combined.
"what are you doing with my–"
"shh, just watch." her prudent fingers then toughen and squash the berry above your clavicle, letting the barmy pink liquids squeeze through her knuckles and drip onto your chest.
a gasp dries your throat, "ellie!"
a few mashed bits plunk down amongst the heavy fall of berry juices, managing to drizzle down the rise of your breast and split over your nipple. mission success? though now the victim strawberry– squelched to a gross chunk, makes a home chucked into the handy trash bin.
ellie licks her lips and stares dead straight on your hardened nipples. itching for a taste of that strawberry deluge.
"fuck.." her throat quivers, taking no time in searing the distance between her tongue and your breast promptly with a hunched back, bringing her heart–shaped pucker to the strawberry–saturated nub and locking on, sucking hard, making you jerk. ellie definitely has a thing for this.
"was wasting that strawberry– mhhf'– worth it?" you sport a quip quickly, the small vacuum sensation on your nipples only just starting to nip that pleasure kernel in your brain.
it definitely was. cause ellie had already vampire–suckled all the flavor off your bud, now snaking her tongue up the excess stream of juices and retreating back. those juice–coated lips squelch open, muttering, "so' fucking worth it." 
so fucking worth the lady boner penned behind that zinc rivet.
her lips wrinkle around your other nipple, opening and closing her mouth around the bud with a slow nutate of her head. inside her mouth was so warm, so wet, and the fleshy texture of her lips felt fucking riveting. the stimulated twang of salacity brought in the form of sucks and licks has your pussy sappy and caked in precum, and ellie could tell how wet you've gotten by the yearning chafe of your thighs, so she forcefully wedges her knee there– making you grunt at the pressure, and her giggle at your response.
you card your fingers through her hairline, fondling her autumn tuft while she sucks that swelling nipple dry, causing an 'mmhhh.' to vibrate from the depths of her lungs, guttural on your boob. one of her hands rove up and cusps the same boob against the webbing of her thumb and pointer, squeezing the blubber of mass further into her wet rosy hole– like she's genuinely sucking something out of them– thirsty, her parched tongue laps a gloss of gleaming saliva over the bumpy node, determined to have you unravel.
"oh, els.. baby~" you tug on her hair, piqued by the blossoming ache in your clit raring for ellie to just get on with it.
"mhhpghmm.." her lips suction with a pop, roads of ruby red mottled on her cheeks from your angle. so eager to toy with that forming arousal, but with persuasive control.  "s'this convincing enough?"
you toss your head back, extending the curved surface of your neck, "i'm already convinced.." you gasp for air, surfing a breathless moan behind the carry of your voice.
another pop sound has her lips wandering up from that sensitive bump and craning to your lips, taking advantage of the situation. her fantasies overrun that dirty mind of hers, aching mentally– and physically, to have that pussy engulfing her thickset cock. to fuck you raw. fortunate for her, you were already won over by the rough terrain of her tongue setting you over the edge.
"m'kay baby.." her humid syllables shudder over the span of your midface, promptly, churning into a demanding growl. "turn around, n' bend over the counter. doin' it right here, c'mon." her words usher you and fingers force you, contorting your hips with her steely grip without even giving you the chance to move yourself, other hand reaching over to knock the bowl of strawberries– now scattered across the tiles like the starry sky.
you wobble around on your ankles as she bucks you into the counters' rounded steel rim, laying her palm plumb between your shoulder blades and pinning you down, pitching a yelp from you when the cold surface practically freezes your nipples.
that's when you realized, she wasn't playing around.
ellie's spindly fingers pleat your skirt up with a swat, then drift down to catch and tuck in the lacy band of your panties and tug hard, pulling the thread to the point of frayed snapping– without giving you a wedgie– until she could remove it from your hips through the hole in your pantyhose, chucking it somewhere east of you. now she could gape at everything. the bare truth of your engorged pussy rearing for her, splayed out like a whore. nuder than an amaretto.
and it made her giggle in gratification, lugging that adams apple around with her wheezy laugh.
"look at 'chu bent over like this," she gruffily awes at your ass jacked to her hips, golfing up a 'hawwkkk' and a 'puh!' as she aims a spit down the crack of your ass. 
it streamlines through the canyon of your backside 'til it mixes with the slick of your slit. can't let it go to waste, so– she jams the soapy spit into your hole, to which you clamp her in.
a jerky chuckle croaks from her chest, rustiling her mullet with each jounce, "sensitive now, are we?"
"ellie–" 
"okay, okay– i'll stop." she slides her fingers out, popping them in her mouth while she observes you from this lewd position.
in the sorbet light, you were gorgeous. cunt dripping nectar like a waterfall to your thighs, ass hiked up and sloping into the plateau of your back. you looked so perfect. perfect for her hands to melt into. perfect for her cock to sheathe into. just divine. positively divine.
"alright.." her voice rattles deep, slightly muted in a gulp after tasting your cunt on her tongue, swishing her spit around to pick up every note of flavor.
moments later, you hear the metal clank of a buckle jingle from behind, the prongs strike the floor as her jeans clump up at the base of her ankles, blanketing her feet. then, a silicone tip slots it's bulbous nature between the top of your thighs, smacking up onto your slickened labia playfully.
"god– it's like a fuckin' waterpark back here babe."
her feet scoot closer, poking the chub of your globes with her jutting hip crests, enraptured in the pure way your folds already look like they want to swallow her up. they faintly part as the silicone cockhead smears your arousal from clit to hole, hole to clit. a half–moon smile dilates into the apples of her cheeks, prideful. a smirk you can hear loud and clear in her dirty, outrageous comment. 
"gonna knock that pussy up, hmm? gonna fuck a pair of twins in you so good baby~" she coos, delirious seeing the head of her cock slosh around the fat lips of your pussy, grooving two concentrated lines between her brows and wagging her peachy muscle wedged in her lips. she was like a devil in heaven, and you an angel in heat. two strapping grips slap and clutch onto your ass, the fat bulging through each finger gap, calloused fingertips blending with the texture. her knees bend to crouch her hips slightly, dragging the hem of her brown button–down up by the protrusion of your ass as she aligns her frame level to your cunt. one hand drops down to catch hold of the faux cock and toys the rim of your gummy hole, sinking the head in just barely.
your sensitive entrances' involuntary answer to this scant plugging of your hole clenches the tip up fast, sucking it further in. ellie loved that. loved how your pussy was taking her without a halt. a love so dazing, she begins slipping and inserting the head only, eyeing the contracting hole gorging over the rotund spade each and every small thrust.
a whiny complaint trebles off your gullet, "are y'putting it in? baby.. please." but the petulance in your plea just rouses ellie up– excessively.
ignoring you, her focus tunnels solely on the tight hole kissing her cock in intervals, pleating up her earth brown shirt to eye her constricting muscles speckled in freckles, the pale blue–glossy v–line cadreing her hunter green cock that only deepened the lines in her abdomen with each pump. with her gaze aimed downwards, she speaks directly downwards, "be a good pussy and take my cock, yeah?"
that was her game. her conflicting game. the only words you heard before she fastens the dick bulky in her wrapped grip and lugs her entire length inside, blowing your vulva thin with how straining her size was. wow. a sight she froths over.
"mhm–" she continues, tensing her chords up to flow out a breathy, gritty, whisper, "take my cock like a good pussy." 
you feel the force impact your cervix straightaway, globs of clear lubricant slip and pool through the slim opening her cock barely provides and drips onto your thigh, cold and sticky, marks like paint. "ellie– h'oh fuck!" you wail in the stinging sensation of sudden brimming, which only drives her to crack another slap blistering red on your ass, "eeah!" you squeak, tears scorching the shoreline of your blurred eyes.
she wanted a tear to slip out. she wanted a cohesive sign that her cock felt tight, warm, filling. a kind of filling that bumps your stomach, makes you feel pregnant. cause you would be, take my word for it.
ellie analyzes the new ring of creamy serum wrapping her base like a ribbon of white lace, milky delight. it fades as she drags her length out, and bubbles when she sheathes back in. nothing could stop her finger from sampling the slimy slick, but, no. not this time. 
in her mind, that's her precum. her sperm. not a drop should be dripping out of you.
"g'nna fuck my seed– so, so.. deep." 
and by her word, she knurls her torso into a convex bend as she swathes over you, cottony shirt to back, tickling your flesh. like a dog licking your ear, she mashes the lobe of your ear with her soaked lips. chanting a one–lined hymn in your ear as her cock skids along your ridged walls and returns with a pumping rhythm, keeping your pelvis steady in her slack grip.
"makin' you–" slap, slap, slap, "a mama'," plop, plop, plop, "with my c-cock.. no–one else's." her huffs fan the baby hairs near your ear, lips brushing so dearly on the conch. each sticky bop of your hips plays like a hand smacking water, bringing shame to the ears of every wall witnessing this dirtier–than–porn event. 
your features tog up into a woozy countenance. lips wedged open like an orange slice, pupils reading your upper lashes like a string of musical notes, head jiggling with each lavish pump into your pretty little pussy. it feels so fucking good. spurts of pleasure that make you wish on every damnable star for her to actually get you pregnant. the way she fucks you like this, all pathetically horny with her own ass clenching into each thrust. you'd take her babies in a yoctosecond.
her bushy brows curl and furrow in enthrallment, enthralled by every honeyed whimper she pulls out of you with her dick. it fed her ego, the greedy ego telling her she is impregnating you. each vein, bumpy on the creasing skirt of your blushing hole shaped to fit her cock, felt so real– it hurts. ellies' had enough. she skims her palms just a hairbreadth down the planet of your ass to sink her talons in the supple crevice of your hip and thigh, held hard enough to move you. this meant only one thing.
ellie was tired of playing it safe.
her torso pastily unsticks from your back, casting a gray shadow with her hover, grunting, "listen– t'me," her hips sway and punch with heftier, vehement– stickier thrusts, the fat plastic cockhead sending a flux of pressure with each smash into the tacky wall of your vagina, "answer– d'ya think, mhh– our kids will have auburn hair, like me? frhm– freckles, like me? my eyes?" 
the constant abuse to your cervix chokes up your throat, warbling and going "guh, guhp– unh! fhhummk.." with your flaccid lips damp in slob, like a filthy mess of a bitch.
wrong answer. 
you should have just offered up her name in an exaggerated moan instead.
the extent of her hand extracts from your hips– not without her gift of nail–birthed sickles indenting your skin like scales, and coils back to whack your vainly treated glute. it makes your vision go white, tenderizes your skin and makes you scream.
"n–nnono, els–"
"so– no they won't look like me?" she laughs to herself, and it almost sounds– amusingly disappointed.
"n– yes, yes! they w–"
your throat then nearly guzzles her fingers base knuckles deep, muffled and choking on their stacked width.
"just shut up." ellie warns in a gruff. thing is, she knows that as long as her thickset tip keeps slamming into that assaulted cunt– she'll never hear the end of it. and that's the best part. confliction.
the counter was virtually warming up on your compressed cheek from how long you were in that position. slippery sweat dampened a puddle under your face in a thin pellucid coat. from your current view, you could only see her wrist pushing on your chin– cranking your jaw ajar, and her humping motions bleary in your peripherals. not like seeing her was necessary, you already felt her through and through. 
ellie, with her hips strapping you down in prolonged rams that cause a sharp sear on the hind of your thighs, with the downright sedative pleasure brought by the bumping base to her neglected clit, finds herself earnestly thinking about how a family would look on this farm. her baby, growing in you. her kids, skipping through these rustic halls. her wife, devout enough to nurture them through childhood. but on the perverted hand, her cock fucking a future generation into you, 'her' pussy gluttonous enough to consume it up to the hilt, her whore, eager enough to be the cumbucket to breed as she pleases.
she's gonna breed you like the horndog she is.
but you want to be full of her offspring.
"baby–" a stiff moan pours from her lips, and she glides her cock and digits out. snow white cream follows in strings, strung to her shaft and springs out like paint splatter on the ground as her strap bounces down to a flaccid level. wow. she moans again, this time, breathlessly, "baabby.. get'on th' counter.." 
"hmmuh?" flubbed you, barely able to see the picket fence outside the kitchen window through your graying haze– shapes blurred and melted into each other.
"said," the lone grip on your hip is replaced with the clammy bend of her elbow, tucking under your womb and flipping you around, "on' the counter." and lugs you hurriedly onto the sudor–coated surface with her grasp under your knees. her hands flatten on either side of your shaky thighs– vividly like jello– as her torso huddles close in your space. now that she could see your face, it was sexually comical. 
doe–eyed and glossed, lids puffy and red. patterns of your own saliva glissade down your chin and gleam in the soft light behind you. so hot.
her teeth bear in a parted smirk and she drunkenly stumbles her face down. then, she notices something. a pearly strand of sleek cum trickling over your perineum. like a melted popsicle, you drip everywhere, all over that counter space.
ellie's tongue ticks on the roof of her mouth, sighing, "mmh' fuck, pussy dripping everywhere– clean this counter afterwards, won't you?" spoken like a silken demand, index pointing at the mess.
you keenly nod, squinting with those weepy eyes as you try to discern the moving colors of your girlfriend right as she heaved her fat cock right back inside. stars. stars heat you skin and strike your vision. a night of black spots burn through your eyes and caper around– obscuring ellie's blissed out face. you were already fucked out from the last position, so fucked, you nearly came at the meaty expansion of your aching hole.
ellie could tell, and that was her cue. her goddess given cue to bottom out. the friction of her girth akin to a fist stuffing you up was pushing up on your g–spot, and that knocked a tear out. the ones lashing at your ducts to release, finally did. 
you couldn't feel anything else– anything, but her cock.
moist sloshes cram up the space between you too, smacking and dragging as before. faster, harder, her hips never lapse and pick up the speed. tapping you out like a nozzle draining syrup from a tree, gushing and coating her cock beautifully. smack– smack– smack– goes her groin deluged in your sweet sex juices connecting like webs with each bash of your hips.
on comes a dirty row of her impudent and vile comments– barely stable voice from how fast she pumped, all tepidly whispered on your neck.
"knockin' that fhckin' pussy up– huh?"
you can feel the warmth radiating off her face a breath away, a cheek–length strand of hair now sticks to the sweat veiling her hairline. pores beading with glassy perspiration. just as red as you. huff, huff, gasp.
"that pretty pussys' mine– mhh, all mine."
ellie's palms leave two clammy prints on the marble slab when her fingers pop off and clasp your pelvis. with this grip on you, she pushes your hips hard on her relentless pounds. no wall of your vagina lacks a thrashed kiss from her dick, your hole was just too tight for any air pockets. that tight. just pure ush–gush.
"god' m'sucha dirty slut for ur' pussy, such a fucking whor– ughhn!– wantin' to make you–a mama." grizzled her in a lower voice, but still so rough, sweating and huffing like a dog in heat.
the cupboards creak and squeak, scarcely bearing the racket she induced with her fucking into you.
the intensity marches on.
"els– els, I'm gonna cum.." 
it was nice to hear, but she was infinitely more focused on cumming herself. she was close. very close. eyes screwed tight in the straps kickback digging her clit with firm pressure,  knuckles flushed white as they bent and tried to carve into your hips. ellie couldn't get enough of you.
"yeah– me too, nghh~"
her own slick begins to lather up her crotch, sticking up that auburn bush, dripping off the strapbase and staining the crinkled jean pile directly underneath her.
the kitchen reeked of cunt– yours and hers. delicious sex miasma. the scent of raw arousal coats your nasal cavity, lulling you both to climax– two hearts on the same beat.
but there was one thing. one thing you could give her, that'd change your lives from there on out.
"baabe–" a shallow utter gusts from her lips, shuddering, "can' i fuck you– god, fuck you like this? mate you– make babies with you, more often?" her voice warbles, fighting back the breath that wanted to give away.
the plunging and swelling of her dick parting your walls made it potently harder to answer– but, you creak, taking all the breath she would give you, mouth to mouth.
"yes, ellie– i want to have them."
her eyes squinted ever so slightly, sharpening, pupils blown. a wicked, scantily–contained smirk tugged at the corners of her lips, a glint in her eye revealing the excitement she felt by your words. in a heartbeat, her lips met with yours– wisping and wetting each other up.
but it was no feat to the sudden acceleration of her pistoning hips.
ellie's lips withdraw, moaning rigidly with buffering pants, "gon' make you a baby m–mama' now– ooh fuck!" feeling the same rise to orgasm tighten her stomach. 
"yes– yes! unh‐ uh fuck, ughh!" 
the clanging cupboards bang and thud as they do, but your moans eventually clamor up over them. her cock, sought the last final blows to your gummy ring inside, gathering up all that viscous serum in strings stuck to her bulbous head. this was it. she was finally getting her reward– viscously.
"love you–"
it tightens.
"s'much–"
it pulls.
"thank y– unngghh!"
she snaps.
your thighs convulse and lock around her hips as she buries her dick deep inside, plugging that bruised–to–hell mucousy cervix up. a high so heavenly it curls your body up to hers, cumming all over that filthy fucking cock in clear spurts, plashing all over the veiny shaft that had you weeping moans.
ellie had came too, matter of fact, all over the floor.
a dense and husky moan grates from the lowest region of her diaphragm, "hhhggn– uhhugh– fuck, baby." 
her eyes grew taut and scrunched in ecstasy, jutting her hips and clenching her ass to ride out the orgasm. a spew of her release taints the straps footing and leaks down her thigh, saturating in her skin. veins popped in her gripe, incisors bit her lip nearly hard enough to break skin, and eyes twitched back tenfold, casted heavenward.
a sunset clasps the shingle roof from above, depicted so innocently behind the pane, unknowing to what has come of you two. 
the moment softens.
and you're left with two fatigued bodies.
her arms loosen and flop on your sprawled lap, and her head finds a collapsed purchase on your shoulder. ellie's chest rose, fell, and rose again, swallowing up all the air her lungs lost in the heat. 
"think I just died," she dramatically heaves from her chest, gulping up the pooled spit in the trenches of her gums. a giggle shakes her, "hehe~ did you die?" she jests, nudging her limp hand to your shank.
the words carrying to your ears mish–mashed into an agglomeration of sounds strewn from her actual sentence, "there's n'pie in the oven.." you slur breathlessly, tongue nearly lifeless in the pit of your mouth.
ellie tries her darndest to compress the laugh grizzling from her throat, still winded, "w-what babe?" her head tilts to gawk at you.
"god i'm so dizzy.."
she blows a raspberry from her lips and knits her brows– amused. of course she's a tad worried your energy had been worn from the fucking, but, that's the funny part. she actually did that. her buzzy voice coaxes you back to animation, "want some'in to eat?" 
wait.
that's literally what you came in here for.
wait.
you peek at the green dome next to you, toppled over with dotted strawberry wedges scattered all over the stony tile– and your strawberry jam. really ellie? a pout cockles your lips into a plumper shape, notching your head on a slope, "did'ju knock over.. all of my strawberries?"
she swings her head 'round, feigning innocence, "umm– nope, wasn't me." puffing up her cheeks.
"ellie." 
she blows tersely, "i didn't!" and throws her hands up defensively– in playful spirit.
"and you ruined my panties!" you scold lightheartedly and jab your heel in the back of her thigh– a little bit of punishment. 
"ow!"
a reaction spurns from your lips, replaced by a jaded expression of hushed brows and trying lips that curl your face into one of, content. ellie forced a few puffs to spill from her open oval lips, hereafter curling into that same shit–eating grin that knows she's guilty– chuffed by herself.
then it wanes. wanes like the moon bearing its shrouded cycle. she softens up, softer than the bunny hopping across thick green grass in the season of beltane. this felt more fundamental to her than you might think, but, caring for you was her duty of worship. ever since that day she met you– the evening plait with a crimson ember engulfing air at the center of an autumntime bonfire in jackson. cold perspiration stuck to the glass held in your hands, talking the very ears off every owl present to listen. you had shared, sung, flirted, and saved the kiss for later. a later spent in her bed, all night– rising at dayspring, where she asked you to be her girlfriend at the foot of her door, just as you took your leave. 
every wound you tended to, she tended to yours, and led you here. on this farm. in your own realm of heaven.
"but seriously– do you want something to eat?"
"yeah, i'll um.." you shoo her away from her parked poise between your legs, sliding your weight off the counter with a heft of your forearms pushing you off, "clean the counter." your toes ease onto the floor with a shaky wobble, unable to even straighten your legs out at first. damn, ellie, what have you done.
"yeah, nuh–uh," she briskly bends at the torso and bars her robust arms underneath your mid–back and in the fold of your knee, sweeping you off your heels.
"els, what the f–"
she tousles her woody auburn mullet in a wag of her head, crunching you up closer with her biceps, "you, babe– are going to rest. i'll clean the counter." her brows raise at the end of her emphasized sentence, a silent 'capeesh?'.
her amenability never ceases to blossom those heartstrings of yours.
"yeah, yeah.." your eyes toss around the rim of your brow bone, and land back on her in time to spot a chuckle churn her watermelon pink lips.
those lips then settle and purse into a pucker, idly sidiling her face plumb to your forehead and peppering a moist kiss, pulling back slowly with unhindered affection tugging the corner of her lips into a satisfied smile.
"see? m'taking care of you. just as if–"
"if i was pregnant?"
"mhm.."
"you want it that badly?"
".."
"well– maybe.. jackson has some adoptable kids?"
now you're just feeding that fantasy of hers.
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taglist; @whore4abby , @picklesarenice69 (im too dumb to know who wants 2 be on my permanent taglist so pls tell me directly if u ever wanna be tagged in all of my fic posts)
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caffeinewitchcraft · 7 months ago
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The Hero and Hope (5/5)
(Part 1) (Part 2) (part 3) (part 4)
Last Time
The crack under the door lights with a sickly purple. The smell of ozone seeps into the manor. For a moment there is a silence so complete you think you’ve been struck. What was that? Magic? You’ve never seen magic before--
Screams rocket across the field. The Blacksmith’s screams. The Baker’s screams. Marie’s rage-filled howls.
“DEMON KING!”
Your Destiny burns.
---.
You have dreams the closer you get to turning fifteen. Dreams of a kingdom in the sky, a kingdom heard in the roiling clouds and in the cracks of lightning that splinter through them. This kingdom howls and chatters and hungers.
You dream that you are under these clouds. Your necks aches from staring up into them. You’re alone in a field of dead wheat and the stalks whisper prophecies whenever the kingdom above falls silent. Rivers will run with blood, flesh will lay torn across the streets, no child can hide—
In these dreams, you aren’t afraid. There is an answering snarl in your chest for every howl and prophecy you hear.
You won’t have your way. You won’t win.
I’m the Hero.
When the storm sends down a funnel of demon bats (or horned rabbits or screaming goblins or demon wolves), you leap to meet them.
------.
This isn’t a dream.
Your hands slide down from the door. Hera and Josiah are frozen in place, eyes wide and unseeing as the demon king’s presence steals the oxygen from the room. You take a step back. Then another.
All doors and windows are blocked on this level. But this manor has more than one floor.
The fighting resumes outside before Sarah realizes what you’re doing.
“Isla!” She has the strength of a mother when she grabs you this time. Your nearly choke as your collar is pulled taught against your throat by her grip on your sleeve. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To fight,” you wheeze before you can think better of it.
“Absolutely not.” Sarah attempts to pull you back, but you’re braced against her now. She grabs your sleeve with both hands. “The knights have it handled—”
“Not this—”
“—you’re to stay here.” Sarah’s lip trembles and she squares her jaw to hide it. The younger kids are holding onto her skirts, eyes wide as they stare up at you. “Understood?”
Afraid. She’s so afraid for you, so determined to keep you safe this time. You can see that winter seven years ago like you never have before; when you held the door and lost your hope in heroes, she never once looked away from your narrow back.
You have never been alone.
“Take care,” you say as gently as you can. Then, as she draws breath to speak, you rip yourself from her grasp. Your sleeve tears and Sarah’s eyes fall to your arm.
She gasps. “Isla—”
You shoulder your way through the villagers and thunder upstairs. The grand staircase leads to a hall of doors and you throw open the one at the end indiscriminately. You get the impression of books, leather furniture, a black feather quill, but it all blurs when your eyes fall on the door leading to the balcony.
That will do.
You burst out into unrelenting sunlight. Shouldn’t it be storming? In your dreams, it’s always storming. The garden is a mess of turned earth and splintered party tables. The knights’ armor flash rays of sun and the orcs – great, fleshy beasts with hardly any neck and black-sclera eyes – undulate like mountains below. You can see that some orcs are down, their giant bodies strewn across the ground, but it hardly seems to make a difference.
Not when there’s a Demon King.
You climb up onto the railing to get a better look. He’s half-hidden by the fighting, almost lounging against the treeline. He’s more human than you expected with dark, shaggy hair, and a bored look on his face. Canines the length of your index finger poke over his thin lower lip. Without the fangs, he’d be a traveling merchant, one of the ones who turned up their nose when they realized that the home they were visiting was an orphanage and not that of an affluent family.
As you watch, that sickly purple magic crackles at his fingertips. You follow his gaze to where Ivan and Marie are fighting back-to-back. The Lord is standing defiantly behind them, his horse slain mere yards away. The Lord is staring a challenge at the Demon King.
This is my land. You can see his mouth form the words, but can’t hear him over the clashing of swords and the twanging of Marie’s bow. Did he lose his voice? His exhaustion drags at his face, just visible under his fury. Green power seeps from him and into the ground as he emphasizes his Lord’s claim. You won’t have it.
The Demon King smirks. His hand twitches and purple magic soars into the sky. It arcs over the orcs’ heads, ten feet, fifteen feet, ten feet, five feet—
Ivan catches the bolt on his shield, a cry leaving his lips as the magic splashes around the edges and tears at his skin. You can smell burning flesh and ozone. Ivan falls to one knee and Marie snarls as she blocks an orc’s blow with the curve of her bow. She manages to kick the beast away, but her distraction costs her. This time Lord Brennan has to block the orc swinging a mace down upon their heads. His connection to the land wavers and the Demon King’s smirk widens into a smile.
Something in your chest cracks and you see gold.
Your destiny is like a flame on your shoulder. It drips down your arm and into your hand. Golden light is burning there and with a barely a thought, it takes the form of a spear. You hoist the spear over your shoulder and hurl it with your full strength at the ground between the orcs advancing on Marie, Ivan and Lord Brennan.
The ground shatters. The orcs are thrown back. Marie, already kneeling at Ivan’s side, jerks her gaze up to you. You see her mouth form your name.
The Demon King is as loud as he is in your dreams. “HERO!”
The word alone strikes fear in the orcs. Stupidly, a few look up at you and fail to block the next blows from the knights. One squeals and turns to the forest. You barely notice the knights chase after it.
“Isla?”
“Don’t—”
“Go back inside, his magic is too--!”
The Demon King hisses a spell. It’s fast, not the slow and contemptuous arc of power he’d thrown at the lord. Without thinking, you swipe your arm. It’s still drenched with the golden glow of your power and the air rings when the Demon King’s spell connects. You feel the blow vibrate through your bones. The magic crackles and your own power rises to meet it, filling your view with sun-bright light that washes over everything.
When the light clears, you’re still standing.
“Impossible,” the demon king says.
On instinct, you lift a hand above your head. Something presses against your palm and you grab it, drawing it down in front of you. A sword drenched in a golden haze follows. Hero’s sword. You point it at the demon king in a silent declaration. Your destiny is choking you, but your message is clear.
His lips curl in a snarl. “Attack!”
You leap down from the balcony as the demon king’s army surges. An orc charges you the moment you land, his eyes filled with the demon king’s command. He towers over you, but you’re strong enough to haul a half dozen fence posts on your own. You catch the club he swings at your head and launch him back in the same motion. He falls back a dozen steps and you follow him, slashing at his throat with your sword of light.
You’re on to the next monster before his body hits the ground.
You are new to your power, but you aren’t alone. Knights scream their second wind and fall on the monsters’ backs when their master’s command stupidly makes them turn away. A corner of your mind shrinks at the smell of blood and worse, at the sight of bodies under your feet, at the sound of armor crunching under heavy blows, but your power blocks it out. You move through the battlefield with an overwhelming, single-minded purpose.
Demon King.
“Don’t understand—”
Who is that? Your senses tell you it’s not an enemy. You duck when an orc swings a meaty fist at your head and then blink when someone severs its arm before you can.
“It’s okay, Isla,” someone says. “We’re here.”
“--she’s fourteen—”
“Argue about it later, protect her now.”
“Right.”
The Demon King isn’t relaxed when you see him next. His lips are pulled back so far you can see all his teeth. He’s commanding his monsters to stop you, to kill you, to put their bodies between you and him. One orc is bigger than the rest, a vibrant red instead of fleshy pink. It plants itself squarely in front of its master and raises a mace the length of your body.
Your power won’t let you falter, but your mind balks. Can you catch that? Block it? Those spikes are as long as your arm—
An arrow sprouts from the orc’s throat. It blinks stupidly and the purple haze clears from its eyes. Another arrow finds its mark in said eye and the beast steps back hesitantly as if unsure if its okay or not. The third arrow lets it know it’s not.
“Keep your sword tip up, Isla.”
“You’re training her now?”
“On your left, Marie!”
The Demon King must be cocky because he doesn’t try to run until it’s too late. The orc falls and his eyes widen in surprise to see you still coming for him. You’re close enough to see the color of them now, a red as deep and terrible as what’s drenching your hand.
Purple magic crackles. It’s not a spell – he’s too afraid for that – but the destructive power is unreal. The earth splinters to either side of you, causing your allies to falter for a moment. You deflect the bolt aimed for you and it explodes overhead like fireworks.
“No,” the Demon King breathes. He stumbles back and tries to ward you off with hands drenched in power. “No, I do not fall here! I am King! I am ultimate! I am—”
You throw your sword. You never really learned how to use one and this motion is more natural. For a moment, you see your Hero’s sword like your sharpened stick, sailing into the throat of a horned rabbit. Then you blink and it’s the Demon King with your sword through his meck. Blood bubbles at the corners of his mouth. One of his long-nailed hands comes up to try and grab the hilt. You’ve pierced him through.
The Demon King falls like his orcs. Confused and unsure of his own demise.
You come back to yourself the moment you feel his power die. There’s crashing through the woods as the remaining four orcs turn to flee. Absently, you mark their paths.
If the knights don’t get them, you will.
The details of the battle filter back to you gradually, like the sound returning to a forest after a rockslide. The memories of each blow you dealt tremble up your arms and the smell of one orc’s fetid breath makes you suck in a breath. That of course drags new horrible smells into your lungs and you cough so hard you gag.
A warm hand pats your back. “There, there,” Ivan says. He sounds tired. “The first one is always rough. Vomiting is okay.”
Marie grabs your hand before you can rub your face. “Don’t touch your eyes. Orc blood is corrosive.”
You twist, blinking tears out of your vision. You tremble as the memory of battle becomes fresher and fresher. You croak, “I’m an orphan, you know.”
Ivan looks taken aback. Then understanding washes over his face. “We’re acting like your parents, aren’t we? We were going to ask you after the party.”
The nausea temporarily subsides. “What?”
“She’s in shock,” Marie scolds Ivan. She fishes a clean handkerchief out of her bodice and uses it to dab under your eyes. “We want to adopt you, Isla. If you’ll have us as parents?”
You stare at them. “I—” you clear your throat. “I just meant we don’t actually know when my birthday is. Because I’m an orphan. I might be fifteen after all.’
“Oh.” Ivan opens his mouth. Closes it. “Well, do you be our daughter anyway?”
“More than anything,” you say and then vomit right onto the demon king’s corpse.
---------.
Things are both complicated and not after that.
The questions you thought were coming never get asked. Sarah isn’t upset you hid your Destiny from her and neither are any of the kids. They’re just relieved you’re alive.
Hera buries her face in your stomach before dinner that night. The Bahrs have invited you all to stay over until the last of the orcs are caught. Hera smells like their bath oils when she says, “I held the door, Isla. Nobody got in.”
There’s a lump in your throat as you pet her damp hair. “You did. You were very brave.”
“I helped,” Josiah says. Unlike Hera, he eyes your arm from a distance. Your mark is covered in a fresh cotton shirt, but it’s like he can see it anyway. Finally he collapses into you. “It’s not fair. You’re our Hero. Now you’re going to have be everyone’s.”
You lean down to press a kiss into his hair. “I’m too mean to be everyone’s Hero. I’ll just be yours, okay?”
“Good,” Josiah says. Then, after a long moment. “Though you should be nicer to us now.”
“No,” you say fondly.
The complicated part comes when the Bahrs enter the dining room after Sarah has gotten you all seated.
Ivan’s arm is in a sling, but he smiles widely when he sees the spread Josiah, Annie and Sarah have cooked up. He compliments them on their efforts, thanks them, and takes a seat at the head of the table.
Marie pauses by you before she takes her seat. She lingers by your chair until you turn to look at her. “Isla.”
You swallow. “Marie.”
Is it just you or is Marie as nervous as you are?
“Would you…sit by me?” she asks. Her eyes flick to the seat just to the right of her side of the table. You may not be a noble, but you know what that seat means.
Your voice wavers. You’re suddenly very conscious of the kids looking at you, of the way Sarah’s pressed a hand to her mouth. In surprise? To hide her pleasure? “If—if I can?”
“Yes,” Marie says quickly. “Yes, if you don’t mind, I mean, if you’re able to be drawn away—”
Lord Brennan throws open the dining room doors with an astonishing crash. He isn’t dressed for company and his long sleeping robe is drenched with the water still dripping from his hair. “I am starving. Is there—” He catches sight of the table and his mouth drops open in surprise. “You were all about to have dinner? Without me?”
“You were in a coma, my lord,” Ivan says.
“I was taking a nap,” Lord Brennan corrects. His golden eyes catalogue the way Marie is standing over you, the three empty seats at the end of the table opposite Ivan. Rather than claiming the empty head of the table seat, he strides over to Ivan. “Up, up you get.”
“There’s another seat you can take!” Ivan complains. He guards his plate of food. “I just served myself.”
“Go sit with your wife and daughter,” Lord Brennan commands. He nearly sits on Ivan when the other man stands too slowly. He smiles charmingly at Sarah. “Director. Fancy seeing you here.”
Sarah flushes up to her ears.
“Daughter?” Hera asks.
Your stomach turns over. Oh god. It’s not fair that they asked you – you were too happy to think about it, but the other kids must be devastated—
But Hera doesn’t look sad. She’s staring at you for an answer, her eyes open and accepting.
“Y-yeah,” you say.
“Hell yeah,” Josiah says. “If the Bahrs adopt you that means I can read through their library right?”
Annie looks up at you. “And we can come visit?”
“Of course you all can,” Marie answers. Is her voice a little misty? “You all can stay here as long as you like.”
“Go sit with them,” Hera says. She smiles and pushes at you. “Go on.”
It’s the best meal you’ve ever had.
-----
(Part 1) (Part 2) (part 3) (part 4)
------------------
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sundays-lover · 2 months ago
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stupid in love
husband!zhongli x gn!reader — fluff
synopsis: you're a talkative drunk and zhongli is in love.
content warning: reader is drunk and mentioned to have hair (lmk if i missed anything !)
notes: NOT PROOFREAD <3 ; zhongli is a wonderful lover but let's not forget that he is also canonically a menace 🫶 ; i'm writing and posting as much as i can rn bc i'll be inactive this week because of exams 😭
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zhongli can't recall a time when he felt this helpless.
as the geo archon, he possesses the strength of a thousand meteors raining from the sky and has emerged victorious from numerous battles. his voice has commanded countless armies and his hands formed the towering mountains liyue is well-known for today. he is a respectable leader who can devise efficient strategies to overcome any obstacle he may face.
however, at this moment, he is not rex lapis, the god of contracts and liyue's archon. he is the simple zhongli, the funeral consultant of the wangsheng funeral parlor and, above everything, your husband.
tonight, his duty is to get you home. unfortunately for him, you don't seem to want to comply.
you notified him this morning that you and your co-workers would be going out for drinks that night to celebrate a successful business deal, with the promise that you would be monitoring how much you'll drink. while he had his doubts, he trusted that you would have a sense of rationality regardless of if you were sober or not and didn't question you further.
in hindsight, he supposes he should have enforced his doubts when he bumped into a co-worker of yours as he clocked out of work, who sounded tipsy, yet sober enough to inform him that you were currently drunk off your mind and needed help getting home.
that is exactly how he found himself trying to calm down a drunk you on the streets of liyue.
you threw yourself onto him the moment he arrived, not even bothering to bid goodnight to your acquaintances who were putting a group effort into keeping you balanced. after zhongli thanked them for finding him and wished them farewell in your stead, they took their leave. as they turn to head to their respective homes, they could hear you loudly thanking your lover for coming get you.
while the area was significantly less populated at night compared to during the day, the unusual sight of the normally collected funeral consultant struggling to bring his drunkenly rambling spouse home caught the attention of whoever was in the vicinity, causing an embarrassed blush to spread to his face which he ultimately chose to ignore.
his experience as a god and warrior never could have prepared him for this situation, he surmises.
meanwhile, you catch the look of powerlessness on his face and stifle a laugh.
“heh, you look so stupid right now~!”
zhongli gapes at you as you burst into a fit of giggles.
“my husband~ so silly~ so dumb~” your hands reach out and cup his face before he has the chance to pull back.
he merely stares at you as you sing what he wants to believe are praises in your drunken tongue. at this distance—or rather, the lack thereof—he can see your details more clearly; your hair is disheveled and eyes droopy. your gaze is unfocused yet fixated on the way his skin squishes under your thumb.
but he thinks you're beautiful nonetheless. the glow of the street lanterns frame your figure and he thinks you look akin to the radiant sun. moonlight shines down upon you and its gleam creates the illusion of you emitting a halo. he takes these as signs from the universe, reminding him to cherish you with his entire being, for they have sent him their best. he is certain that whatever celestia can offer does not hold a candle to you.
this god of stone crumbles to dust from your touch alone…
while you busy yourself with poking and pinching his cheeks.
he regains awareness of the situation and breaths a resigned sigh. you watch his face soften and shift to an expression that almost looks pleading, and you gasp loudly.
“ooh! so handsome!!!” you squeal, attracting even more onlookers. “i want to kiss you on the mouff—”
zhongli beats you to it, placing a hand behind your head and gently leaning in for a kiss as deep as his adoration for you. you think your knees would have buckled if it weren't for the arm he had wrapped around your waist. you think you hear some of the lady passersby coo at your display of romance, but the echo of your heartbeat in your ears drowns them out.
his lips move slowly against yours, savoring the flavor of the bitter remnants of alcohol mixed with the sweetness of your lips. he doesn't think he's ever tasted a flavor as divine as this.
you are dazed when he pulls away, as though bewitched. he notices and chuckles, eyes full of mirth and tenderness as they peer into yours.
he speaks up, almost breathless. “you look very…”
no, no, no! if he starts charming and complimenting you after all that, you might think you’ll consider marrying him for a second time—
“...stupid right now, my love.”
you blink once. twice.
then you burst.
“you…!”
you thrash in his hold and bury your face in his chest, feeling a bashful warmth rise to your face for the first time tonight.
“you can't pull that on me! so mean…” you mumble into the lapel of his coat.
he chuckles again, more heartily this time. ugh, darn that handsome laugh…
“i apologize, my love.” you sense a teasing lilt, but you can tell he's sincerely coaxing you. a hand remains on the back of your head as you lean against him, fingers softly running through the strands of your hair.
zhongli remains that way, patiently waiting for your emotions to settle. when he hears you meekly mutter his name, he turns to you in his hold.
“yes, dearest?”
“...let's go home, please?”
he mentally sighs in relief. externally, he calmly adheres to your request with a nod. “then we shall head home at once.”
he pulls away to position you so that you are held onto his arm as he leads you home, acting as your support while you keep yourself upright.
the walk home is neither dull nor quiet as you relentlessly babble about any and every topic that you can think of. you sway and stumble over the rocky pavement, but your incredibly attentive husband would never let you fall. frankly, he'd be more than happy to carry you if you asked.
a thought briefly flashes in his mind concerning how he's going to peacefully get you washed up and tucked in bed, but one look at you chatting away into the night and he supposes that he can afford to save those worries for after arriving home. until then, he entertains your mindless chatters with hums of acknowledgement and short quips as you walk arm in arm.
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littlelamy · 2 months ago
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PLEASEE dad Rafe where the reader is like a Pilates mom trophy wife, and she and Rafe have kids and UGHHHHHHHH traditional rich family the kind Rafe would have.
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⭐️i love making little moodboards for this theme so disregard if you dont like it, but i hope you enjoy! ⭐️
rafe pulls up in the blacked-out suv, the engine a low, contented hum as he steps out, shoulders squared, exuding that effortless confidence that still sends a spark through you. the sun dips lower in the sky, casting golden rays over the sprawling lawn as the kids burst out, laughing and calling back to him, backpacks slung carelessly over their shoulders. they race each other toward the house, shouting over who gets the last snack in the pantry, and rafe just shakes his head, watching with that quiet pride that’s become second nature to him.
you’re settled by the pool, lounging on one of the cushioned chairs with your favorite oversized sunglasses perched on your nose, a fresh iced latte in hand. you’re fresh from pilates, dressed in a crisp white athleisure set that rafe has already told you he loves—a little too much, given the look he’s giving you right now. you pull your sunglasses down, meeting his gaze with a smile that’s just for him.
he saunters over, hands sliding into the pockets of his perfectly tailored pants. the sun catches in his hair, bringing out the few strands of blonde that the summer hadn’t quite left behind. there’s a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, that warm gleam in his eyes, hinting at that wild edge that he still carries, even now. and it’s there, in that look, that you see how completely wrapped up in you he still is.
“hey, stranger,” you murmur, lifting your drink in a silent toast as he drops into the chair next to you, leaning close enough that you can catch his aftershave, something dark and woodsy. you see his gaze flicker over you, taking in every detail like he’s still half-surprised by the life you both built.
“missed you today,” he says, voice low and sweet. you give a playful shrug, pretending not to notice how his hand casually finds yours, warm fingers threading between yours, the way he’s always done.
you shake your head, leaning back and giving a little sigh, mock-serious. “all i did was pilates and a trip to the club, rafe,” you tease. “how’d you survive without me?”
his laugh is quiet, but you catch that glint in his eye. “barely,” he says, thumb tracing gentle circles along the side of your hand, a gesture so natural you barely even notice it anymore. he pauses, looking out at the kids, who are now a blur in the distance, likely digging around for snacks or on their way to the game room. and it’s in that moment—just the two of you with the day slipping into evening—that you feel the absolute certainty he has in this life, in the family you’ve built.
you turn to him, watching as his gaze softens, and there’s something that pulls at your heart, this deep, endless feeling he has for you, even after all these years. you’re the perfect vision of his world, a pilates-mom trophy wife, the gleaming pool and manicured lawn the backdrop to a life that’s both beautiful and grounded, something he never knew he wanted until he had it. and yet, in his gaze, it’s so clear how much he appreciates every inch of it.
“think i’m going to make something special for dinner,” you say, though you both know it’ll be the chef taking care of most of it. but the idea of you, his wife, planning out dinner like this is exactly the sort of scene he loves—a glimpse of something tender and old-fashioned, just for the two of you.
he grins, giving you that lopsided smile. “save some time for me afterward?”
“always,” you reply, resting your head on his shoulder as the sun dips low. it’s not the first time you’ve had this moment, and it won’t be the last—but that’s exactly what makes it so perfect.
he’s quiet for a moment, eyes still tracing the outline of your face before his hand slides around to the back of your neck, pulling you in close for a slow kiss. his lips press into yours with that intensity that still makes your heart race, like he’s savoring every second, every touch.
when he pulls back, his gaze is a shade darker, playful but serious all at once. he lowers his voice. “the kids aren’t here, you know.”
your heart flutters, and you bite back a smile. “they’re just inside,” you murmur, a teasing note in your voice.
“exactly. not here.” his hand drifts down your arm, sending a shiver through you as he smirks, voice dropping lower. “and, by the way… that little package you ordered just came in.” his fingers trace along your wrist, up your arm, igniting little sparks of excitement. “saw it in the bedroom.”
you feign a casual shrug, but the look in his eyes makes it impossible to keep the smile from your face. “oh? did it now?” you ask, feigning innocence. “must have slipped my mind.”
he laughs softly, his thumb brushing across your cheek as his gaze roams over you, lingering in a way that makes you feel like the only woman in the world. “you knew exactly what you were doing,” he murmurs, voice tinged with admiration and something else—something wild. he leans in, his lips just grazing your ear as he whispers, “think you could model it for me later?”
your cheeks warm, and you feel your pulse quicken, unable to hide your grin. “if you think you can keep the kids distracted…”
his smirk widens, a promise in his gaze. “i’ll figure something out,” he says, his voice filled with that familiar mischief. he presses another kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to leave you breathless, anticipation simmering between you as the sun sinks lower, casting long shadows over the beautiful life you’ve built together.
taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafecameroninterlude @sstargirln
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aurumalatus · 3 months ago
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𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘
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pairing. kinich x fem!reader
word count. 1.6k
genre/warnings. pixelprincess!au (princess!reader x knight!kinich), graphic depictions of violence/terrorism
summary.
when the abyssal army attacks the kingdom, you and kinich end up trapped in the chaos. battered and broken and pushed to his limits, kinich gives everything he has to protect you.
author's note. a more serious drabble between the two, a huge contrast to the first one LOL. this one touches a bit on kinich's lore on this universe (i.e. having dragon powers), and a lot of semi-romantic commitment to each other <3 i hope you enjoy, reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!
𝐩𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬!𝐚𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
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Your ears are ringing.
It had been sunset moments ago, you think. Your father had been delivering a speech to the people in the Capital square to celebrate your latest victory over the Abyssal army. Something had flashed in the distance, and suddenly, Kinich was saying something you couldn’t hear, running and leaping at you and tackling you to the ground, and—
What’s going on?
There’s a puff of breath hot against your neck. Your eyes open, and you flinch hard when Kinich is staring directly at you, multicolored irises boring into your own. He’s so close that your noses are brushing, that you’re sharing air.
What’s going on?
He groans, pushing the ruins of the building off his back—off of you. Your eyes sting from the smoke pooling in the sky. The distinct scent of ash and burning flesh permeates the air, and you nearly vomit from the stench.
“Kinich?” you breathe out.
What’s going on?
He hisses in a breath, hoisting the greatsword from his back—it flashes gold in the dying light. Taking a cursory glance around, he pushes himself to his knees.
“Listen. You’re going to stand up,” he commands, somehow calm, “and we’re going to run. Wait for my count.”
What’s going on?
You give him a once-over. He’s already injured, covered in fresh bruises and wounds. Your fingers twitch toward the growing patch of crimson over his stomach. “You’re bleeding—”
“Princess,” Kinich interrupts. There’s not a whisper of mirth in his tone, not like usual—this is the Captain of the Guard that you hear of so rarely. “Did you hear me? You’re going to stand up—”
Another blast rocks the ground, and you wince as dirt and gravel spray across your face. Kinich takes the brunt of it, shielding you with his body, and he coughs when a particularly large piece of debris slices across his back. The smoke grows thicker, you realize; you can see it coalescing above his head, snuffing out the sun.
What’s going on?
Your breathing comes in quick, but it doesn’t come out—in fact, you realize you can’t breathe at all. Your heartbeat quickens, pounding against your chest. You’re panicking.
Kinich glances over his shoulder at the carnage, then quietly curses; it’s probably much worse than you can see. You wonder if the citizens have already safely evacuated. You wonder about the king and queen—you hadn’t seen where they’d gone when Kinich first tackled you down.
What’s going on?
“My parents…where are they?” you choke out in a gasp. He attempts to pull you up, but you resist in your panic. “Kinich, wait—we have to find them. My parents, we have to—”
“Listen to me!”
A roar bursts from Kinich’s chest—it’s nothing compared to the cacophony that pierces the air, but it’s unfamiliar coming from someone like him. It shocks you into wide-eyed silence, and he takes you by the shoulders, touch contrastingly gentle. His gaze is hard, bypassing all your confusion and piercing right into your soul.
“You are my only priority right now.” Something explodes in the distance—he winces at the sound, tucking one hand under your neck and pulling you closer to his chest, protected. His voice echoes again, right at your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “I can fight, and I can kill, and I can die, but you are going to make it out of here alive. That is what matters to me. I will do anything to keep you safe. So please stand up.”
No matter how much Kinich annoys you on a daily basis, deep down you know you need someone like him—someone who doesn’t care much to sugarcoat things for you, someone who rarely bothers with formalities, someone who overlooks your title in favor of you. His words are the gravity bringing you back to earth, and you only nod in reply.
He nods back, relieved. “Good. Don’t be afraid. I’m with you.”
Carefully, he loops your arms around his shoulders, and on his count, you heave yourself upwards. It hurts—you scream as it happens, every single one of your muscles and bones aching in protest. Kinich’s jaw sets tightly, teeth grinding together so hard you can practically hear it.
“I know it hurts, Princess,” he murmurs. Your combined weight is too much; he stabs his sword into the ground, using it as a cane to pull you forward. “Stay with me here.”
Every step is laborious. Battle still rages on around you, and it’s difficult to navigate the ruins in your state. The smoke grows thicker—Kinich tears a piece off his tattered cape, commanding you to hold it over your mouth and nose. For himself, he pulls down his headband, letting it mask the bottom half of his face. His hair is longer than you remember, bangs falling messily over his forehead. It’s a useless detail, but it’s all you can focus on in the havoc.
“You still with me?”
Kinich’s hand falls over yours, squeezing it once—a comfort. You squeeze back, trying to hold back the tears pricking at your eyes.
“I’m still here.”
Your voice cracks.
The sound of Abyssal beasts echoes, and your heartbeat quickens—you’ll be defenseless if they catch you. Normally, it wouldn’t be a problem with Kinich by your side, but he’s more injured than he lets on. He grunts in pain with each step, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead from the exertion.
The more you move, the less everything makes sense. You can’t tell up from down or left from right. All you can hear is screams and moans of pain and the roars of monsters. One of them sounds from your immediate right—Kinich curses, and you sense something coming closer.
“We’ll have to fight,” he says hurriedly, scrambling to find somewhere to put you down.
Kinich always carries a dagger at his thigh, ever prepared in case he loses his sword, and he unsheathes it as he sets you on the ground. He presses the handle of it into your hand—your ribbon is still tied around the grip, a token of good luck, proof of your wish for his safety. 
“If I fall, or the Abyss corrupts me, use this. Don’t forget what I taught you.”
“Kinich—”
“Promise me.”
His eyes say it all—he’s desperate, curling your fingers under his own so that you properly hold the blade, willing his remaining strength into you. Your grip tightens on the dagger, and you nod weakly. Kinich’s body sags in relief.
“May the Abyss take my soul if I ever abandon you,” he whispers, quoting his oath. It almost makes you nostalgic. You remember the ceremony well—he’d exuded a quiet strength even back then. “May my skin tear from bone if you ever suffer.”
It feels like a goodbye.
For the first time in the mess, you take a good look at his face, at the state of him. His left eye is swelling shut quickly. You thumb over the purpling skin, a single tear sliding down your cheek at the sheer damage. He’s already lost so much blood, a crimson flower blooming across his stomach. His armor is dirty and dinged with scratches, even burned away in certain places. You’re not sure how he’s still even moving.
You’ve always held a deep faith in Kinich’s abilities. He’s been the calm in the storms of your life until now, every assassination attempt, every obstacle, every misstep. You know it’s due to your own hesitation that he’d gotten this hurt, and it scares you—after all, he’s still mortal just like you. In his current state, he stands no chance against the army of Abyss monsters around you.
Your hand drags down to his cheek. “Kinich, leave me.”
He pulls away from your touch, gaze flashing with anger. “No.”
Your jaw tightens. “Kinich, that’s an order.”
He rises to his feet, unsteady, his greatsword lifted weakly at his side. The monsters are coming, drawing out of the darkness. “And I refuse it.”
His steps are unnaturally heavy as he staggers forward, cutting down one of the beasts. He fights with grace, even now, not a single movement wasted in his battle. You wish you’d asked him to teach you more—you can’t even move, but your mind screams at you to help him.
One of the monsters catches him in the back, and he roars out in pain before turning and stabbing it through the neck. He’s still fighting, but the fire within him is burning out quickly, and you can sense it. A patch of pixel-like scales flashes over his neck, a power bubbling just beneath the surface, but he can’t seem to draw it out fully—he’s too weak, too tired.
You push yourself up on your arms, trying to crawl toward him. Your throat is raw from the smoke and ash, but still you find the strength to scream.
“I am the princess of Natlan! You are bound by your duty to carry out my orders—”
He turns to you, pulling his headband off his face, and you gasp in a breath—his skin is painted in hues of green and gold, lines of tattoos criss-crossing his arms and legs, cutting across his features. He’s glowing so brightly that it burns the smoke away, until all you can see is your knight standing before you, defiant. His eyes meet yours, and despite the power that pours out of him, his expression is pleading.
“Fire me then, Princess. Exile me. Have me executed for disobeying you. Do whatever you want to me when this is all over, but for now, they’ll have to cut me down before they take another step toward you.”
Three more Abyssal monsters approach, claws flashing, and you scream as Kinich turns back to face them. They lunge before he can react, millimeters from cutting into his skin, and then—
A pulse vibrates under your feet just as a white-hot light explodes in front of you, burning into your eyes. You can’t tell who’s yelling—maybe it’s you, or maybe it’s Kinich, but it makes your eardrums ring and sting. You reach out desperately but find nothing.
Everything goes dark.
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theherohaven · 5 months ago
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— FALLING IN LOVE WITH NARUTO CHARACTERS
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FEATURING gaara, kakashi, neji
genre: light angst, but happy endings!
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— gaara
falling in love with gaara is:
reaching out to him, but never far enough. watching him from a distance, but being too scared to close the gap. it’s the waning, sapping sun that disappears behind the sandstorm, and it’s the smooth marble skin of his hands and the bitter stars that make his hair less red.
it’s his surgeon eyes and the barren air and how his voice is always so soft. it’s his healing heart and his calm smile and how you’ll never truly be able to understand him. falling in love with gaara leaves your heart bursting on the sand.
but when you watch the setting sky you’ll find solace in his hands (he’ll muster up the bravery to interlock it with yours—because with you, gaara has finally found a home!)
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— kakashi
falling in love with hatake kakashi is:
being teased, relentlessly. constant confusion, dancing around the truth, pushing boundaries and then disappearing. it's blushing furiously and scrambling for a retort; his lazy blinks, his smutty novels, the squareness of his jaw through his mask.
it's being devoured in a single glance, being left breathless and confused. his paradoxically lazy arrogance which makes your heart race. its the wide expanse of his shoulders, the dexterity of his hands.
sometimes you'll hate him, you'll want to punch that stupid sharingan right out of his face. but then you find a bunch of your favourite flowers left on your windowsill, with a note bearing handwriting that is all too familiar.
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— neji
falling in love with hyuga neji is:
lingering feelings of inadequacy compared to him, sparks of competitiveness, however futile. it's his elegance, his grace, and your consequential awe. falling in love with neji is like walking through a grove of cherry blossom trees.
those wide, endlessly searching, lilac eyes, that solemn mouth, that beautiful voice of his: he is stern, classically handsome.
although his contemplative temperament gets you disheartened sometimes, he is truly a gentleman. before you even have time to feel sorry for yourself, he is kissing your hand, touching your cheek, forever looking out for your well-being.
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bubbles-for-all-of-us · 4 months ago
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Even if the sky was falling
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Part II
warning: fighting, blood, sexual tension if you squint, fire and angst… 😈
request: had this thought about azriel xteacher!reader fem or gn if you prefer and reader teaches nyx so the IC interacts with the reader a lot and all love her and think she’d be perfect with az but he’s too much of a wimp to make it official but they are still flirty. basically fate makes him man up when nyx’s class is attacked and reader is trying to protect him and then az saves the day.
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Nyx, as much as he was brave and outgoing with his family, turned into the shell of himself when exposed to people he didn’t know. And while he loved to learn and genuinely was a curious kid, school hadn’t come easy for him. “We would be nowhere close to where we are now if not for Y/n”, Feyre mused once the conversation had once again slipped to Nyx over dinner. “She puts lots of care into looking after him”, Rhys nodded along, “He loves her too”. That had of course peaked Azriel’s curiosity. He didn’t sense danger but you could never trust anyone, especially a stranger, fully. And this was his family he was talking about. One he had sworn to protect.
That’s how the spymaster had found himself slowly walking towards the school. There had still been hours till pick-up time, but he wanted to see you in action. Working that magic of yours and magic he had seen. It had been a beautiful day in Velaris, the sun high in the sky, warm breeze rattling the leaves. The laughter was impossible to miss. It was infectious. Bumping off every surface. In the middle of it stood you, surrounded by ecstatic faces as they swarmed you. Like little bees trying to land on the prettiest of flowers.
Azriel still struggled with the concept of care and love. His imagination was wild but he could never imagine a happy childhood. A warm and safe home. He had that now, yes, but to have that from birth? To be loved from the first breath you take. That was foreign to him. So he stood there watching how you spun around in a circle. Clapping your hands to the nursery rimes the kids were belting out. And your smile had made Azriel smile too. Slightly. Ever so slightly making him smile.
“Uncle Az”, Nyx's excited voice had caught up with Azriel when he had finally crossed the schoolyard. With no effort the spymaster had caught the boy with one hand, lifting him onto his shoulder. “Have you been good today, bud”, Azriel patted him on the stomach, making Nyx nod eagerly, “I was, I was really good, right Mrs. Y/n”, his eager purple eyes trailed back to you and Azriel felt as if a goddess was now in front of him. You had been pretty from afar, but up close….
“I don’t know them broccolis, didn’t make it to your mouth did they?”, you raised your eyebrows, crossing your arms over your chest. “You didn’t eat your broccoli?” Azriel looked back at his nephew who was sending silent daggers your way. “They smell like Uncle Cassian’s farts”, the boy whined. The silence felt for a moment as Azriel turned to glance at you, for some reason feeling the need to apologize for Nyx’s words only to catch a big smile. And within the heartbeat, both of you had burst out laughing. “Go get yourself a bun, you little devil”, Azriel shook his head, letting the boy down.
The promise of a sweet bun had delighted him but Nux still turned to you first. Running to hug your knees as he glanced up at you. “Till tomorrow, Y/n”, he mused, that Rhys’s smile on his face now. “You say hi to your parents from me”, your fingers threaded through his hair. “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow”, you mussed, bending down to cup his cheek before kissing the top of his head, watching as he ran off towards the stand, Azriel’s shadows twirling alongside him.
“So, the day has come”, you mussed attention now fixed on the Illyrian in front of you. “I have no idea what you are talking about Mrs. Y/n”, Azriel's firm tone found you. “I saw you in the field, the tree was big but you were bigger”, You narrowed your eyes at him. And he thought he was smooth out there. “You sure know how to flatter a male”, Azriel mussed, crossing his arms over his chest, the toned tattooed muscles gleaming, “Nothing rubs my ego more than being called big”.
You let out a gasp, clipping him on the side with one hand, “Watch your mouth”, you shushed him, “There are kids here”. But now standing so close to him, you could feel the way your heart picked up. He was beautiful. Mother, every woman in Velaris probably had brought herself to an orgasm just thinking about the spymaster. “What would they say if they knew what their teacher was thinking about just now”, his words felt like a cold bucket, yet your cheeks bloomed red. “You’re no mind reader”, you scoffed, “Ego pressing on the little brain?”. Azriel caught your wrist, pinning it behind your back. Another gasp slipped past your lips as his chest pressed against you, “But I can smell it”, he mussed, “Come have dinner with me”. You couldn’t help but laugh, “Nice try”, you muttered. “I’ll fly you over myself if I have to”, Azriel warned. “Maybe you’ll have to come more often”, you made sure the enfaces the third to last word, causing Azriel to let out a lower chuckle, “You’re dangerous”, “Yet you are here”, you beamed at him.
It had stayed like this. This push and pull. Push and pull for weeks. Azriel had become accustomed to picking Nyx up almost every day. It was his easy pass to see you. Even if every time he walked through the gates he was met with an eye roll from you. And while you loved to prod and poke each other there had always been a sense of ease. As if finally someone had seen him. On some nights Azriel even found himself sharing the gruesome side of his job. And it had been your soft hands that had coxed him back to safety. Your eyes that had managed to see through the debris and find the truth beneath it all.
A light smile hadn’t left his face ever since and now as he finished the last bits of work for the day, he couldn’t wait to go get you. Drop Nyx home and spend the evening together. Just you and him. That was until something flashed across the sky. Azriel frowned pushing his chair back. Just he didn’t make it far as a loud explosion rattled the buildings. Alarms rang through the city as people started screaming outside. He was about to rush through the doors when his shadows slammed right into him. Bringing with them the sound of screaming. Children screaming. Women screaming. And a familiar voice there. Your voice and his whole body ran cold.
Everything had died down after that, all Azriel heard was static as he winnowed in front of a burning building. Some figures draped in black swirled around the school. Daggers in hand. His soldiers were already there, falling like stars from the sky. But all Azriel could think of was you and Nyx, somewhere there in the burning building. His feet moved faster than his mind as he hit the jammed door with his shoulder, breaking it in the first time. The ashen face of an elderly woman was the first thing he saw, and a litter of kids with faces shoved against her skirt in hopes of breathing as little fumes as possible.
“Come on, my man will keep you safe”, he reached out, steadying her and then counting up the little ones. “Who else is here?”, he asked through the crackling. “Upstairs”, she sobbed, “Please”. Azriel’s head snapped to the stairs. The broken down stair that had no doubt made it impossible for the ones upstairs to leave.
He could feel heartbeats. Racking through them to find a familiar one. And then a scream tore through the walls. Nyx’s name and… He was winnowing up. Ripping door after door he searched for the place you both had to be in. Eyes burning from the smoke. “Hand him over”, a thick voice snarled. “Fuck yourself and bend over”, you wheezed. Azriel’s boot came in contact with the center of the last door. And there you were a broken glass in hand as you shoved Nyx behind you. And an ill-looking male with a bloodied sword in front of you. Azriel’s shadows swarmed him, drowning the male in the dark as they pushed through every possible way into his body, the screams filling the small space. You turned back, clasping your hands around Nyx, pressing his face into your chest so he would not have to see it. It was in the infamous spymaster in front of you, in his real and lethal form as he stepped over the body trashing beneath him. His fingers that so carefully held you now gripped the jaw of the man who had threatened your life, Nyx’s life.
“You owe me a handful of breaths”, Azriel muttered against his ear, “And I will make you pay for them. You’ll wish you never breathed at all”, the coldness poured out of him. And if not for the coughs that slipped from Nyx’s lips you were sure that Azriel wouldn’t have moved from his spot. But his head snapped to the side, the complete darkness leaving his eyes. His shadows moved around you, offering you both oxygen. In two steps he had crossed the distance between you two. In two steps that had made you curl deeper into yourself as you held onto Nyx.
Azriel's jaw flexed as he watched you recoil from him. He felt your fear, it was all over. “I will not hurt you”, he muttered, “I’ll just get you both out”, his voice was back to the honey cone smoothness, as his hand wrapped around your shoulder. “Uncle Az”, Nyx choked out. “Try to breathe as little as possible, buddy”, Azriel’s palm cupped the back of Nyx’s head, “it will all be over soon”.
It felt almost like waking up from a nightmare. The fog cleared up. Air returning to your lungs. The light of flames was replaced by the sun. There was much more noise here. The screaming. You blinked to see parents looking for their kids. Mother’s weeping. “Mom”, Nyx pushed against your chest but you clung to him, “Daddy”, his voice broke. You felt him trashing in your arms but you couldn’t let go. Warm hands slid over your hands, gently pulling them apart, “He’s safe, you kept him safe”, Azriel’s voice flooded your mind. You watch Nyx’s trembling legs crossing the distance between him and his parents. The high lord falling to his knees as he wrapped the little boy in his arms. Your legs bucked, only to be met with a firm grasp on your hips as you collapsed into Azriel’s embrace.
“I’ve got you”, he muttered, “You are safe, my love, no one will hurt you”. You looked up, feeling the sting in your eyes, “Azriel”, you breathed. “I know”, he nodded, brushing the strand of your hair away from your face. You watched him for a moment, dizziness creeping in. Until your gaze darted down slowly, where warmth had been gathering all this time. “What is it?”, Azriel asked as his eyes followed yours. You heard the breath hitching in his throat before his palm pressed against your abdomen. Somewhere deep in your consciousness, you knew that you should have screamed out. But as you watched crimson seeping through his fingers you almost felt as if this body wasn’t yours.
“Y/n, my love, can you hear me”, Azriel’s worried eyes watched you, “Fuck”, cursing he looked around in panic, “Fuck, someone, please we need a healer here”. You felt Azriel’s hand slowly brushing against your back as he lowered you onto the grass. “Keep your eyes on me”, he pleaded, “Let me see your pretty eyes, I missed them so much today, did you know that?”, he was rambling you noted, something he never did. But you nodded anyway, “I missed you”, you muttered right back as his eyes snapped to the side. He was searching for a healer you did not doubt it. “Azriel”, you breathed out, but he didn’t budge. “Az”, you muttered, bringing your shaky palm to cup his cheek.
“Don’t you dare do this to me”, he whined through gritted teeth. “Come closer”, you muttered, feeling the way his hand dug into the wound on your side. But he followed your wishes this time, leaning closer till your foreheads were pressed together. “Tell me something you haven’t told me before”, you muttered, feeling your eyelids getting heavy. Azriel nuzzled against your cheek and you could feel his tears brushing onto your skin. “I love you”, he breathed, “I’m in love with you”, that was enough to make your heart leap up, tugging at the feeling so familiar, ancient, and deep. “And I love you”, you smiled at him, “Even if the sky falls and till my last breath then”, you felt him pulling back then, pulling at the thread joining you as one. You tugged as hard as your body allowed you, watching his golden eyes till your eyes couldn’t stay open anymore. Till you were sure the whole earth rattled as Azriel screamed.
582 notes · View notes
taegularities · 5 months ago
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you're okay | myg (m)
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Summary: Let it hurt and burn. Let it out; and then let it fade away. Let it heal. Yoongi can't lift all your burdens, but he has taught you at least this much over the years.
➳ pairing: Yoongi x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: s2l/est. rel.; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: this one's heavy :') pov switches, switching between past and present, reference to the d-day documentary, mental health issues, therapy, depression and anxiety, mentioned unaliving attempt, mentions of fainting, slight mention of SA, implied panic attack, lots of trauma, lots of sadness, healing journey/healing with yoongi, feelings of loneliness, feeling unworthy, oc is very unsure and thinks she's a burden, tears and crying; explicit sexual content: (brief) protected sex, oral (f. receiving), masturbation, kissing/making out. please heed the warnings <3 ➳ word count: 11.5k ➳ a/n: hi hi. not the average taegularities fic, i think. once again, please do note the warnings before reading. it's okay if it's too heavy and you need breaks – take care of yourself. it's a very very personal piece that i just needed to get out of my system. yoongi's snooze inspired it; i still cry when i listen to it – i'm thankful it saved me in so many ways, and i hope you feel the same way about this fic. i love you all; here's to healing and living 💕 ➳ listen to: snooze by agust d ft. ryuichi sakamoto & woosung 🤍
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TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs
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The weather changes at warp speed these days.
When you left just this morning, it was raining buckets. The shower barely allowed a glimpse at the sky, grey as smoke; ominous clouds were bursting, fast cars and busy passengers on the sidewalk rushing through the world.
You were one of them, not necessarily impressed by the downpour. But you smiled when someone halted, stretching an arm to force the doors of the bus open until you were inside.
The tender gesture lit up your gloomy morning, a proof of how the world isn’t all misery and ruin. For a couple minutes and hours, that stranger’s smile lifted the weight off your leather jacket clad shoulders. You were burdened by nothing but the bag hanging on your side.
But now, the same jacket is draped over your arm and feels much heavier than before; stripped off when the sun broke through the clouds around the afternoon. The additional weight gives you grief; you’re relieved when you hang it onto a rack, step out of your shoes and drag yourself to the bathroom.
God, all actions seem so passive these days.
Passive and automatic, just half-conscious. You’re fatigued and lost in your head. Frankly, you need your bed. You hate that you still need to shower. You wish you could skip that part and still keep your body healthy and clean.
And as you stand under the water, shifting your balance to the right leg and back, you realise that another work day is over and another one is coming. Interactions, productivity, the craving your bed. You need the weightlessness.
So much so that you soon feel the knot in your chest, intensifying, and the heat of the water combines with an uncomfortable breathlessness until your knees bend a little. Immediately, you plant your palms against the bathroom tiles, taking a seat on the shower floor.
You cross your legs; the thought of your father is immediate because he always taught you to take a seat wherever once you start feeling dizzy. Since that one adolescence day when you passed out and hurt your chin, you have followed this advice and prevented worse.
Your head spins for a moment, your chest tight; and you hear a dull thump. There’s an odd rustle in your ears, mixed with the sound of the dripping water; so you don’t notice the call of your name right away.
Keeping your answer absent for another moment, you only wrap your arms around your chest, just to keep yourself whole. You feel like your body might fracture into a dozen pieces.
The shampoo bottle that presumably caused the thump before rolls against you, and you gasp in uncomfortable surprise; immediately hear another slurred, “Hey! Are you okay? What’s going on?”
It's him; he’s always worried. Maybe that’s what you’ve been struggling with so much lately. The fact that you never suffer alone whenever the weight on your shoulder and brain drags you down too far.
A worried voice chimes again, breaking the sound of the shower jet, and you suddenly become hyper aware of his concern, rushing to finally get out. You exclaim a reassuring, “All good!” before the silence can prolong or betray you.
His calls stop, probably relieved when you add another, “Coming.”
You envelop your body in your towel; just a moment later, he knocks. You would’ve opened even if he hadn't.
Yoongi stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, and breathes in the sauna-esque air. His mouth turns into a surprised circle, and he blinks before he blows out a breath and states, “You showered hot today, huh?”
“Mhh,” you hum, “the sun never keeps me from doing so. Feels good.”
He smiles, watches your lotioned hands hydrate your skin, very slowly and very delicately. When you sigh in something he interprets as fatigue, he asks, “Do you need help?”
Four simple words, but they soothe something in your wrinkly, grey brain. The knot of stress loosens just a little, and you sigh deeply, telling him, “Yes, please.”
He doesn’t hesitate to step behind you, picking up the pink, wooden brush lying on the laundry basket next to you to release the knots in your wet hair. For a couple of minutes, you indulge in the massage; and then wallow in the feeling of his hands on your face, taking over to do your skincare.
And then, gentle as he is, he helps you into your clothes. You feel somewhat pathetic, but most of all, thankful — anything to get through the night.
“You all set?” he asks once he’s done, palms on your shoulders. You touch the digits of his left hand, leading them to your lips to kiss them softly before you nod.
You follow him into the living room, detecting the still present sunrays protruding through the spots that the sheer curtains don’t filter. It’s not dark yet, but the light is slowly fading. The star is preparing to drown behind the horizon, dusk in motion.
The pretty hues give you a brief yet strange burst of motivation; often, you fear the night more despite its serene reputation. Too dark, too haunting.
Yoongi has already set the table; he starts to ladle the sundubu-jjigae into your bowl, rice in another smaller dish next to it. You sit; you feel endlessly indebted and silently terrified at once. The food looks amazing, so the taste isn’t the problem.
Your boyfriend is a good cook, and you thank the deities every day for his existence. It was much harder to get by and assemble a meal when you lived alone.
But your expression is still the opposite of what it’s supposed to be, and when he sees it, he asks, “You good? Have you eaten yet?”
“No.”
“Then eat a little, okay? As much as you can.”
You gulp, oblige. You know your body calls for it, so you listen to it, chewing a couple bites, even though it feels impossible to actually swallow. God; you need to stop your chest and stomach from trying to convince you that everything is heavy.
Your clothes, your heart, your thoughts.
You know it isn’t true. It drives you mad when your own brain proves this treacherous, attempting to lie to you like this.
Then again, energy dwindles faster these days. Your body knows; maybe that’s why you feel tired. You need to sleep — maybe that could help you feel a bit more feathery.
But shit, you wish there was a more efficient charger for human beings than sleep, so you could be productive. Your mind won’t let you sleep properly anyway.
“Is it good?” Yoongi asks, interrupting your thoughts. He’s always the first to notice when you’re overexerting yourself, even just at dinner.
“It’s very good,” you respond truthfully, even raising your voice to make yourself sound livelier, “as I’d expect from you.”
“Then I’m glad. Thought I’d make you something good, since you worked longer.”
“Always attentive, aren’t you?”
“I try to be.” His spoon drops in his bowl, and he reaches out, touching your cheek just long enough for your heart to stir. “How was work?”
Hm…
You don’t remember too well. You know you went there at least, and you know you did whatever you had to — but you can’t recall details. So all you say without dousing the atmosphere in negativity is, “As always.”
“Was Nayeon at work today?”
“Nope,” you tell him, sending wordless, good vibes towards your best work buddy. “Still sick. A stomach bug, I think. I really hope she feels better soon.”
“Sana again then?”
“Yeah, spent most of the day with her. She’s always so sweet, though… I should talk to her more often.”
You dig into your rice again, trying it with a bigger bite this time. Then, you shake your head in apology, looking back at Yoongi as you ask, “Ah, I’m sorry, baby… how was work for you?”
“As always,” he echoes, “thought of you a lot.”
“Mhm… obsessed much?” you jest, trying a little beam.
“You know me.”
That’s it. You nod; you understand the weakness of your smile, so you lower your head altogether. He sees; of course he does. Yet, he waits and watches you toy with your food. You know the question is approaching before it lands, “Another low?”
Another low…
You could cry. You could burst into tears immediately if you didn’t feel so… empty. A vacant soul, pieces coloured by nothing but him. Yoongi sparks the magic most of the time, even drilling through the numbness.
“Yeah,” you whisper, not crying yet, but the corners of your mouth drop. “It’s been a while.”
“Months, yes? Which is great, my love.” His voice is so mellow, deep, like an antidote. “You’re doing really well.”
“Yeah.”
You are. Because at one point in your life, you used to feel this way all the time. Ever since you found somebody to rely on, someone who listens, you’ve gotten a bit better. He puts you together as if he’s resolving a dispersed puzzle.
But certain phases at certain times still hit you unexpectedly, like a revved up truck.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Yoongi offers.
“There’s nothing really to talk about…”
“Okay. Do it if you need to, though, okay? Eat a little more?”
You do. Fuck, you feel so babied sometimes; you wonder if he discerns things like this, too. That he isn’t really taking care of and loving his girlfriend, but rather babysitting a broken child.
You whoosh the thought away with a blink, finishing more than half of your meal before you set the cutlery aside. You down the last bite with cold water, sauntering to the bathroom, and then meet Yoongi on your bed.
He probably already put the food in the fridge and the dishes in the dishwasher; he must’ve operated rapidly to be here already, awaiting you. The laptop is open and its screen bright, and you know without stepping onto the mattress that he’s opened YouTube.
Less for him, more for you.
If he wanted to spend the remaining minutes of the night scrolling through reels, he could easily do so on his phone. But no… this feels more like an invitation. A quick, sweet date before sleep, just to watch a few animal videos that rarely ever fail to make you smile.
As you crawl into him, watching cats protecting newborn babies or dogs jumping their owners affectionately, you do smile. You laugh, even. You feel somewhat at ease here with him, but you know you’ll go back to ground zero in the morning.
When you’ve left and he’s gone to work.
And you hate it. You hate that you’re dependent on him like this… Yoongi calls it finding comfort in somebody you love, and you don’t disagree. But adding to this, you think you’re limiting his options by shackling yourself to him.
By demanding that comfort.
You sigh in his arms, breathing calmer than before, but not enough to sleep. Yet, he asks, “Hey… sweetheart. Are you awake?”
“I am.”
“I’m just thinking… Do you want me to call the therapist tomorrow?”
Shit… why does the ball of guilt keep growing? How does he think of this and you don’t? Have you really sunk this deep again? You’re stupid.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I… I should do it myself,” you mumble.
“I don’t mind.”
“No, I’ll just do it in the morning. I think I should… do things for myself, too, right?”
He pauses. Ponders your words; or at least, that’s what you surmise from the way he breathes and sighs and hums. And you’re proven right when he inquires, “Do you feel like I mind doing things for you?”
Yes. No.
No, you do not think so. But you sure as hell waste his time. Occupy it with this nonsense when he could be happier somewhere else, living his life, making plans for the future and rambling about the job he loves.
But no…
Fucking calling the therapist for you.
You break.
It always happens in the worst moments; you don’t know what it is, how it happens, but you break. Hard. Your motions stop, maybe even your breathing. But then you do sigh, so deeply that it burns, trying to keep your voice from shaking, to keep the tears at bay.
But this time, it doesn’t work. Emotions heightened when Yoongi utters something he’s provided as a reminder over the years, “Don’t hold back.”
So you don’t.
There were days when this lesson was necessary, a gentle nudge to release the weight, and today is one of them. You weep, starting with soft whimpers that grow louder steadily, and you press into his chest until you're suddenly sobbing.
You sniffle with an aching head, holding onto him for dear life, barely noticing when your sobs, once again, morph into absolute wailing.
He embraces you, tighter with each inhale and exhale. You’re so impossibly close to him, garbling something that he doesn’t understand. His voice is pain-struck and trembling when he encourages, “Come again, baby? Talk to me.”
It takes a while; it doesn’t work. And then, he chants, “God, baby. My baby… it’s okay. It’s okay.”
“No!” you cry out, slurring your words, “No… am a burden. Am fucking burdening you…”
This is a clear thought, isn’t it? Even in a moment like this, you think it’s true. And that maybe…
Maybe you should’ve never agreed to the lunch he offered you all those years ago. You would miss everything good in your life, lose the one thing you so cherish, but you’d at least rid him of you.
Those long six years ago, you should have just told him you were fine.
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As a student, Yoongi always trod the same path from the second floor down to the entrance of the college, living into a routine — never really noticing much of significance. He’d see other students who’d be eating; talking; rushing to class.
And as a TA, Yoongi was used to another, different journey throughout the building, too; climbing down the same spiral staircase, hurrying through the scary, empty mezzanine, passing the same few rooms on the ground floor.
He’d prepare to go home or to the library after attending his favourite psychology professor’s classes, assisting him to his best abilities. But this was different from all the other familiar routes he’d grown accustomed to.
These Wednesday afternoons did offer something of significance. Someone of significance. 
Because every time he reached those rooms on the ground floor, you’d be there.
At first, he reckoned you always waited for your class to start, just at the time when his ended. But you were alone each time. The doors to the classrooms and lecture halls were all closed, and then there was you, a sole soul waiting for whatever miracle to appear.
It took a couple weeks for him to gather that you might not have been supposed to be there. He noticed it when he saw your eyes fixated on a spot, pupils never moving an inch, even when he walked past. At some point, he’d memorised just this expression on your face.
And then, bit by bit, he realised that your stance didn’t seem quite normal. Your eyes were dead, hands never flinching. You emanated a sense of loneliness and stupefaction that he couldn’t express in words.
Today, something in him stirred. Perhaps because he’d just covered social behaviour as a topic or perhaps because any proper human would recognise that something was wrong with you.
Your hands were holding a lidless cup that day, barely steaming anymore. You were blinking slowly, if at all. This time, he approached you with care, as if nearing a wounded deer; as if trying to keep it there and not frighten it away.
But when he leaned into you, a hand scarcely touching your shoulder, your head moved up to look at him slowly but surely. And your first reaction to him ever was a smile.
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You remember that when you first looked at him, like really looked at him, his face seemed familiar to you. You were sure you’d seen him before, even if just in passing. He had this long, pretty, dark hair, covering his neck, a couple inches above his shoulders.
A kind face. A calm demeanour.
He stood there with pure relaxation between his eyebrows; one you hadn’t felt in a while despite your falling face. Flawless porcelain skin, free of dark circles, free of exhaustion. When did you last look like this?
You smiled at him instinctively, a curious expression; you couldn’t guess at all what he wanted or needed, but you were ready to listen. You’d always listen to people — listen, listen, listen. Perhaps that was the exact problem.
This very attention towards him, coming this easily, made your shoulders sink in new dejection; everything did. Every thought was intrusive, unwelcome, too stretched for your liking.
Whenever you had a normal thought or a bad one that’d at least pass immediately, you considered it a good day.
But you felt a tension around your temples by now; your head never felt at ease.
Yet, you asked, “Yes?”
And he wondered in return, “Are you okay? You looked distracted and I thought I might ask.”
“Oh… that’s nice,” you commented, your voice a bit too quiet yet surprised; you cleared your throat, spoke up, “but I’m okay. I just sit here sometimes after my classes.”
“You do?”
“Mhm. To take a little break after all the information dump, yeah. I’ll go home soon, though, no worries.”
“Hm… yeah. I just,” Yoongi started, hesitant — you now know he was trying to reveal something without appearing creepy. “I noticed you here a few times, so I wanted to ask just to be sure.”
He saw you here? You? And he came up to talk to you, just because he’d noticed you before? Baffling. You didn’t think you were visible to anybody. You thought you faded in front of others’ eyes.
“You’re honestly so nice,” is all you said, hoping your eyes didn’t reveal too much. How much his words affected you, and how they made you think you were just a little, a tiny bit perceptible.
“Sure,” he responded, nodding. And when you failed to come up with more appreciative words, he prepared to move, bidding you goodbye with a single, “Okay…”
Then, he was walking away; as grateful as you were, your energy-lacking body forced your eyes shut. You drew a deep breath. These few words you’d exchanged with him took everything out of you — that was the worst part of all this.
Interaction drained you. Loneliness drained you. The world and life were all draining, and you couldn’t figure out anymore how to feel… awake. Sober without ever drinking.
When your eyes closed, you felt your surroundings starting to spin. Or maybe, it was you; as if someone had gripped your shoulders and was turning you in circles. There were so many weird particles behind your eyelids.
The rotation was insane, but nothing new. Shut down most of your other senses and people’s voices; like the one that returned a second later, the same as before. Shit. Had he seen you struggle? Was he seeing something nobody else ever would?
You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.
“Hey, are you sure you’re okay?” the stranger with the familiar face asked, concern in his voice. “You don’t look like it.”
What was it? What was it about his gentle, low voice that lured you in? What was it about his attentive tone that made you want to tear up? Maybe because you’d bottled things up for so long.
But you held the liquid locked in your eyes. Proudly, barely.
“I’m…”
You considered lying. You considered pulling a lame excuse out of your ass. But something in you snapped, snapped hard, and the truth spilled just before you could think twice—
“If I’m being honest… I’m feeling pretty faint… I often do? I usually just need to sit down a bit or I’ll pass out.”
You hated using the word usually. As though your condition had become irreparable, like a chronic illness; and you were stating its treatment, only temporary.
“Hmm…” he hummed. “Have you eaten?”
“Not much…”
“Then that might be it,” he concluded, content with the deduction. In hindsight, you think he was hoping it was only that, nothing more. “Do you have something with you?” You shook your head. “Are you getting something?”
You shrugged.
You could’ve easily told the truth and said no; that the appetite was absent, that you were going to go home and hardly remember how you got there. That you’d throw your bag on the couch, take off all your clothes, not really bother for a shower and jump into your bed.
Then, you’d breathe. Survive.
You didn’t have the energy to eat, to shower, and right now, somehow not even to lie. The remainder of it had been used in today’s class and in this conversation.
He knew you couldn’t come up with any bad justification, so he offered, “Listen… I still have this sandwich with me that I was going to eat after class. You can have it if you want.”
What? That was…
“Oh, no,” you blurted, raising a hand to reject, “you should eat if you haven’t yet.”
“Look, I totally get being selfless, but you don’t look good and…” He sighed, tilting his head. Eyebrows raised and expression suddenly stricter. “If I can help anyhow, I’d rather have that than anyone else finding you unconscious here later. Please?”
How could you’ve resisted such a plea?
He was taking care of you and he didn’t even know you. And your body understood; your body heard him. Because your stomach grumbled at the mention of the meal; it didn’t mean anything to you, but it meant something to your hungry, craving body.
It often did that. Wishing to eat; then, not letting you swallow a bite.
You grabbed your bag and warily, carefully got to your feet. The man lifted a hand in caution, as if expecting for you to lose your balance. You did, just a little, swaying until you’d grounded yourself.
Goddamn it.
You nodded with a deep exhale and followed him as he suggested, “Let’s go to the courtyard. Get some fresh air. We can eat there and talk… or not talk if that's what you want.”
You kept moving your head up and down, fine with whatever. The fronts of it hurt due to the  lack of nutrition; it was past four pm and you’d only eaten a damn banana.
He found you a shadowy spot away from the sun; it was late spring, the summer steadily approaching. The shade protected your tired eyes, guarded you from further headaches.
As you plumped onto the grass next to him, your fingers grazed it for a moment — and it felt good against your skin. A pleasant combination, the wind and the scent of grass; nearly freed your chest of the stuffy pain.
You watched his soft fingers fish out the sandwich, and then some salted peanuts for himself. Urged you to eat before spilling a handful of the nuts into his palm. God, you felt horribly guilty, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to convince him to share the meal.
He… didn’t even seem to mind a bit.
Wiping his hand on his pants, he finally introduced, “I’m Min Yoongi. Psychology student and TA. Judging from your spot every single Wednesday afternoon, you take psychology classes, too?”
“I do… yeah.”
You took a bite enough for mouses, but then proceeded with a larger, human-appropriate one. Your stomach felt odd; Min Yoongi’s small talk helped you eat, but the nervous feeling in your chest that never really went away weighed heavily on your tummy.
You added, “Thinking of dropping it, though…”
“Why?”
“Because I might be failing anyway. Haven’t done much, and I still have a presentation on my paper left but have prepared nothing for it yet, either.”
“Have you asked the professor about a potential extension?”
Of course you’d thought about it. You always did. Which is why you despised having to answer, “No…”
No. Of course not. To most professors, mental health didn’t matter as an excuse.
You understood, though. They graded every paper they received, surrendering their free time, their summer and their winter breaks. To grant you special treatment was something you regarded as unnecessary; you didn’t think you were worth it.
“Do you feel like you could do better next term?” Yoongi asked.
“I don’t know.”
Your sandwich was done and gone. You were still hungry; you felt the appetite all of a sudden. You knew it often came and went in waves, but somehow, the sandwich left you more pining than anything these days.
Yoongi saw as you licked your fingers clean of the mayonnaise; offered you some peanuts that you politely declined, greedy for something proper. Maybe you’d eat an actual dinner tonight.
After a while, Yoongi spoke, “Okay, I know I’m a stranger to you and everything, but if you want, I could try to help you.”
Shit, but… that would’ve meant putting in the effort. To get up, to meet him, to focus and to study. You didn’t know if you’d be able to do all that. You didn’t know how to—
But his eyes were so sincere; a pure dark brown, sparkling in hope, for whatever noble reason. And you thought… you thought…
If there was any chance to pass this class and get over with it, wouldn’t you feel a gigantic wave of relief wash over you? After so damn long? Wouldn’t it be worth it? Maybe a spark of hope ignited in your chest after all… maybe you could turn things around.
“Yeah…” you finally obliged. “Yeah, that’s really nice.”
“Great. Are you free this Friday afternoon?”
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After that, it became part of your routine to meet up with Yoongi every Thursday or Friday, depending on his own schedule. A couple weeks passed like a breeze; or at least, compared to the days you were used to.
Some time later, those meetings increased, and you found a profound liking in them. You still often struggled with leaving your apartment at all, sometimes deeming getting out of bed or brushing your teeth an impossible task.
But whenever Yoongi called, offering a nearby café — always a nearby café — you’d place all your energy into moving, throwing on clothes, leaving. You felt unworried with him; at least for a couple hours.
He wasn’t just smart to an admirable degree; he was humorous, too. Motivating. Praised you for your ideas and your sharp mind. You’d forgotten you still had it in you — you thought time had altered your brain chemistry, killed too many of its cells to still let your mind operate.
Today, he didn’t suggest a café but a place you hadn't been to before. Yoongi had never invited you anywhere that wasn’t a public space, careful with your feelings without ever mentioning the obvious issues you had.
He only really crawled out of his shell and gave you the address to this new spot once you’d invited him over, too — he couldn’t make it, helping out the professor he assisted. But you reckon it was telling enough for him to understand how comfortable you’d grown with him.
So you went where he told you to go, and once you arrived, you recognised it as an office. A small one, but elegantly decorated, furniture sparse. And it wasn’t just any office. A therapist’s office.
“This is my mom’s,” Yoongi explained as you inspected the books on the shelf and the overall soothing and fitting atmosphere, “she’s out of town, so I thought we could study here today.
“Oh…”
He had to have heard your hesitancy, your uncertainty. This is the place they usually suggest in guidance books and in conversation to people like you. You didn’t know how to feel; the emotions washing over you were an odd sensation. Not good, not bad.
But scary, somehow.
Yoongi put a soft hand on your shoulder, making you turn, and asked, “Is that okay for you?”
“Yeah… it’s just… I’ve only really thought and read about therapy, but never quite seen an actual room like this.” You shook your head, clicking your tongue. “It’s crazy. How have I never been in one despite studying psychology for so long?”
“Hmm, many students haven’t been.”
“Yeah.”
You stripped your bag off of you, taking a seat on the cosy patient’s couch. Pulled out your laptop and placed it on the table between you and where he seated himself on the therapist’s chair. 
Swallowing a strange lump, you cleared your throat, starting the study session with, “Okay, so… I was thinking about what you said about the research question last time.”
“Right…”
At this point, you couldn’t really fathom why, but he seemed reserved today, a little distracted. Still providing as much information and intellect as he could; but his thoughts were slower and his eyes gentler.
You think you studied barely forty-five minutes when Yoongi called for a break — unusual, because it was mostly you to announce a pause in thoughts, when your brain would demand a couple minutes of peace.
He sighed, hands touching his thighs and then got up to bring you something to drink. Came back with two cups of tea. You thought he’d be returning with a glass of water, but upon seeing the beverage, your eyes widened; you told him, “This is super nice of you, thanks.”
“Of course.” Pause. You slurped; then he did. A second later, he inquired, “Can I ask you something?” 
“Mhm.”
You waited. Nothing came. You took another sip of the fruity winter tea in the middle of summer, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat under your nose that the heat caused. Then you looked up, big eyes staring into his just in time to see his mouth open.
“You always seem so surprised when I’m nice to you.”
Ah…
He’d said he’d had a question, but the indication of an inquiry, the one lifting in tone at the end never came. His statement was his question. And you thought it wasn’t the first time you heard it; you just never noticed you were doing it again.
Yoongi left the conclusion there, and the question mark hung somewhere between the two of you. Unspoken, containing a silent, ”Why?”
So you answered, “I just… uhm. People don’t just do something like this for me without me asking. It’s new to me how attentive you are.”
Sad. Just sad. You hated having to actually echo your innermost thoughts; you knew this wasn’t normal.
He knew, too, because he said, “This… is not how things should be.”
“But this is how they ended up being. I mean it’s just tea. But I don’t think anybody else sees me sitting there and goes like, Okay, I’ll do this lil something for her, you know?”
“Which is insane. You deserve it all so much. More than anyone I know.”
If you’d still been drinking, you would’ve choked. Those words were rare, not often uttered to you; how were you supposed to respond to them? You’d long forgotten how to react to things at all — it didn’t come too naturally to you anymore.
So all you did was laugh a little, as if replying to a joke. Genuinely, you wondered, “How can you say something like that?”
“Why not?”
“I mean, you probably know so many people.”
Yoongi blinked at you, as if waiting for your argument to proceed; but when it didn’t, he lifted a shoulder, steadfast with his opinion as he answered, “So? What do you think? That you feeling that way about yourself makes everyone else feel that way about you, too?”
You shrugged your shoulders just an inch, imitating his motions. Your gaze fell, as though catching yourself spewing pure gibberish. He continued, “You have a pure heart. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you being mean. And you’re strong, careful, and endure a shit ton.”
You looked up at him instantly. Let the last words reverberate in your mind, pushing them to the forefront between all your other messy thoughts. “Of course you knew,” you said.
“Of course. You’re so obviously hurt and I hate that you are.”
Well, you hated it, too. But… 
Your desperation came out in a whisper, “I don’t know what to do about it…”
You put the cup back onto the saucer; your fingers were warm when you pushed them into your hair, pressing your palms against your forehead, holding onto your mane. Elbows on your thighs. The world spun again until you felt his hand on your arm once more.
“Hey.” He sounded softer again. “Do you want to take a longer break? We could stop for today and talk?”
“I don’t know…”
“You don’t have to. But it feels to me like you’ve never done that before… people don’t want to listen.” His words hit you like bricks. Like heavy cement bricks. The pain was excruciating. “Is that it?”
You were still staring at your lap when he posed the question; your head whirred, so you didn’t know where to start. Which is why you held onto the first complaint — you knew they were valid worries, but you always called them complaints, like you were a burden — and said,
“I just… I listen to everyone. I let people vent, I let them feel hurt, and I try to be there and lend a shoulder and just,” the words cascaded out of you like a wild waterfall; your throat clogged up again, “to be a good person and a good friend.”
You exhaled a shaky breath, the pressure back in your chest. “But why do I not get any of it back? Why is it that everyone goes silent when I’m hurting? Do I deserve this somehow?”
You felt tears pricking and burning in your waterline, and you blinked them away. Took another quick sip just to help your dry throat. Then, “I hate that I sound selfish? Like I only do things for people to get love back, but… that’s not it. I just want to feel worthy of something, too.”
“You don’t sound selfish. It’s never wrong or inhumane to demand affection and care, and if it is, then… every person’s selfish. Whatever.”
Up until that point, you hadn’t known that someone could be this tender and direct at once. Yoongi lived in a reality that wasn’t sugarcoated, but he understood empathy and heartbreak, knew to dip his words in an ointment alleviating enough.
You wondered what he’d endured to become this type of person; sympathy and a mind this sage often stem from grief once encountered, and you so hoped he was an exception to this belief of yours.
You looked at him with delicate fondness, mixed with some lasting trouble. He reached out, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. You didn’t know what came over you when you leaned into his palm, kept his gaze, and stayed in place when he moved in.
Kissed you.
And you didn’t know why, but the moment opened your heart as if it’d been locked before; he was the key, undoing the lock so easily. That was when the first tear rolled down your cheek, meeting his skin, and you started trembling as he moved his mouth against yours.
You couldn’t grasp why he was doing it; even if parts of you knew. Did he not care that you were broken? That you were still breaking? That the ache always consumed you, that you felt whatever your brain inflicted on you throughout your entire body?
Maybe not. He always said you were funny, sweet, never humorous at anybody’s expense.
It was different from the things you’d heard before.
Nobody will love you like this.
Stop acting like you’re traumatised.
I didn’t love you — I kept you because you were attractive. Because you let me.
You had always asked yourself: why had your feelings always been shoved aside when you voiced your opinion? Whenever it differed from the one in your family or your friend’s circle?
Why were you told to never open up about your childhood memories? When you were caged in; when somebody three times your age indulged in impudence when they shouldn’t have, long ago when you were a child; when you fell in love at a later age and were forced to let go?
Why were you told you were tainted, that you couldn’t get any affection like this, to keep your pain to yourself and forget about your past? And why was this sequence of nightmares plaguing you right now, like you were dying, just when he was kissing you…
Because you were scared. So scared.
If you told Yoongi any of this, would he bolt? Would you hurt yet another person? Would he see you as a shattered porcelain doll, distance himself from you? Because honestly, why would he stay at all; with someone who hasn’t healed, who’d pulled him underwater, too?
Yet, you didn’t say any of this. You sighed; leaned into him. Took residency in his heart, cried into him.
He kissed you for another second, and then backed away. Wiped your tears. You broke and broke until your voice broke, too, giving way to quiet sobs.
You weren’t used to attention. You weren’t used to someone noticing.
And somehow, the realisation hurt anew, deep in your core and beyond.
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Your tears had mostly dried when he resumed his position, sitting in front of you. His fingers were entangled and he waited.
Yoongi knew you’d cry again, though. The patient’s couch had some magic to it, his mother always said. They’d always cry, but they’d heal at the same time. Recognise hidden parts of themselves.
He was uncomplaining and composed, and kept looking at you until you said, “It just feels… like I’ll never be enough. I can do as much as possible, but none of it is ever seen because I’m taken for granted.”
“Who takes you for granted?”
“Everyone. I’ve spent many nights awake for people, and they abandoned me. In a crowd, others will always be praised for one thing and I’ll be ignored for the same. It’s made me bitter.”
He nodded in true therapist fashion, but his expression wasn’t as neutral as one; he looked pain-struck for you. Said, “You’ve been hurt… I see that…”
“I’m… hurting,” you corrected, “and I don’t know what to do.”
Yoongi attempted a different approach; you were in a hopeless spiral, and the strategy he needed to try wasn’t just to dig out your trauma, but to make you familiar with the good parts of your life, too.
So he asked, sincerely hoping you had an answer to his question, “Who could you trust as you grew up?”
“I don’t know…” Yoongi’s chest deflated, motivation dropping — that is, until you muttered, “My brother.”
“Parents?”
“Part of the problem.”
Okay; your answers came more rapidly now. He took it as a good sign; as readiness to talk.
“Where’s your brother?” he wondered.
“In this town,” you answered, and Yoongi sighed in relief. “But I can’t bother him with all of my shit.”
Your symptoms were as typical as they could be; you regarded your self-worth as buried deep under the ground, never wanting to disturb those who still deemed you close and loved. You’d established this distance between you and the others; he didn’t blame you.
The symptoms were typical.
“Why do you think so?” Yoongi prodded, whispering your name when you didn’t answer.
“I’ve bothered them all enough…”
“How so?”
Maybe he was doing too much. But it seemed you were on board with it; you weren’t complaining, not sighing, not withdrawing. You were listening and talking. Nobody let you talk, and now that you were, you looked like you needed to let it out.
You spat, “Because they never seemed to want to hear anything.”
God…
It hurt to see you like this. Damp eyes, a heavily rising chest, as if you were close to panicking again, but desperately holding back. He knew it; he saw it in the way you drew your breaths and in the things you said.
He knew you’d braved multiple nights and many, many sleepless hours before, spending these dark moments clutching your chest, trying to get rid of the unbearably tight feeling in your chest.
He knew that torturous pressure. He’d been there before. The persistent feeling of fear and unease — like somebody had dropped a weight onto his ribcage and tied up his stomach. The shallow breathing and thumping heart would strip him off focus.
Thoughts circling and circling, around each other; absolute bullshit most of the time.
He couldn’t imagine how overwhelmed you felt, but then again, he could. Was the world louder to you, too? The way it used to be for him. Did you hear that constant screaming in your head?
Vulnerable, senses heightened, sensitive to the slightest change.
He hated the thought of a wall between you and your peace. Hated hearing the words you narrated; of your home, of your childhood, of the people you met. The disrespect you suffered and the dirt you were treated as.
You deserved none of it.
Maybe he felt that way because nobody ever deserved it; or maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you. Not because he needed to save you, or because he felt like falling for someone who he’d have to fix could be a welcoming challenge.
He knew people who treated depression like this; saviour complex in full effect, they needed to be the hero or heroine to stitch a broken heart.
No — he fell for you because you were you. Despite everything and every pain you endured, you were still you; and most of the you that you were before you got hurt this badly was still there, under the surface.
He saw those joyful parts of you reemerge sometimes, breaking through the waves. Sometimes, right before your head would fall again; your body weightless; drowning — he saw those parts on those days for a split moment.
But not right now.
In fact, the true parts of you that knew to feel happiness were absent now, and he knew — in that sense, he was prepared for you to utter what you said next. Was ready to hear it, no matter how little he actually wanted to hear it.
“And sometimes, when it got too much…” You gulped. Yoongi knew what you’d say; he knew. But— “I didn’t feel like being here anymore. It seems that was the only and last time I opened my family’s eyes.”
But when you still said it, it stabbed his heart like a dagger.
“Only, after that… it soon became irrelevant again,” you continued, “they told me I should be thankful for being alive and regret the mistake I made… what I tried.”
And you spoke on. Spoke on and on. He leaned back, allowing himself a better position to breathe. His heart felt like a sewing pin cushion, riddled with tiny holes. His eyebrows furrowed in agony, but he saw worse pain in your eyes.
Tears slowly reappeared.
“And when I was judged for this, too… I realised I didn’t regret ever trying to leave the world. I regretted that I’d failed to do so.”
Maybe he felt that way because nobody deserved it; maybe because he knew he’d fallen in love with you.
But your words split him in a million tiny shards, like glass, until his pieces became tiny enough to resemble dust.
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”Am a burden… Am fucking burdening you…”
Yoongi’s voice defeats the others in your head just barely; as if you’re separated by a glass wall and hearing him from afar, only clearing when you hammer through it and break the surface. He’s quiet compared to your cries, a hand firmly on your back.
His grip around you wants to glue you together so desperately; he’s not letting go, even though you get restless soon, quivering and ruining his shirt.
“Hey, baby…” you hear him say, but you interrupt, obstinately shaking your head.
“No… I’m— I never should’ve let you this close and—”
“No.” It’s his turn to interject. And he does it with determination; tone suddenly so low, cold, so you silence. “Stop.”
You do, only now noticing that he’s imprisoning your wrists in his grasp. Not painfully, but still solidly enough for you to understand what he means. You confirm it for yourself when you look up.
You already know your eyes are bloodshot, cheeks thoroughly wet; but you still recognise the heavy breaths he draws. See something entirely different in his eyes than yours.
Pain.
You hurt him. And this time, you could once again lament your destructive behaviour, argue how you keep inflicting these shit ass feelings on him. But…
The ache in his expressions says something else entirely. Fills you with hope, fills you with guilt.
Shows you that he despises the thought of you possibly regretting this relationship. His gaze proves that he doesn’t. That if he could go back in time and meet you again, talk to you again, fall in love with you again — he would.
You know it because he’s said it before. You know.
But your brain is half melting, hurting, spitting all negative assumptions at you like nobody’s business.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” you stammer, pierced by the sorrow in his eyes.
“What?”
“I… shouldn’t have said that,” you start, gulping. Your crying ebbs down for a second as you register the growing agony in his heart, and you explain, “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me, but I can’t stop thinking that…”
Break in conversation.
Then him again, “…That?”
“That you’d be better off without me. That you’re here so I stay alive and that you’d be less burdened with someone else…”
Another pause. 
He stares at you, as if pondering his answer. Bites into his lower lip softly and releases it right away. Blinks, looks to your wrists, lets go of them and then whispers, “Do you want to know? What I’m thinking, do you want to know that, too?”
“…What are you thinking?”
“That it’s true that I’m burdened.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
The pain is searing, a burning arrow shooting through your heart. It’s what you expected and what you feared and what still hurts so much upon hearing and—
Are you crying again? Are you tearing up? You don’t know.
You’re not sure, but it does seem like you’re breaking once more when he shushes you carefully, touching your cheek. He calms you, and then speaks again—
“Of course I’m burdened, too. Yeah, of course. I’d be lying if I said seeing you like this doesn’t make me feel helpless… but do you know what it means that I’m still here?”
Your voice trembles when you speak, “Because you’re scared of leaving me in this condition.”
“No. I learned early enough to prioritise myself when I need to. No, I’m not leaving because I don’t want to — simple. Because I’ll share your, mine and the world’s damn pain along with my heart. ‘Kay?”
Retrospectively, his words sound logical. He said it’s simple, and in some way, it is. If you didn’t have the brain that you have, it would be. If you weren’t so neck-deep in the quicksand pulling you into doubts, you’d be less surprised at the finality in his tone.
“Baby—” you start, but he squeezes your hand, eyes glistening.
“We have enough enemies in this world. Don’t regard me as one, too. Okay? Please…”
“No, you’re not,” you defend, moving your head and the palm on your cheek along with it, “you’re anything but that.”
He nods, sniffling; you know he’s holding back the same salty, pouring liquid as you. He’s always done that, providing a sense of strength and safety to make you feel just that.
“We’ll be okay one day, love. The world hurts us a shit ton, and life is difficult, but…” His voice cracks here, and he waits to regain control, sighing. “We only get one of it and… it’d be so unfair if we were destined to stay like this, right?”
You don’t believe in divine beliefs that seemingly predetermine how your life plays out. Fate or destiny or whatever synonyms to notions that Jung or Freud believed in. You’ve heard of this stuff plenty in your studies, but it never affected your curiosity much.
You know Yoongi isn’t necessarily a representative of it either; not one to dive too deep into things that suggest the potential absence of a free will.
But the thought provides hope when nothing else does. You know. The fact that you can’t leave this world without fixing things; that you’re here to contribute to much larger and more important things.
You cannot have been born to spend your days here without the joy you deserve.
You’ve felt much of it thanks to Yoongi, but you’ve had too many setbacks to call this a proper life. You don’t want to end it like this. You don’t want to grow old like this.
And you want to gift him the life he deserves, too.
Fuck…
You need to get better. You need to get better. You need to get better.
You need to help yourself. Even if it takes time; even if the non-linear process of healing irks you, stealing hope and leaving anguish in turn. And it’s as if Yoongi reads your mind when he says—
“It’s okay, you know? To feel that way. It takes time. It doesn’t matter how much, but it’s okay to fall back and have ups and downs, as long as you don’t give up. Yes?”
“I can’t, I know… I— I won’t give up. I just… need you to be here.” Your voice is unsteady, and your heart is, too; fickle as can be. But you’d rather hang onto the aspiration right now… nothing else. “Don’t ever leave me, okay? I’ll fix this for us, I will.”
“For yourself first. I’ll be here, no matter what.”
“…I love you.” Your breathing is staggered, leftover pain still keeping the anxiety in your chest. It’ll take a while. But there’s power in your admissions when you repeat, “I love you so much.”
You lean in carefully, and he mimes the movement, bending into your kiss. It’s a peck, soft and gentle and encouraging, and you murmur through your sniffles, “So, so much.”
And then you climb up, using all your strength. Half your body comes to a rest on his; the immediate proximity and warm touch evoke motivation and longing in your heart. For not only him, but every second of a possible serene future, too.
This very hope is often born and reborn at the end of your lowest lows. It’s what pulls you up again, keeps you going each time before the next valley can swallow you. Sometimes it takes longer, sometimes not.
But you so desperately want this. Want it to work now.
You want to be okay. Want to travel and soak in the sun. Want to dance in the rain and scream from the peak of a mountain; want to snorkel in clear, blue seas.
The life you picture for yourself, the one you follow in those healing vlogs on social media — it’s what you yearn for. It’s what you want to feel. With him on your side.
Sometime in the future, you see yourself beaming in genuine happiness, see yourself smiling. And you want to work towards it. You’ve always wanted to.
Ever since Yoongi first showed you what love, contentment and merriment felt like, you’ve craved this. Ever since that night he told you he loved you, despite everything.
Despite, despite, despite.
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He was there to catch your fall when you couldn’t keep yourself upright anymore. When your knees weakened and the ground turned into clouds, and you plunged through them and towards the cemented earth that’d shatter you.
He aided you in staying whole. Let you lean against his shoulder, nodding off into a slumber there, allowing you to dream because until then, you didn’t dare to.
You thought dreaming was pointless; just a fabrication of the unconscious mind to distract you from the horrors of the world. To keep you occupied, to torture you even when asleep. As time passed, you started making these horrors your life, and the line between reality and fantasy thinned.
Until…
Until he turned those nightmares into daydreams. Blossoming, vibrant colours appeared where you’d perceived greys before. Somehow, you fell apart a lot less when Yoongi spent his time with you, taught you to love again.
You became less terrified by dreams then, because the content changed. And whenever you weren’t dreaming, away from sleep, you experienced the utopia you’d always sought.
The day Yoongi first told you he loved you, you’d long defeated the semester you’d so worried about; started and survived the one after; and were now already tackling your very last one.
Even after all these months, you never let him forget how grateful you were for passing the last summer semester eventually, and in return, he never let you forget that he’d stay even after.
You didn’t study all the time anymore either; now, your afternoons and nights were filled with gentle words, promising embraces, lips against lips. It took some time to truly open up. To stop feeling like you were making a mistake.
“Doing yourself to him,” you called it, as if you were about to hurl him into his very own mistake.
Even then, you wanted to get better for him; you knew it hadn’t and wouldn’t happen overnight. All of it was much easier said than done; healing sounds so doable for those who attempt to support those who need it, yet they cannot grasp the meaning of a broken heart and scared mind.
But there was something so wonderful about the simplicity between Yoongi and you. So simple that it called forth feelings so complex. 
They were tough to navigate, but never tough to admit.
That March night, the sentiments roamed your body the clearest, even though the skies were anything but that. The thunder sounded like the universe had cracked; the white and silver of the striking lightning illuminated your room.
It was the night you felt hope in all its glory, for the very first time in years.
“You keep hiding from me,” Yoongi said, legs crossed like yours, sitting vis-a-vis.
He was close enough for your knees to collide, and when they did for the umpteenth time, he put a careful hand on your fingers resting on your thigh. You didn’t protest, so he didn’t withdraw.
“I’m not hiding from you. I just…” you stalled, “I just want you to be sure.”
“About you?”
If it had been this easy, you wouldn’t have asked. Because you knew the answer to this. Yoongi didn’t need to explain it to you; he was already certain about you to an indisputable degree.
You shook your head. Elaborated, “About everything. I don’t just come with the few good times we had the last couple of weeks. I come with… everything I’ve ever experienced and that shaped me into this.” You gestured over yourself. “You’d notice soon.”
“I already do.”
His answers and arguments came promptly, as if he knew the script to this talk and had already thought out every response he’d be giving. This was so effortless to him; thinking about it today, you wouldn’t even have needed to say a word.
But it was important to you. You couldn’t permit him to grow this attached without making sure.
“You just take it, do you? All that I am,” you concluded delicately; wanting to inform him, but so terrified of scaring him away. “But if you fall for me, then you’re committing. And I want you to think about it because I don’t— I don’t want to ruin your life.”
When he spoke again, he seemed to finally deviate from the script he knew; because confused, he asked, “If?”
“What?”
“What do you mean, if I fall for you?”
Oh… oh.
You understood. It didn’t take the tiniest of nanoseconds for you to fathom what he meant. And you could’ve sobbed right there and then, but the storm distracted you a little; the thunder was growling, threatening to explode again.
Somehow, the chaos outside kept you at bay. But only for so long.
“…Yoongi.”
His fingers moved from yours to your entire palm, taking it in his with a whisper of your name. Then, he clarified, “The possibility of something happening is redundant if it’s already happened, you know? And I’m…”
You held your breath, but at the same time, you were nearly panting. Maybe one first, then the other? You can’t remember anymore. You felt dizzy. Teary-eyed and joyful at once when you saw him at a loss of words.
“You’re?” you encouraged.
“I’m just so… feet deep underwater and in love with you that you couldn’t stop me if you wanted to.”
“I—”
“I love you. You know I do.”
Fuck… fuck, you knew.
Of course you knew.
Your heart was vile at times, cooperating with this demon of a brain and feeding you wrong information. But this, you knew. You fought through the congested mess of thoughts and admitted this to yourself every day.
Isn’t this why you were having this conversation in the first place?
But to hear him say it…
I love you.
You know I do.
“Even if you try to deny it,” he continued, “you know I love you and that I’ll keep doing it.”
This is when your waterline gave up; lined with the liquid you’d always held back. But why? There was no reason to. You felt at peace; Yoongi knew your heart. There was no use in keeping you closed off anymore.
So you cried. Let the first tear roll that he caught with his hand, holding your face so firmly that you thought it was the only thing keeping your head upright. Optimistic.
“There’s… there’s a chance that I start doubting you,” you contended for whatever stupid reason, sniffling, “that I doubt myself and then regret pulling you down with me and— there’s a chance I forget that you’ll keep loving me, no matter what, you know—”
“I’ll keep reminding you.”
“I’m a handful.”
“My hands are big enough, baby.”
The endearment didn’t slip past you, but instead made your beating organ swell. You don’t think you’d ever heard your pulse pounding in your eardrums this loudly. And he kept inching closer; his forehead nearly touched yours until it did.
“Can you love me even if I fall, Yoongi?”
“I’ll pick you up. You know that.”
“…What if you feel like you’re not good enough?”
Stop asking questions. Stop stop stop.
But he kept answering.
“Remember what you told me a couple days ago?” Yoongi asked, his voice quiet, drowning in the storm. “That it’d been long since you’d felt happy like this.”
“I do right now… I just…”
“Yeah, and I— I think. If I’m able to stay by your side and make you smile anyhow? Then I think this… we… are good enough.”
That’s it. Your throat was dry, your mind out of questions. You could renounce doubts if he didn’t have any either. He seemed convinced enough; so you admitted your own convictions to him, too.
“I’m… I love you, too. I love you, I fucking do.”
Your last word was cut, merely a breath. Swallowed when you leaned in and kissed him, pulling him back with you onto the bed. Yoongi landed on top of you, draping the two of you under the thin, floral blanket.
The early spring rain tapped your window softly before the gentle noise turned into more aggressive knocking and hammering. This very storm they’d announced was the reason Yoongi had stayed tonight.
That’s what he’d told you at least; in truth, it was an excuse.
Before today, you rarely spent your nights together.
Whenever you did, he allowed you your space in order to not overwhelm you. He knew you were cautious, slow, took your time to trust. He’d sleep on the couch or crawl back to you when you approached him in the dead of the night.
Touching his elbow gently, shaking him awake, telling him so sweetly that it drove him insane, “I don’t want to be alone.”
So he’d cuddle in when you sought out his arms, dozing so peacefully. It delighted him because whenever he didn’t slumber next to you, he’d hear you from the other room. Woefully moaning in your sleep, as if crying, turning.
He never saw or heard any of that when you leaned into his embrace, held onto his shirt. Never did anything more than sleep; he was content with that.
But tonight was different, less chaste than that — and he was content with that, too. 
You said you’d wanted to talk. And you had. You’d trembled through the conversation, heart combusting in your chest like it wasn’t part of you anymore, that treacherous thing with its own, stupid will.
But it thumped differently now when he kissed you like this. You felt the change so clearly when he held you, pushing you into the mattress; stripping you naked bit by bit; asking over and over again if you were okay, if he should stop.
You lived differently, too, when he pecked your bare skin, up and down, from head to toe, to and fro. His tongue explored your waist and your thighs and the wetness between your quivering legs.
And you loved differently when he immersed himself in you. Sighing and moaning against you as his tongue lapped you up. You felt the chills everywhere. Felt your shoulders rise, your hand in his long hair, the oxygen running out.
You’d nearly forgotten how such a moment felt — then again, you’d never experienced it like this before. You could barely breathe, and for the first time, you loved it. For the first time, it wasn’t your usual reason.
But the picture of the man over you pumping himself, covering his cock in the condom you’d bought weeks ago, just in case. Back when he started hanging around at your place. He was surprised about your preparation; was delighted about it, too.
And God… God, when he kissed you, sheathing himself in you, every inch connected with every piece of you. Souls and hearts and bodies merging. Moving in and out slowly, then a little quicker, cradling your face and kissing your neck.
Between all that, he kept asking if you were doing okay, and you said you’d never felt better. And the best part was that you fucking meant it and that’s when you knew—
That Yoongi warmed your coldest, most frigid spots. Helped you find a sense of heat that you’d long forgotten, that not even summer could ever bring back. The spring was right inside you, in the middle of your chest despite the rain.
But at the same time, somewhere next to it, he was there, too, becoming the storm that raged outside.
All at once, you remembered again. Even if you might forget in your worst times; even if he’d really need to remind you again.
You remembered that you could be loved, and that you were deserving of love.
You remembered that love towards somebody is often subjective and it’s not entirely up to you who feels it for you, and that only because somebody else was unable to give it to you the right way… it doesn’t mean everyone would act the same.
Yoongi was the spring and the storm; the rainbow you saw the next morning as the sky cleared.
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Your mother used to struggle with migraines. Back then, you’d see her tied to the bed for half a day, struggling to get up, sleeping for a couple hours after swallowing her sumatriptan.
The evening or the morning after, you’d ask her how she was doing, and she’d say the headache was gone, but that some of the pressure still lingered. She’d feel it in the heaviness of her head, like it was falling against her clavicles.
Back then, you were too young to understand; you still don’t suffer migraines, knock on wood. But you somehow get what she meant — you guess the same applies to any other part of your body.
Like the soul.
They say a body becomes lighter after death since the soul leaves; and the morning after bawling in Yoongi’s arms, you feel the opposite. Like your grief makes you weigh more than during your good days.
Like you’re heavier than a month ago, without gaining a single kilogram.
But at least that means you’re alive. A soul intact.
And, just like your mother’s medicine, the night alleviated at least some of your pain. Maybe it was the conversation with Yoongi. Maybe the reassurance that he didn’t perceive you as the task you thought you might be.
Many years ago, you refused to seek help in others; be it loved ones, a partner or a therapist. Yoongi taught you to own who you were and to admit the problems you faced; that they were as valid as anything else.
Living with him and loving him this profoundly showed you that it’s okay to confide in someone. That someone will care. But it also taught you that ultimately, nobody is responsible for your well-being as much as you are.
That to heal, you need to accept yourself. That to accept yourself, you need to acknowledge the issues you face.
And for that, you need to be ready to combat your demons, understand that they can be fought.
You’ve always known that. In that sense, it isn’t true that you’re fully dependent on Yoongi. You know deep down that you’ll be the one pulling you out of this.
But…
It’s never bad for someone to initiate that thought process, is it? Even when it’s you emerging from the grave you dug for yourself; it’s okay to grab the hand as the earth breaks, pulling you out of the dirt and darkness.
Yoongi is the rope helping you out; but you’re the one to walk on once the endless well ends and you spot the daylight. You can rely on him. You can rely on yourself.
You’ll be okay… you’ll be okay.
“Ready?” Yoongi asks as you slip into your shoes. You look up, and nod, your smile soft. “Just a few more days, right?”
Right. 
You’ll live day by day. Survive the hours, strive towards a better future. Count your blessings, find things to look forward to. It’s alright to fall sometimes, and whenever you do, you’ll remember you’re not alone.
That you’ll get up eventually. You hold onto this.
And onto those few last days until vacation calls. You booked it so long ago; it can be that one thing to grasp, to look forward to, right?
And… you laugh. Because you remember Yoongi telling you to get your nails done, that he’d even go with you. “But do not forget, because blue suits Greece and I’d love to see the colour on you.”
You act like you don’t know what his plea means. You act like you don’t know how much he loves you. How this very approaching plan of his proves that he couldn’t even let go of you if you gave him another reason to.
Isn’t this enough to understand that he never feels guilty of loving you?
Why are you so afraid…
Because.
Yoongi never viewed your pain as something you had control over or something you caused; whoever hurt you is at fault, not you. And Yoongi knows that; knows that you matter, with your past and present and future, however cruel they might be.
But despite the fact that your past made you who you are, and that your future will determine how you’ll further turn out to be, Yoongi always preaches to focus on the controllable.
We won’t ever be able to manage the future entirely; maybe you won’t even ever be faced with the fears you harbour, you know? The past is the past, the present is the present and the future is the future. They will torment us if we put too much meaning in them.
I know it’s hard. But it’ll be alright. One day, it will be — you’re okay.
It has to be…
You’ll be okay. You’re okay.
The weather might change at warp speed — but soon, it’ll be sunny again.
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i know i said it's okay if you skip this one, but if you're reading this, you might not have, and i'm thankful for that <3 i needed these feelings out of my system, so it felt very cathartic to me. maybe it helped you a little, too? i hope so, at least – things will be okay 🤍
what do you think? since you're here, i'd love to know how you feel about this piece 💕
705 notes · View notes
alexiroflife · 6 months ago
Text
“a bird’s song”
satoru gojo x reader
Synopsis: you are satoru’s entire world, having redefined what it means to live. losing you is the last thing he ever wants to do
to sum it up: you’re satoru’s soulmate and a life without you is inconceivable
WC: 5,255
Warning(s): lots of angst, mentions of death/reader death, i cried writing this oops
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Why are the birds still chirping?
Satoru remembers the first time he became aware of the melodious sound fluttering through the cloudless sky above, when he first lay eyes on you. Somehow, the world doused itself into vibrant color right then and there, stroking the trees, the ground, and your stunning face with the brush of a paint, revealing a reality to him that he hadn’t believed to exist before you. 
He is ten years old, peering over at you from his seat on the park bench. He isn’t allowed to wander off on his own, protected heavily by the members of his clan everywhere he goes. He withholds a sense of entitlement, harbored at such a young, ripe age, and he scowls at all the children that skip along the pavement, screeching in ignorant delight, but then there’s you. With a laugh louder than all the rest and a smile brighter than the glaring beam of the sun overhead, your round (e/c) eyes connect with his from where you sit atop the slide. You sit down, gripping the ledges in preparation to fly downward, yet you stop yourself when you see him. 
You blink curiously, then beam and wave, seeking to make a new friend with that blush that sprouts over your already flushed cheeks. 
Satoru Gojo has only seen his world through a gray lens, despite the vibrance of his eyes. Burdened by a title, defined by his birthright, pressured by the realities of a world beyond even the ordinary adult imagination before he’s even reached double digits. Everything is cold, because he is the only one of himself in this world, and yet there you are. 
The moment your hand reaches the air, color bursts from your palm and sprouts through your fingertips, seeping into the atmosphere and drenching a dull universe in childlike wonder. Satoru, numbed by any and all around him, apathetic to the inferiority of the surrounding society, finds his lips parting slightly and his periwinkle irises flickering with a glint of perplexed inquisition. 
His ears ring, and suddenly… have the birds always sung so loud? Has the breeze always tickled his nose and tousled through his locks? Has the sun always illuminated the planet with a golden haze? 
His arm is snatched by his maid moments following the interaction, and he is tugged away, back to the cold. Satoru never bothered to look anyone in the eye before, if not to enlighten them of their unshakable weakness in comparison to him, but that day, he finds himself watching over his shoulder as the vision of you shrinks and the patter of his boyish heart matches the hastiness of the steps pulling him off. 
He can hear them still… they won’t stop singing.
Three years later, Satoru happens upon you again. Somehow, he is worse than before. More arrogant, older, intent on the idea of knowing everything that can not be debauched by the authority of an adult, because in truth, he does know more. He knows all. He sees all. He sees the fear in the eyes of those who protect him, the weakness of the masses, the strength of his mind that could grow to wipe them all out one day if he truly desires so. 
He still thinks about you. Your face flickers through his mind every day, and he doesn’t understand why. Since he saw you, his world is louder, but you are nowhere in sight. 
Until one day, he’s walking by a middle school, hands tucked in his pockets as he treks out to the ice cream shop he’s grown to favor over the years thanks to his sweet tooth. He keeps his gaze down, an expression of agitation gracing his features. He’s taller now, allowing him to look further down on those nearby. 
He grows weary of his beauty when girls whisper as he walks by. He knows he is not ordinary, and at times, it makes him laugh dryly. These pathetic school girls could never possibly aim to even speak with someone like him. He’s better. He’s the best. He’s a fabrication of their childish dreams and fantasies that will never find the light of reality. 
Satoru is lost in his head when he swings the door open to the shop, eyes ghosting over the array of flavors until they accidentally snap to the back of your head. He looks away at first, then does a double take when a strange, familiar tightness grips his chest. That hair, that (s/c) skin, that posture radiating warmth and strength bursting with a rainbow of hues are things Satoru has only seen once, and with his keen six eyes, he recognizes you instantly before you turn around with a vanilla cone in your hand.
You meet his eyes in an instant, and both of you stop. Satoru thinks he can hear a songbird whistle from down the road as his grip on the door releases and the two of you stare at each other with wide eyes. He thinks you recognize him, by the way your brows raise and those unmistakable (e/c) eyes of yours sparkle with something he has never seen before. 
You look the same, only a bit older. You’ve grown taller, your eyes the slightest bit more mature, but it’s you. That girl who unveiled color to Satoru years prior. He has only seen you in his head, but now you stand before him, real, bright, and… pretty.
He doesn’t know what to say. Satoru has never taken interest in girls or boys romantically, especially those who ogle at him like he is a pet to tame and withhold, but your gaze on him is different. You’re different. The white haired boy feels his heart hammer into his chest, a foreign feeling that he has only felt once before in your presence. He’s overcome with nostalgia, and dare he say, anxiety. Who are you? What is this you make him feel?
Your lips part and you take a breath, doe eyes glassy as though having had life sparked into them. Satoru imagines he looks the same, his sapphire hues gleaming with the stun of seeing you again. 
“Hey,” you call out gently, voice wrapped in a light amiability, a familiarity that Satoru is unaccustomed with. He’s never had friends his age. He’s never had someone look at him the way you do, seeking out to communicate with him at a basic human level. “Do I know you…?”
Suddenly, Satoru’s astonishment is bombarded by irritation. No one has ever tried to speak to him at a basic human level, he recalls, so why are you? Why do you believe you’re special enough to talk to him? He doesn’t know you, not any more than by first glance. 
You have some audacity to approach him, to open your mouth to talk to him as if you could ever be at the same level as him. You’re just a girl despite the flutter in his heart you inspire and the brightness that you exude. A girl who can never be his friend.
His brows angle and his hands shove stubbornly into his pockets. Teenage arrogance is a monster, but, harbored by a thirteen year old Satoru Gojo, is perilous.
“No,” he tells you coldly, watching the hope drain from your face and the light in your eye dim. “Why would you?”
You visibly retract from the snippiness of his voice, having mistaken his appearance for that of a friendly boy. You know exactly who he is. You aren’t dumb. You’ve never seen anyone like him before, not since that day at the park. Those eyes, that hair, that presence. He’s one of a kind, but he isn’t ten anymore. He’s meaner. Less innocent, you can tell.
“Oh,” you say, dejected. Two other girls come behind you, chattering loudly, and usher you away. They sneak glances at Satoru as they giggle, and he hears them ask you who the cute boy you were looking at was.
His heart lurches when you tell them it was no one.
He regrets that day. He regrets stripping that excitement from you. He has spent his entire life reminding people of where they stand with a simple look, but the second he did it to you, it didn’t feel right. He thinks maybe he should have been kinder. He thinks maybe he wanted to speak with you, but didn’t know how. He thinks maybe you’re the one person he could have tried to get to know, to help him ease away from his loneliness.
Maybe. Maybe he could have known you, but that was only a silly dream. 
It's five in the morning… they won’t stop singing so close to his window.
Two more years later, Satoru finds you again in the last place he would have expected to see you. 
It’s his first day at Tokyo Jujutsu High, and he’s wandering the campus after having moved into his dorm when he sees you by the vending machines speaking with a black haired boy in baggy pants.
His heart drops. His ears ring. His chest tightens, and god damn, why are those birds perched on the telephone wire so loud?
Satoru is fifteen, and he is no less cocky, but he finds himself a bit more spirited, more lighthearted, seeking humor in the drab doom of the world he inhabits. He pokes fun rather than instantly berating. He sparks banter rather than immediately pushing others away. He laughs, not scowls, at the sheer difference in strength between himself and others, and he never thought he would see the day where he would find you again… and here, of all places, in his world. 
What is the universe telling him? Why are you ingrained into his life’s path when everyone else comes and goes?
His first instinct is to approach you, but what should he say? He pretended not to know you the last time your paths crossed… maybe you forgot? Maybe he could start over?
Somehow, however, he knows that is not possible. He knows you anywhere, your aura, your vibrance. He knows you despite the very brief and distanced interactions he has had with you in the past. He would recognize you anywhere, he fears, and something tells him as he walks over that you will too. 
“You guys my classmates?” he asks cheekily, a smug smile gracing his face once he is before the two of you, interrupting your conversation.
The dark haired boy looks at him first with an expression of confused contempt, and then you turn, and Satoru almost loses his breath.
You’re gorgeous, he thinks. Your lips are glossed, your eyes are coated in gentle strokes of mascara, and your facial structure has matured. The school uniform graces your body regally, your navy skirt revealing the smoothness of your legs and your knee highs reaching to cut it off. He’s never seen a girl so pretty in his life, save from the two instances in which he has seen you. 
Your face contorts immediately into shock when you see him, and he grins. “Do I know you?” he mimics your words from the past, and your shoulders tense before your eyes slim.
“You,” you gasp, a hint of suspicion laced in your voice which, in turn, has matured as well. 
Satoru smirks, heart brimming with anticipation. “Me?” he nods, hand over his hip. 
“You two know each other?” the hazel eyed stranger with odd bangs questions, looking between the two of you oddly. Only then do you realize that you have been staring at each other.
You snap your face back over to him and curl your lips. “Not really…” you say.
“What? You’re such a liar!” Satoru accuses, leading you to glare at him, flabbergasted by his forwardness. “We’ve met before.”
“Hardly. And the last time I saw you, you were pretending like you didn’t know who I was.”
“That was forever ago! Are you really gonna hold onto a grudge from when I was thirteen?” he cocks a playful brow, those sapphire eyes of his blazing with brazen jest. 
“Yes,” you nod. “You seemed like an asshole.”
“I’m sure that hasn’t changed,” the boy murmurs, and Satoru pouts, unimpressed. 
“And who are you?”
“Geto Suguru. Grade one,” he answers almost judgmentally, and Satoru scoffs a laugh.
“Grade one, huh?”
“...Yes? Why, what grade are you?”
Satoru’s grin brightens. “Special grade.”
Both you and Suguru reel at the news, and Satoru revels in the shock. “How the hell are you special grade already?” you ask.
Gojo shrugs, poking his tongue out. “You’ll find out soon enough,” he tells you vaguely, though it’s clear on his face that he is itching to shout it from the rooftops.
Satoru doesn’t muster up the courage to ask you what your name or grade is, and you read his failure to do so as a sign that he does not care. His sight allows him to detect that you are a grade three, but beyond that, your name remains a mystery until Geto addresses you by it when he’s talking. 
(L/n) (Y/n). 
The name is burned into his brain from that point on.
You grow weary of Satoru Gojo the longer you know him. He starts to cling to you and Suguru, as well as the last first year named Ieiri, like you all have known each other all your lives, but he isn’t kind to you. He’s rather mean in the sense that he is constantly trying to gauge a reaction out of you. He’s picking on you, calling you weak, poking fun, invading your privacy, intruding on your personal space, and you think he hates you but it’s just the opposite.
He feels like he has known you since the day he was born. There is something so familiar about you, so comforting about you that he can not begin to understand. He wants to think it’s because of the first time he laid eyes on you, but it feels like it goes deeper than that. Like your fates are intertwined, like you are doomed to encounter one another in this reality and the next and so on. 
He watches you grow. He watches you curl away from his presence. He watches you strengthen yourself and your bonds with the rest of them. He watches you blossom, and when he first sees you in action on the training field, his heart beams with pride.
You’re weak, but you improve. You climb the ranks in a frantic attempt to catch up to Satoru and Suguru, and though you still fall behind, you don’t falter. You don’t give up, and Satoru is so proud of you despite the short amount of time you have known each other. 
Satoru finds himself changing along with his environment. He comes out of his shell, branching out into a social horror as he grows more and more comfortable in your presence. His arrogance remains, but his words are less harsh, his eyes carry less heaviness, and his posture is broader. He feels lighter somehow, surrounded by you, surrounded by love, and he is grounded. 
Your suspicion of him shifts into the same familiarity that he feels for you, and you grow accustomed to his behavior just as much as Suguru and Shoko have, if not more. You cling to Satoru in return when he glues himself to you, teasing him and poking fun, engaging in ridiculous banter that brings Suguru’s hands over his ears as he begs some higher power for more peaceful company. 
Your heart bursts under Satoru’s gaze, your smile brightening his existence, and the two of you become inseparable. To be parted from your best friend is to be tortured, and the thought of losing you brings Satoru to the brink of insanity. 
There is no longer a you without him, nor a him without you, and everyone knows. Everyone sees the unbreakable strength of your bond. 
“Satoru,” you mumble one afternoon. He hums, looking down at your face as he cradles your head in his lap. The two of you are sixteen, now, lounging in Suguru’s dorm as the dark haired man works on an assignment. You and Satoru lay on his carpet, scrolling through your phones and doing everything but the assignment you are supposed to be completing.
He blinks down at you, bright eyes isolate you in his gaze. You smile lightly, seeing the ten year old at the park that threw his head over his shoulder to capture the sight of you as he walked away. “What’s up?”
“...Do you think we’re soulmates?”
The blue eyed boy’s heart jumps as he looks down at you with a soft smile. “What a question to ask,” he marvels. “You finally falling in love with me, sunshine?”
Sunshine.
He had begun calling you that a few months into knowing each other during your first year. You had asked him why, and he responded that everything you touched sprouted into color just like the nip of the sun’s rays. You told him that he was stupid and nudged his head away with a laugh.
“You wish,” you roll your eyes, and Satoru chuckles. Your foot dangles over your crossed legs and your lips pucker in thought. Satoru watches every movement your body takes, studying you like the piece of art he believes you to be. “I’m only asking because… I don’t know, like, we met those two times when we were kids, and now we’re here. And even before that, it felt like I was waiting for something to come around… and then there you were.”
You look into his eyes as he leans over and traces your brow with his finger. “So what I’m hearing is that you were waiting your entire life to be graced by my presence.”
“Shut uppp, you know what I mean, don’t you?”
He smiles, tilting his head. “Yeah, I actually do.”
“Like, what do you think would happen if we grew apart someday?”
“Well, that would never happen,” Satoru says. “Even if you got tired of me and tried to get away, I’d find you.”
“Creepy. That must have been what you did before high school, you stalker.”
“For the last time, I didn’t stalk you,” he rolls his eyes, poking into your cheek. “If anyone stalked anyone, it was you stalking me.”
“Nuh-uh. There’s no way I could have, especially since you’re the one with the six eyes. You’re the one with the stalking ability.”
You reach up your index finger to press into his forehead. 
“Stop trying to slander my name like this,” Satoru sighs dramatically. “I’m a perfect gentleman. If I were to stalk you, I'd at least give you a heads up.”
“Wow. How generous of you, you fucking weirdo.”
“A weirdo who’s your soulmate,” he sings. “So that would technically makes you a weirdo too.”
“Nah, you’re still weirder. Right Suguru?”
“Yes,” he calls out, though not at all sure of what the two of you could have possibly been discussing.
Satoru groans. “Don’t take her side, Suguru, what the hell?!”
“I take the side of whoever gets on my nerves less. Today, it’s (Y/n).”
You scrunch your face. “The hell do you mean today? I’m always delightful.”
“That’s not true, and you’d be more delightful if you let me do my work.”
You turn up to Satoru and make a grumpy face, moving your lips around to mimic an exaggerated impersonation of Suguru scolding you. Satoru snorts as he tries his best to hold in his laughter. 
“Whatever you’re doing, quit it,” Suguru says.
“Ugh. He’s so bossy,” Satoru shakes his head. 
“Quiet before he comes over here and beats our asses.”
“He’d never, he loves us too much.”
Just then, a pencil is tossed at Satoru’s head that is deflected by his quickness to equip infinity. He snickers and releases it once the pencil drops to the floor. 
The white haired teenager sighs heavily, gathering your cheeks in his hand as he squishes obnoxiously. You glare at him, dropping your hand to the floor. “Guess it’s just you and me, then,” he murmurs. 
“F’rthe rest ‘f’our lives, hm?” you ask, voice muffled by Satoru’s hand. He chuckles, releasing you and leaning back on his hands. He gazes at you tenderly.
“For the rest of our lives. Suguru can visit on weekends.”
Satoru knows he’s fallen in love with you very early on. He knows that it’s always been you, that you’re the only person he could ever devote his entire being to. He knows that you’re the only person he could ever love more than he selfishly loves himself, more than his life, more than the lives of others. 
You show him a world of color before he can sink further into his disdain. You show him what it means to be supported, to not be lonely, to be consumed by fondness and friendship along with Suguru and Shoko. You show him humility, you show him comfort, you show him a life that he never would have believed he could live.
The sky is a brilliant blue in your wake, the birds chipper and melodic, the grass a lively green, and the world a canvas that you guide his hand to paint along with him.
A year later, losing Suguru takes an immense toll on the both of you. His loss stays with you for ten years, bleeding into your adulthood then resurfacing during and after his attack on the high school, soaking into your lives after his forced execution at his best friend’s hand.
Suguru’s death brings the two of you impossibly closer somehow. Now that you’re older, well into your late twenties and professors at the same school you attended in your earlier years, your lives mold into one another as the same. 
Satoru protects you with his soul, horrified that you will one day slip from his fingers like Suguru did. He can’t stand the thought of losing you, his closest friend, his soulmate. He can’t stand the thought of the love of his life fading from his fingers and into distant memories that were once so close, so recent.
Satoru refuses to tell you that he is in love with you, and has for years, but he knows he doesn’t need to. Your relationship isn’t defined by your declarations, but by your innate understanding of who you are to each other.
Satoru loves you like no other. You’re the breath he takes, the water he drinks, his very existence at the palm of his hands. He knows you love him just the same, and he does not need to validate so by telling you. You’ve told each other hundreds of times, whispers in the night, feeble breaths against each other’s cheeks, laughs as you swoop one another up into your arms. 
The two of you are love incarnate.
You are to be together until the end of time. Fated to die in each other’s arms at the end of the world when all sound has gone mute and all color has already drained from the world, when it is only the two of you left and you welcome the rest that awaits you at the final touch of your lips to each other’s.
Neither of you are meant to leave the other before you both are ready.
So why… why are the birds still chirping?
Something told Satoru not to let you take this mission.
Something deep in his gut was churning, giving him the worst possible feeling imaginable. Something visceral was screaming inside him, telling him to interfere, to make you stay back, to tell Yaga to cancel the entire thing.
You’re a grade one sorcerer now. You’re strong, you’re talented, you can and always have been able to hold your own, but something wasn’t right. Satoru knew this and he tried to convince Yaga to pull you back, but he didn’t listen. He tried to tell you to reconsider, that his instincts were telling him to keep you away, but you simply turned and smiled at him, those pretty (e/c) eyes of your glimmering and your soft lips curling kindly. 
“Stop worrying, Toru,” you said. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
He’s staring at your body, pupils shrunken and face frozen.
It’s a sunny day. Partly cloudy. Almost two in the afternoon.
The birds are chirping and Satoru is staring at your body.
You lay against the brick wall, limbs twisted and head splattered against the building. You aren’t moving. You aren’t breathing. You’re oh so still, and Satoru can not pick up any vitals within your body signifying any life.
He can’t move. Is this real? Is he dreaming?
It’s sunny outside, like the day he met you, and the birds are chirping, and you’re lying limp before him. 
He twitches, captured by shock, blue eyes dull, lips parted, eyes glazing over. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
Satoru’s mind swarms with images of you. He sees you as a child, swarming with light as you grin amiably at him in search of a friend. He sees you in the ice cream parlor, breath caught in your throat as your friends drag you away from his rejection of you. He sees you at the vending machine, sun in your eyes as you look at him as though you hate him, and he sees that hatred wash away to make room for your incandescent, raw, unconditional love for him.
He sees your hand reaching to brush his hair into place, your arms clinging around his torso to press yourself into him, your head tossing back with laughter after he tells a stupid joke, the tears drip from your eyes endlessly when the news of Suguru’s crimes fall upon your ears, the heat dusting your cheeks when Satoru looks you in your eyes and tells you that he will always protect you, the touch of your lips to his cheek, the twitch of your brown when you sleep, the grace of your love as it touches him softly as well as the students who have taken such an immense liking to you.
He sees you, all of you, and he can’t breathe.
“(Y/n),” his name tumbles from your lips, a whisper. He expects you to answer, but you don’t, and this nightmare becomes real before him. “(Y/n)?” he calls you again, voice rising, cracking, body trembling. You don’t respond. You don’t move. You don’t do anything. Why won’t you do anything?
He rushes to his knees before you, his blank expression morphing into horror. He grips your shoulders, taking your body into his and you slump into him. Your eyes, once so full of life, are gray as they stare into nothing, past his trembling face. “(Y/n),” he croaks your name again, a shaky hand reaching to touch your face. You’re cold.
No. No. No.
This isn’t supposed to happen. You aren’t supposed to leave him, not like this. You’re supposed to stay by his side until the end of time, you are supposed to be with him forever, you are supposed to come back to his place hours later with takeout in your hands, begging him to watch that one movie he had been dreading to sit through. 
Not you. Anyone but you. Any sorcerer, any human, any life but yours. Not his love. Not his life. Not the source of all the color and joy and music in the world.
“Please, no,” he breathes. Satoru can feel himself unravel, his brain scrambling and his heart thudding into him. He’s panicking, hyperventilating, looking over every part of you as though you will lift a hand to cup over his and tell him that you’re fine, that you’re okay, that you got hurt badly, but you made it. “Fuck, no, no, fucking- (Y/n), wake up. Get up, come on, pretty, get up please! Please, please…”
His hands are soaking in your blood, and Satoru’s eyes blur over. He tries to pull your face up, to look into your eye, to plead you to gain consciousness, but there’s nothing. You give him nothing.
He sits there, staring at you in terror. Pearly tears cascade down his face before he even registers so, splattering onto your red stained cheek. His fingers dig into your body, pressing you close to him. His pants are drenched in your blood, but he doesn’t care.
How can he care about anything anymore?
A strangled cry rips the air from his chest as he clings to you, ducking his head and pressing his forehead to yours. He wraps you up into his arms, holding you over his waist as he rocks you back and forth. 
“Not my baby,” he whimpers, nose flaring. “Not my beautiful girl. Please don’t leave me alone, sunshine, please.”
He’s lost. He’s devastated, heart broken, ripped apart. 
You revealed a world to him that he had never known to be possible. A world that brought him back down to earth, that healed his trauma, that allowed him to breathe, that allowed him to know what it is like to be human. To be weak. To be loved in a way that the expecting world could never love him despite its constant demands for his sacrifice. 
And now, you’re gone. 
He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how quickly you slipped away. He knows the life of a sorcerer is to accept death just as you did, but this isn’t right. This isn’t supposed to happen to you. He’s supposed to protect you. How could he have failed to protect you?
He should have been there. He should have prevented you from going. He should have locked you in a room and dealt with whatever curse did this to you himself. He shouldn’t have let you go. He should have done something. He should have fought harder, but he didn’t. And this is the price he must pay for trusting, for stepping away, for watching you assure him and turning your back to him as you walked off. 
He knew and yet he let you go.
Satoru thinks he’s going to break. He can feel his mind shifting, his irregular breaths growing ragged. He can feel the unbridled hatred brewing, the rage, the urge to find and slaughter whatever beast took you away from him. He feels nothing, yet he feels everything all at once. 
Nothing matters anymore, now that you’re gone. There is nothing holding him back, nothing keeping his demons at bay, nothing preventing him from letting loose without a care in this goddamn planet. The higher ups. They sent you. He’d kill them. He’d kill them all after finding your murderer and ripping them apart from the inside out.
Gojo is aching, for he doesn’t know what to do except hold you and cry against your pretty face, pressing shaky kisses to your forehead as he recites your name over and over.
He expects the sky to fall dark. He expects the plants surrounding to wilt. He expects life to stop as he knows it because an angel has died on earth. The source of the world’s life has been torn away.
But life continues around him. The sun beams down, the flowers sprout high…
And those birds keep chirping, though you are the only person who exposed the sound to him in the first place.
“Why…” he shivers, burying his head into your chest.
Why are the birds still chirping now that you’re gone?
799 notes · View notes
lady-ace · 2 months ago
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The cities are alive
By now, it's a pretty common fact that the cities — yes, cities are in fact, alive.
They can project a body in their territory, thus showing their presence.
Lady Gotham is a dark mistress. Her wings are black like the fog that covers her whole city — as black as Gotham's night. Her long dress, even though seemingly soft and elegant in first glance, won't ever sway, not even in the harshest winter winds Gotham offers.
Even though she wears a blindfold, she sees all, is all. She sees beyond the surface of what eyes can see; knowing full well the pain and suffering every single Gotham citizen goes through, and bears that burden.
Her whole body seems to be made of pure, dark energy. Some accounts of eye witnesses say that if Lady Gotham wished so, she could easily blend into the shadows, as if she was never there. Ever watching over her people, even though unseen.
Legends say that if you ever feel like you're being watched even though there's nobody there, it's a sign Lady Gotham's spirit has her sights on you.
The person who have her favor, the ones she sees herself the most in, are her royal knights, who fight to keep her city and her people safe, every night.
Metropolis' spirit was very different, in many ways.
Metropolis was sunny and hopeful — a truly carefree soul.
Metropolis was the city that showed himself the most, simply enjoying being able to watch as the civillians go about their day, making the city burst with life.
Metropolis thrives on the energy of its people — that is reflected on the bright, sunny days with no clouds in sight, where the skyline gleams.
Of course, Metropolis' chosen is Superman, the most bright symbol of hope there is. Inspired by him, Metropolis even decided to encorporate a cape in their astral projection, said cape that shines like the sun and gleams like the sky no matter the time.
Everyone knows a city's spirit has at least something in common with their chosen.
Metropolis is the most boyscout city spirit out there. More often than not, the spirit can be found watching the sunrise, flying over the clouds, enjoying the freedom, or simply swinging his legs on a building, looking at everyone down below. The feeling of hope, of a chance of a better tomorrow — that is what Metropolis is looking for. And Superman has more than enough of that.
Even though Lady Gotham is cloaked in shadows, she doesn't wilt, she thrives— Just like her chosen, the Gotham Bats.
No one questions these things, they all make sense, don't they? The dark Lady has her dark Knights, the sunny city and the boyscout...
So imagine the faces of the League members when they find out through casual conversation that Fawcett is an actual child.
──────────────────────────
Green Lantern: “I know i shouldn't be talking about someone being childish, but the spirit that chose him is literally a child.”
Wonder Woman: “Are you certain that is the reason that the spirit chose to reflect a child's body? For his.. mentality?”
Green Lantern: “Yeah, pretty much. I mean, do you know any other reason that Fawcett could have chosen that form?”
Zatanna, who sometimes goes to Fawcett's magical market: “You all know that Fawcett's magical, right? What's more magical than a child's imagination?”
Flash: “If the spirit wanted to reflect something of Marvel's, why choose the mentality? The lightning bolt is right there!”
──────────────────────────
“Uno!” a child made of yellow energy exclaims, grinning devilishly.
Freddy gasps, holding a single card in his hand — having played the second to last one just seconds before. “Oh you did NOT just do that.”
Fawcett giggles like a goblin, watching as Freddy glares at them, pointedly making eye contact as he starts buying cards.
“Well, if you had been just a little faster..” Billy says, playing a reversal card. Freddy looks once at his new cards, then proceeds to sigh in frustration, buying even more cards while glaring murderously at the Champion.
“Batson, if i were you, i'd sleep with one eye open tonight.”
Billy can't contain his giggles anymore and bursts out laughing, Fawcett following suit.
321 notes · View notes
harmoonix · 5 months ago
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Tips to heal your Saturn/Chiron placement!!
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Since Saturn and Chiron both can trigger a natives life with anxiety and a sense of security, here are some things to help you with getting better!🦋
How to heal:
Cause: overthinking - treatment: writing
Writing something when you're overthinking can help a lot! It can simply be a note from your phone or just write in a notebook how was/is your day so far when you feel overthinking
Cause: Anxiety - treatment: Mediation
When you feel like you're anxious, you can try to close your eyes and think at positive things, if you have your phone by your side try to listen to healing music because it usually works, also staying in the sun can help a lot when you're anxious
Cause: Tired - treatment: sleeping
Is really obvious for your body to feel like sleeping when you're tired, but sleeping actually helps your body so much! Especially when you're feeling sad, take a nap because when you'll wake up, you won't feel the same pain
Cause: Sadness - treatment: exercise
When you're feeling sad or low in life because we all have dark days, try to do some things that can keep your mind away from the sad feeling, play a game, play a sport, organize your room, cleaning can help too but remember that when you hold too much sadness inside of you it will burst out sometimes like you just can't hold it anymore and that's perfectly fine because for some people, crying is healing
Cause: Stress - treatment: go for a walk
Going for a walk can help when you're stressed, especially in the morning when the air is so refreshing because it can help to clean your mind, try to leave the house or go in a park/lay on the grass/look at the sky it can help!
Cause: Angry - treatment; listen to music
Maybe at the moment you won't feel like listening to music, especially after a fight or some kind of conflict, but listening to music it can help with chilling yourself after those, and always remember that the specific fight or conflict already ended so you don't have to overthink about it, is away now
Cause: Lazyness - treatment: reduce screen time
The light from our phones/pc/laptop/iPad is not healthy if you constantly spend your time on these. It is good to take a break and clear your mind after a while. Your phones light has also impacted your mood
Cause: Burnout - Treatment: Reading
Reading can help in situations of burnout. If you don't have a book by yourself when you are in such a situation, there are so many online books out there, or even audio ones try to read articles or to just text with people/friends when you feel like it.
Saturn + Chiron and the themes you need to heal/get better in your life!
Saturn/Chiron in the 1H - yourself, your body, your image
Saturn/Chiron in the 2H - your worth, finances
Saturn/Chiron in the 3H - your communication, talk more about your feelings
Saturn/Chiron in the 4H - your family, relatives, your own home
Saturn/Chiron in the 5H - your inner child, do things that make you happy
Saturn/Chiron in the 6H - your mental health, nurturing, organization
Saturn/Chiron in the 7H - your partner, your relationship or marriage, your worth to a relationship/boundaries
Saturn/Chiron in the 8H - your traumas, your past, your insecurities
Saturn/Chiron in the 9H - your faith, your beliefs, your culture, your homeland, your education
Saturn/Chiron in the 10H - your carrer, your public image, your job
Saturn/Chiron in the 11H - your friendships, your community, your dreams
Saturn/Chiron in the 12H - your subconscious, your sleep, your spiritual self,
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🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋🦋
Remember that is perfectly fine to feel sad or angry or moody because these are our emotions and feelings at the specific moment, there is nothing with them but it can do damage on yourself when you're in these energies for too long! Remember that loving yourself matters. You matter, you are loved. Being nice with others matters as much as being nice with yourself as well! Hope this helped you guys 🦋
Harmoonix🦋🦋🦋
629 notes · View notes
notlongtolove · 19 days ago
Text
sun makes the day new
it’s not the first time derek has called him during a night out, trying to rope him into joining the fun. the usual calls came with garbled voices passing the phone around, shouting ‘wish you were here!’, ‘just come out!’ and multiple slurred variations of ‘reidddddd’.  but derek’s never called for help before.
pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)
genre: fluff
content: bau!reader is drunk! and spencer takes care of her
word count: 3.8k
note: spencer taking care of drunk bau!reader fills a void in me... spencer is reading the olfactory ethics thesis from twitter hahahahhhaha
a line: You’re the only reason he’d ever go—and the only reason he’d ever go unwillingly.
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Sun makes the day new. Tiny green plants emerge from earth. Birds are singing the sky into place. There is nowhere else I want to be but here. I lean into the rhythm of your heart to see where it will take us. - joy harjo
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It’s not often that Spencer gets a night to himself. Well, he’s used to spending most nights alone, but tonight, he actually has the time to make a cup of tea, to tuck himself under the sheets with a new read, even light the candle Garcia had given him two christmases ago. Nights like these, quiet and uninterrupted, are few and far between. 
“This thesis studies how literature registers the importance of olfactory discourse—the language of smell and the olfactory imagination it creates—in structuring our social world. The broad aim of this thesis is to offer an intersectional and wide-ranging study of olfactory oppression by establishing the underlying logics that facilitate smell’s application in creating and subverting gender, class, sexual, racial and species power structures. I focus largely on—”
And then his phone is ringing, cutting through the stillness. With a heavy sigh, he lifts it to his ear begrudgingly, but before he can say anything, pulsating music bursts through the speaker, forcing him to pull it away sharply and fumble with the volume.
“Reid! Hey!” Derek’s voice crackles over the line. “What are you—” your voice cuts in, loud and unmistakably indignant. “Are you calling Spencer—You’d better not be!” “I didn’t! I’m not—Ow!” A muffled struggle follows and then a sharp gasp. “You did! Oh, Derek Morgan, I’m gonna—” 
The line cuts off abruptly, leaving Spencer staring at his phone, brow furrowed in confusion. He considers calling Derek back but hesitates, Derek’s a tough guy; he can handle you, even when you’re tipsy. So, he sets the phone down and tries his best to refocus on the article in his lap.
“I focus largely on prose fiction from the modern and contemporary periods so as to trace the legacy of olfactory prejudice into today and situate its contemporary relevance. I suggest that smell very often invokes identity in a way that signifies an individual’s worth and status in an inarguable manner that short-circuits conscious reflection. This can be accounted for by acknowledging olfaction’s strongly—”
But the phone rings again, breaking the distinct quiet of his room. Spencer’s eyes flicker with irritation as he picks it up, this time holding it a safe distance from his ear.
“Can you—Would you get off me—Can you hear me?” The music in the background has faded, indicating that Derek has stepped outside. “Stop! Garcia grab her—Sorry, you there?”
“Still here.” His response is calm but tinged with impatience.
“Listen, we’ve got a bit of a… situation.” 
The words immediately put Spencer on edge. It’s not the first time Derek has called him during a night out, trying to rope him into joining the fun. The usual calls came with a mix of laughter, music, and garbled voices passing the phone around, shouting ‘Wish you were here!’, ‘Just come out!’ and, of course, multiple slurred variations of ‘Reidddddd’. 
But Derek’s never called for help before.
“How bad is it?”
Spencer hears Derek take a deep breath, as though trying to steady himself before turning back to the phone. “Man, it’s pretty bad.” 
“He’s lying Spence,” your slurred voice protests from a distance, teetering between laughter and the edge of a sob, “I’m just—Augh!” comes your muffled reply, followed by a struggle that’s half-heard through the line—something heavy shifting, a soft thud. “I’m just tipsy!” Spencer strains to hear the distant sound of hurried footsteps, heels on pavement. “I got her! I got her!” The clatter of keys and the rustle of fabric echo in the background.
“Sweetie you’re not tipsy, you’re—very intoxicated,” He hears garcia add, worry coloring her words.
“I’d say shit-faced,” Emily chimes in from the background, the amusement in her voice undeniable.
“She’s—” Derek mutters, “She’s pretty messed up, and uh—” He hesitates, the pause stretching into the silence. “She wouldn’t stop asking for you.” There’s an edge of exasperation in his voice. “How soon do you think you can get to 43rd and King Drive?”
This isn’t the first time Spencer’s been dragged out for a night he didn’t want. And it’s certainly not the first time he’s seen you drunk. In fact, if there were a Venn diagram mapping Spencer’s nights out and nights he was reluctantly pulled into, you’d sit squarely in the middle. You’re the only reason he’d ever go—and the only reason he’d ever go unwillingly.
Spencer rubs the bridge of his nose, already standing up, his eyes shut tight as he breathes out a shaky sigh. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
When Spencer pulls up to the address Derek had texted him, the group of you is impossible to miss. Emily is leaning against a lamppost, cradling what Spencer can only hope is her last drink of the night. Derek, propped on a fire hydrant is half-heartedly trying—and failing—to flag down a cab. Meanwhile, Garcia sits on the curb, gently stroking your hair as you rest against her, your eyes half-closed and face flushed.
“What did she have?” Spencer demands as he steps out of the car.
Derek, standing a few feet away, immediately tilts his head toward Emily, as though absolving himself of any blame. “Ask that one.”
Spencer’s eyes narrow as they land on Emily. She meets his stare with a guilty look. “Vodka, tequila, … a couple shots.”
“How many?” Spencer asks, countering her.
“I uh, lost count.”
Spencer blinks, momentarily speechless. 
“Bar was half off,” Emily shrugs, as if that explained everything.
With a sigh, Spencer shakes his head and crouches down beside you, his focus now entirely on your slumped form. His gaze softens as he takes in your flushed face and half-lidded eyes. You stir faintly, murmuring something incoherent as he brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead.
“She’s been this way for the past fifteen minutes,” Garcia says softly, her concern evident. “Poor thing, all that running must have really worn her out.” She pauses, a hint of disbelief slipping into her voice. “Y’know, I never would’ve guessed she’d be a running drunk.”
“Didn’t take her for a scratcher, either,” Derek chimes in, rubbing at a red mark on his neck. “Damn, the girl’s got claws.”
If he weren’t so worried, Spencer might have chuckled and launched into an explanation about the statistics behind why some people bolt when they’re drunk. He’d looked it up after the time he’d had to chase you down during your birthday last year, the last one left standing to wrangle you back home. But right now, there’s no room for humour.
Kneeling beside you, Spencer places a steadying hand on your shoulder. His voice drops low, calm and gentle. “Hey, can you hear me?” Your eyelids flutter weakly, a faint groan slipping past your lips as you lean ever so slightly into his hand. It’s enough to give him a sliver of reassurance, though not much.
“She’s definitely gonna feel that in the morning,” Derek chuckles faintly, stepping closer.
“Not helping, Morgan,” Spencer deadpans, his tone heavy with dry exhaustion. “Has she, you know—?” He makes a vague gesture, his meaning clear.
Emily jerks her thumb toward a couple of lampposts down. “Mhm. Barely made it out.”
Spencer follows the direction of her gesture, catching sight of a dark puddle by the door glistening faintly under the streetlight. He swallows hard, grimacing. “Right. That’s—That’s good.”
He adjusts his grip on your arm, bracing himself as he turns to Derek. “Help me get her to the car,” Derek nods, crouching down to take your other arm. “On three,” he murmurs, and together they hoist you up with practiced care. Your body is limp but pliable, your head rolling slightly as they steady you between them. 
The motion stirs you, your eyes fluttering open as an irritated groan escapes your lips. “Stoppp—I can walk, I can—Morgan let go!”
“It’s me—Hey,” Spencer says, his voice calm but tinged with urgency. “It’s just me.”
“Spence?” The word is slurred, fragile. 
Spencer’s heart clenches at the sound, his frustration momentarily giving way to something softer. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he replies, his voice low and steady. “I’m here. We’re getting you home.”
As the word slips out, he catches Derek’s eyebrow arching in his peripheral vision, the silent question practically radiating off him. Spencer doesn’t falter, his sharp, no-nonsense stare meeting Derek’s head-on. It’s enough to make Derek quickly avert his gaze, holding back whatever teasing remark had undoubtedly been forming on his lips. 
You and Spencer weren’t together. But you weren’t not together either. Whatever it was, it wasn’t in any way that people could put a label on. Unspoken yet undeniable. It wasn’t something you or Spencer were particularly adept at explaining either, nor was it something Spencer felt the need to justify, not to Derek, and especially not now. 
Your head lolls slightly against Spencer’s shoulder as they guide you forward, your weight shifting unsteadily between him and Derek. In Spencer’s presence, your expression visibly softens, sharp tongue giving way to sugar-coated phrases, the tension in your body melting away. It’s a stark contrast to the wild, uncooperative runner and scratcher the other three had described and had very obviously struggled to contain.
“You’re so nice, honey,” you mumble, your words slurred but filled with earnest sincerity. “Always so nice.”
“Definitely could’ve used your help thirty minutes ago,” Derek quips sarcastically. 
“I was reading—trying to.” The annoyance clings to Spencer’s words. 
“Right,” Derek lets out a low chuckle, “of course you were.”
“Seeeee!” You fawn, “Isn’t he the nicest?” You pause for a moment, your head tilting as if considering something profound. “And so handsome. Very nice and very handsome. The nicest and the handsomest,” you muse, your tone dreamy and matter-of-fact.
Derek snorts, his grip on your arm steady. “Don’t start,” Spencer mutters, his voice dry but tinged with something softer. The faintest pink creeps up his neck as you lean into him, your head pressing against his shoulder, seeking the comfort only he seems to provide.
It’s a chaotic tangle of limbs, with Derek flinching when your hand swings a little too close to his face—again. But they manage to get you settled into the passenger seat. As Spencer leans over to fasten your seatbelt, Derek leans against the hood of the car, smirking, “You know, Reid, maybe it’s time to retire pretty boy. Honey has a nicer ring to it, don’t you think?”
“I dunno, I prefer sweetheart,” Emily quips, her tone syrupy and teasing. “It’s got that rustic charm,” she drawls, throwing in an exaggerated wink for good measure.
Spencer rolls his eyes as he slides into the car, the door closing behind him. He hesitates, casting a quick glance at the others. “You guys… you have a ride back right?”
“Aw, would you look at that? The perfect gentleman. A one-stop kind of guy.” Garcia teases, mischief in her eyes.
“More like a one-woman kind of guy,” Derek says under his breath—Just loud enough for everyone to hear. It earns him a playful swat on the arm from Garcia. 
Spencer’s face turns a deep shade of pink as he stumbles over his words. “That’s not... that’s not what I meant,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I could—”
“Relax, Reid,” Emily interjects, gesturing toward the passenger seat. “Go get her home. We’ll figure ourselves out.” Spencer nods quickly, grateful for the out, though his ears are still burning as he starts the engine, determined not to look back at their knowing smiles.
The first time you brought Spencer to your apartment, you’d warned him about the stairs. He’d laughed it off, dismissing your concern with a grin, saying the three-flight walk-up wasn’t so bad—it added character, a touch of history to the building. “Besides,” he’d added, “did you know that having stairs in apartments likely means the building predates the widespread use of elevators which wasn’t all that common in residential construction until after Elisha Otis introduced his safety elevator in 1854?” 
But now, hauling you up those very same stairs, Spencer is sweaty, out of breath, and cursing whoever thought a three-story walk-up in a brownstone was a good idea.
“One more step, just one more—there you go, sweetheart,” he says through gritted teeth, practically dragging you up those last few steps. “Now, where are your keys?” He pats your bag as he speaks, more to himself than to you.
“My—hiccup—my keys are—hiccup—in there,” you slur, pointing vaguely at the bag he’s already rifling through.
When the door finally swings open with a shove that’s harder than Spencer intended, it bangs against the wall, making both of you jump. You lurch forward, your balance teetering precariously, but Spencer is quicker, his arm darting out to catch you before you can topple over.
“Whoa, easy,” he says, his tone gentle but firm as he steadies you, his hand lingering at your waist to make sure you’re upright.
You hum in response, barely acknowledging his effort as you shrug off his support and make a beeline for the bedroom. Your steps are uneven, your movements sluggish, and before you can collapse face-first onto the bed, Spencer steps in again, catching you mid-fall.
“Uh-uh,” he chides as he props you back up. “How about we change before we dive into our nice, warm bed, huh?”
You blink at him, swaying slightly as you process his words. “Mm. Warm. I like warm.” You pause, and then, as if hit by divine inspiration, you blurt out, “Soup. I want soup.”
“Soup?” Spencer echoes, a hint of exasperation creeping into his tone. “No soup, honey. Not right now,” he says, heading toward the bathroom to grab a makeup wipe. But before he can make it two steps, your bottom lip begins to tremble, tears pooling in your eyes. 
“But… I,” you whisper, your voice cracking, “I really really want soup.”
Spencer freezes, his defences crumbling in an instant as he sees a single tear spills over, streaking your cheek. Oh, how could he ever say no to you? 
“Oh, baby, no, don’t cry,” he murmurs, rushing back to you, crouching slightly to meet your gaze. He cups your face gently, his thumbs brushing away any other tears that threaten to fall. “Okay, okay. I’ll make you soup, alright? Just... let me take care of you first, yeah?”
Sniffling, you nod, your tears beginning to subside. “And then soup?” you ask softly, your voice small but hopeful.
Spencer’s lips curve into a gentle smile as he brushes a stray tear from your cheek. “Yeah, baby. And then soup. Whatever you want,” he murmurs, his tone warm and reassuring. Spencer knows deep down that you don’t actually want or need soup—it’s just the fixation of the moment in your drunken haze. Still, he decides to play along for now, hoping that with time, the thought will slip from your mind.
Carefully, he helps you out of your clothes, his hands steady and patient as he guides you into one of his soft, oversized shirts. You mumble something slurred and incoherent about how impossibly comfy it is, and his lips twitch into a fond smile. “Yeah honey, you’re right,” he humours you, adjusting the hem gently, “Fabric softener really does work wonders, doesn’t it?”
Spencer reaches for a makeup wipe from your vanity, his movements gentle as he starts to carefully remove the smudged remnants of mascara under your eyes. His eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees one of your lashes come loose, but then he remembers you’d mentioned wearing false lashes on nights out. Right, that makes sense.
After two makeup wipes—both stained with hues of browns, pinks and purples, smudged from your makeup—he lifts your limp head, checking for any remaining traces. Your doe eyes blink up at him, looking soft and pretty, but there's an obvious blankness behind them as you babble on about how handsome he is. 
You’d once talked about something you watched on double cleansing, or was it triple? Better safe than sorry, he thinks grabbing another wipe to be sure. Once he’s satisfied, he sets the wipe down and brushes your hair back from your face. “There we go,” he murmurs soothingly, brushing your hair back from your face. “All done,” he says, his voice soft as a lullaby. 
You smile drips with affection as you look back up at him, and for a brief, blissful moment, he thinks the ordeal is over. Then you whisper:
“Soup?”
Spencer’s face falls, a mix of exasperation and reluctant affection washing over him. “Soup,” he repeats, more to himself than to you. He sighs, but when he looks down at your earnest, pleading face, his resolve crumbles all over again. “Okay, honey,” he relents, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I’ll make you soup. You stay right here, alright?”
“M’kay,” you murmur, along with something incoherent, obediently crawling under the covers as Spencer tucks you in. And then you’re out like a light.
When you wake up the next morning, the first thing that hits you is the dull, relentless throb behind your eyes. The second is how heavy your body feels, limbs weighed down like lead, and you find yourself wincing as you shift under the tangled sheets. You’re not sure how you got home, you don’t know why your feet hurt so much either. And is that blood under your nails? You groan, clutching your temples in a futile attempt to block out the unanswered questions. Right now, all you know is that you need water. Desperately.
A sharp ache runs down your spine as you sit up, and you reach blindly for the water bottle on your nightstand. Your hand fumbles over the plastic, knocking it to the floor with a soft thud, and the sound only amplifies the pounding in your head. 
“Hey, you alright there?”, Spencer calls out. 
The unexpected voice startles you so much that you let out a sharp scream, immediately regretting it as the noise rebounds inside your aching head. “Ah! Jesus, Spence, you scared me!” you groan, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.
Spencer’s face, which had been etched with concern, softens into a sheepish smile. He’s sitting in the chair by your bedroom door, a book resting on his knee, clearly having been there for a while. “Sorry, honey,” he says softly, closing the book and setting it aside. “I was just... keeping an eye on you.”
You blink at him, still trying to piece together why he’s even here. “Keeping an eye on me?” you ask, your voice hoarse and thick with confusion.
“You were... a little out of it last night,” Spencer explains gently, standing up and moving to pick up the water bottle that had fallen to the floor. He twists the cap open and hands it to you, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment, steadying your hand.
You take a cautious sip, the cool water soothing your parched throat. “Last night? But you—you weren’t even there.” You frown, trying to piece the fragmented memories together. There was Derek, Emily, Garcia, shots, that weird guy who kept staring at you, more shots... Were you really that drunk? No, you definitely would’ve noticed if Spencer had been there, right?
Spencer’s smile is small, almost apologetic, as he moves to sit on the edge of your bed, his voice soft but direct. “Let’s just say you’re pretty good at keeping everyone on their toes. And, uh, backup was needed.” 
“That bad, huh?” you murmur. “What did I do?”
It’s kind of more like what didn’t you do? Spencer thinks but keeps it to himself. He hesitates for a moment, as if he’s deciding how much to tell you, then speaks carefully. “I think it’s safe to say Morgan’s not exactly thrilled about the scratch marks.” He can’t help the small laugh that escapes, but it’s more for reassurance than amusement.
“Oh, god.” You groan and bury your face in your hands, the embarrassment rising in your chest.
Spencer gently rubs reassuring circles on your knee, steady and soothing as he tries to ease the tension evident in your face. “You were... spirited,” he offers diplomatically. “Nothing unfixable. Besides, I’ve seen worse.”
You peek at him through your fingers, surprised by how calm he seems despite everything. “I’m so sorry, Spence,” you say, your voice muffled by your hands. “Did I ruin your night?”
He shrugs with a small, reassuring smile. “Not at all. Kind of hard to be mad after you called me ‘very nice and very handsome’ at least three times.”
You groan again, your cheeks burning as you down another sip of water. Spencer chuckles softly, the sound light and comforting. 
“How’s your head?” he asks, his voice gentle with concern, though the answer is clear. 
A groan.
“Aw, honey,” he coos sympathetically, his arms opening wide in invitation. “C’mere.”
Too drained to move, you opt for flopping forward into his lap instead, your body feeling heavy and sluggish. Spencer’s hands immediately go to your hair, stroking it gently, his touch soothing. “Hurts, huh?” he murmurs softly.
You whine in agreement, your head resting against him as you let his fingers work through your tangled hair. He chuckles lightly, a sound that brings some small relief. “You hungry?” he asks, his voice still filled with concern, though it’s laced with a hint of casual care.
Another mewl escapes you, the idea of food nearly as unappealing as your pounding headache.
“You need electrolytes, honey,” Spencer suggests gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “We’ve gotta get something in you.”
You peek out from the mess of your hair, an eyebrow quirked as you attempt a teasing smile. “So forward, Doctor Reid,” you try to joke, your voice sluggish. “At least buy me dinner first.”
“You know what I mean,” Spencer says as he jokingly swats your arm.
You huff softly, your eyelids barely staying open. “Can’t move,” you mumble, curling further into his lap, trying to escape the weight of your headache. “Don’t make me move.”
Spencer chuckles quietly, his fingers gently tracing the line of your hair as he speaks. "You've gotta move at some point, sweetheart."
You whine in protest, your body too exhausted to even think of standing. "An hour?"
"I'll give you 10 minutes," he counters.
"40?" you bargain weakly, lifting your head just enough to look at him through half-lidded eyes.
"20," he shoots back.
You think for a moment, the numbers swirling in your hazy mind. "30?"
Spencer's grin widens, body moving as you gently tug him closer. "Fine," he relents with a soft sigh. "But only because you called me handsome that fourth time." You roll your eyes as you shift to make space for him.
He slides onto the bed beside you, his body pressing against yours as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you into the comfort of his warmth. Your head rests on his chest as he tucks you in closer, his fingers running soothingly along your arm. 
"Hey, Spence?"
"Hm?" 
"Why’s there a bowl of soup on my dresser?"
⋆✴︎˚。⋆ hi if you're here! thank you for reading! feel free to like or reblog or comment or reply!
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formulawolff · 6 months ago
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xix. when time stood still - t.w.
pairing: female driver!reader x toto wolff
word count: 3.4k
warnings: ANGST, so much angst, yearning, mutual pining, cursing, mentions of injury, mild violence, sexual innuendos, light smut (you'd have to squint to see it), age gap relationships, banter, yadayadayada
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“have you seen this?”
“seen what?” you arch a brow, shoving a bite into your mouth.
“toto did an interview with sky sports,” alex scoots closer to you on the couch. you were to his right, lily cuddled up on his left, “should we all watch it together? it already has almost one million views.”
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
you pick at your food, “that’s unusual. sky sports typically rakes in only thousands of views per video.”
“well we’ll just have to watch and see!” lily chirps, leaning forward so that she can drum along your arm with her hands, “chin up, buttercup! we’re about to watch your mans!”
alex presses play, holding the phone at an angle where the three of you could see clearly. the moment he appears on screen, your heart skips a beat.
he’s disheveled, his fluffy brunette locks sticking up on all ends, the first few buttons of his crisp mercedes polo undone, the fabric slightly wrinkled from the stressful events of qualifying. 
although it was cooling down significantly as the sun had set, he wore no jacket. the sleeves of his polo were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his toned forearms, the veins prominent in the low light. there was an emotion in his gaze you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 
lewis and george linger in the background, both of them waving fervently to the camera as rachel brooks begins the interview, clearing her throat. 
she begins with her introduction, your jaw going slack the second she mentions your relationship. she continues, pressing on with a flurry of invasive questions. toto appears just as shocked, remaining silent for nearly thirty seconds before speaking. 
“i initiated our relationship,” he starts, pausing briefly once more, “i approached her a few months ago in bahrain. if we’re being honest here, i had been crushing on her for quite some time. since the news broke of her signing to williams in december of 2022.”
alex’s thumb locates the pause button with lighting speed, stopping the video, “no. fucking. way.”
“that is so romantic!” lily squeals, kicking her feet, “alex, what are you doing? press play! i want to watch more.”
as the video resumes, you can’t help but notice lewis and george’s reactions, how their eyes are widened, lips parted as toto shifts in place, slightly swaying back and forth as rachel clarifies exactly how long he had been interested in you. he responds, focusing his attention directly to the camera, his eyes almost piercing through the lens. 
he mentions susie, quenching the blazing rumors that the two you were involved in an affair. he defends her name, stating that she is not the bitter ex-wife that the headlines claim she is. he affirms that she is the founder and helm of the f1 academy, the mother of their children, and an exceptional co-parent and business partner. 
you find yourself almost too invested in the words, leaning over a few more inches so that you can savor the way his voice is brimmed with passion, bursting with nothing but adoration as he catches his breath. 
that’s when he mentions you.
your heart flutters, a dizzying sensation taking hold as he utters the words i love that american girl.
“oh shit,” alex murmurs under his breath, “you have that man in a chokehold.”
“shhh!” lily hushes him, putting a finger to his lips, “there’s still more!”
rachel glances towards the camera as toto spins on his heel, starting to walk away. she calls out him, eager to dissect his previous sentiment. 
“you said that you loved that american driver. do you mind elaborating on that?”
toto turns, now in the center of the frame, “yes, i did. i love her. there are many whispers that i am just using her, that she is just a little pawn in my game to ultimately sign her to mercedes. that is not the case. it is complete and utter bullshit. she is my entire world. i would never take advantage of her in that manner. i respect her too much to do that. 
now that all of your pressing questions are answered, i have one thing to ask. will you all just leave us be? no more hot gossip. no more lies. let me love my american girl. that’s all. i will not be elaborating further, ms. brooks. thank you.”
that’s when rachel blinks, the hand holding the microphone quivering. 
was it from excitement? from a rush of adrenaline because she was able to pry more information out of him? the exhilaration of knowing that this was going to create a media frenzy?
the camera pans to her, the reporter bearing a smug, shit-eating grin. 
“well, now we know how the illustrious mercedes team principal really feels about the williams driver. perhaps tomorrow we will be able to reach her for an exclusive, one-on-one interview. perhaps will we see another post-race kiss? stay tuned to sky sports f1 for more updates here in montreal, canada! have a great evening! we will see you on the race track bright and early for more coverage!” 
the video cuts out, suggestions popping up on the screen for more related content. for a minute, you sit there, completely and utterly in disbelief at what you just witnessed. alex elbows you, bringing you back to earth. 
“you okay?”
“yeah,” you nod, heat burning in your cheeks, “i wasn’t expecting that.”
“and neither were we!” lily springs up from the couch, making her way over to you. 
she knees alex gently, “move, move, move! i need to talk to my girl.”
“am i included in girl talk?” he teases, obliging to her request, “i want to know all of the tea! she never told me about her time in monte carlo.”
“why not?” lily’s lip juts out as she settles next to you, “hey, what’s on your mind?”
your lower lip trembles, tears blurring your vision, “i-i just miss him.”
“oh lovebug,” lily coos, wrapping tender arms around your frame, “is james still being weird about everything?”
“weird is an understatement,” alex whistles, shaking his head, “he’s on insane levels of a strict father figure at the moment. he almost took her phone yesterday because he was under the impression that she was texting toto.”
“nuh uh!” lily’s eyes widen in shock, disgust painting her features, “alex told me that part of it was due to the team’s reputation? the pr teams want you guys to maintain your distance?”
there’s now a steady stream falling down your cheeks, “y-yeah.”
“oh honey,” lily rubs your back as wails bubble up in the back of your throat, “alex, get her phone for me?”
“why?” he inquires, yet hands her your phone, “her passcode is zero-three-zero-nine-two-four.”
“isn’t that the date you won your first grand prix?” lily’s fingers fly across the screen. 
“yes,” alex answers for you, placing a box of tissues on your lap, “lily, what are you doing?”
“calling toto wolff,” her chin tilts upward, towards alex, “duh! who else would i be calling?”
a few paddocks down, toto wolff paces in his office, his drivers situated in the two plush chairs, scrolling away on their phones. 
there is a thick layer of frustration lingering in the air, clouding around the team principal. 
it was not the heated, fiery rage of losing a race or a car malfunctioning. it was more like the fury of wanting something you cannot have. the desperation of it, the way it tugged and pulled at his weary heart. resentment for the mercedes pr team was accumulating by the second, the team principal firing blazing strings of curses under his breath. 
“everyone is going bonkers over that interview, mate,” lewis’ lips are curled into a devious smirk, the driver flashing his screen, “you should see what they’re saying about you.”
“all good things i hope,” toto snorts, rolling his eyes, “in retrospect, i should have just kept my mouth shut.”
on his desk, the inbox of his work email was flooded with furious messages from the pr team, demanding that he keep his lips sealed for the remainder of the weekend. the team principal was to shoot down any pressing inquiries regarding the williams driver. they even went so far to create scenarios that provided examples of the “proper responses.” answers that he was required to give since he only “embarrassed the team and mercedes brand even further.”
“they’re loving every single second,” george tuts, skimming over the comments, “someone said, ‘well now i get it. that man really put his job on the line to admit how much he loves her. w for the american girl, and w interview.’”
“someone by the user ‘mercedesgirl’ posted,” lewis snickers, suppressing his laughter, “‘you know what? good for them. she gets to be railed by the one and only toto wolff. he probably fucks her so hard she can’t see straight. also, no man talks about a woman like that in front of a camera without being absolutely whipped. he loves that girl.’”
“oh really?” toto raises a brow, folding his arms over his chest, “i mean, they’re not–”
a vibration in his pocket interrupts him, lewis and george both setting their phones on their laps, intrigued by the potential caller. 
pulling it out of his pocket, he quickly glances at the screen. 
my golden girl 
swiping across the cool surface, he brings the phone to his ear, “hallo, baby.”
“oh!” the voice on the other end is not familiar, “hi! um, it’s lily he, one of your girlfriend’s close friends.”
hmm. this was odd.
“i was wondering if there was any possible way we could get her over to the mercedes paddock? or your hotel room? she’s in shambles right now over that interview and i think she really could use some of your snuggles or something.”
“is she crying?” toto could pick out the quiet cries in the background, his heart sinking, “do you know why she’s so upset?”
“not really. i think she might be stressed out with everything going on with james and your pr teams,” the voice is light, airy and delicate, “but i think she could really use some time with you. in private. are you busy?” 
that prick. 
what else could he have possibly done or said?
“no,” toto’s eyes dart towards his drivers, “i’m not busy at all, actually. does she want to spend the night with me? i can tell you which things to pack in an overnight bag.”
lewis leans back in the chair, hands on his head as george puckers his lips, making kissy faces. 
“just text me!” lily chirps, “i’ll get her ass in the shower. maybe if she knows she’s going to see you, she’ll perk up. see you soon!”
the line clicks dead, toto pointing a finger at both of his drivers, “you two! out!”
“come on,” lewis groans, “we don’t get to see your precious baby? what if i want to say hi?”
“unfortunately for you,” toto scoffs, crossing over to his desk, “i have places to be.”
“do you want me to call theodore?” george offers, rising to his feet, “i can get the car arranged so no one notices the two of you together.”
“that’s not a terrible idea,” toto dips his head, turning to lewis, “are you going to be helpful or are you going to just sit there and continue to terrorize me?”
“i can help, i can help,” the driver waves a hand, “what do you need me to do?”
“i need you to escort her over here to the paddock or to the car,” shoving an arm into his jacket, the team principal scoops his keys off the desk, frantically gathering his belongings, “will you be able to do that for me?”
“aye aye, captain!” lewis salutes, “you need me to text her?”
“please,” toto whirls around, searching the space, ensuring nothing important was left behind. 
who knew that a simple rendezvous would require such meticulous planning?
well, it seemed when your pr teams desperately tried to keep the two of you apart, your friends would be the ones to step in. 
especially when the two of you were two desperate, yearning messes. 
and when it came to that, toto was eternally grateful. 
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
“i missed you.”
one hand rests on the small of your back, the other kneading into your shoulder blade as your head is nuzzled into his chest, traces of his cologne flooding your nostrils. a simple heather gray t-shirt clings to his top half, boxers hanging on his hips. 
you’re in one of his crewnecks, the garment nearly framing your figure effortlessly. your lashes flutter as tender kisses pepper all over your face, covering your nose, apples of your cheeks, jawline, temple, and forehead. 
“i missed you more, schatzi,” he murmurs, “do you feel better now?”
you had reunited with the team principal in his lavish hotel room approximately an hour ago, lewis hitching a ride with you so that it didn’t raise any eyebrows. george was the one who coordinated theodore’s arrival to your motorhome, meticulously choosing a time in which you wouldn’t be stopped by any lingering members of the williams crew. 
it was quite ridiculous, really. the hoops you had to leap through in order to spend just a few hours with your beloved team principal. 
yet, it was worth it.
so beyond worth it.
the embrace you were greeted with was unlike one you had ever encountered before. toto’s arms nearly swept you off your feet, lifting you a few inches above the ground as he held you tightly against his chest, squeezing with so much force you couldn’t breathe. strings of german filled your ears, bursting with nothing but love and adoration. 
it was like he hadn’t seen you in weeks. 
yet, you were on the same wavelength, nearly erupting into tears once again as he whisked you into his room. 
there was a coziness that rippled in your heart as the two of you laid together, oh so joyful to be reunited once more. 
“so much better,” your lashes flutter, eyelids heavy with exhaustion, “this probably isn’t our smartest idea.”
“i think we’ve made plenty of dumb decisions,” a chuckle rumbles in his chest as he drapes the comforter over you, fluffing it so that it covered any exposed area, “are you nervous for the race tomorrow? the bottom half of the grid is not where i expected you to be.”
“it is what it is,” you exhale, “i could barely get any grip on my tires.”
“it was pretty slick out there. were you distracted by other things?”
“maybe,” you mutter, burying your head into the fabric, “i don’t really want to talk about racing right now.”
“i understand,” he hand drifts, wandering to your rib-cage, “lily mentioned something about james earlier. i just want to know if he had anything to do with your qualifying lap, that’s all.”
his touch his light, nearly feathery as his fingertips drag along, “i mean, i did get into it with him a few times. nothing serious, really.”
“let me know if it’s anything that i need to address, all right?” his hands envelops your breast, his palm radiating warmth as he squeezes, “i want to ensure that you’re not being harassed or anything. i can handle it, but it would destroy me if you were mistreated over something like this.”
“you worry too much,” your breath hitches in your throat as he rolls your nipple between two fingers.
“it’s my job,” his mouth hovers by your ear, “if anything happened to you? oh god. i don’t know what i would do. lately, every time you step foot onto that track, i think my heart rate elevates. i just get so nervous that you may get hurt or something even far wo–”
tilting your chin, you glance upward, pressing a finger to his lips, “i’ll be okay, baby. that’s why the safety regulations are in place. to protect me.”
in the dim light, you notice the glossiness in his gaze, misty even as he responds, the words barely audible. 
“that is true. but you mean everything to me. the safety regulations aren’t enough. i need to be the one protecting you. from everything. i hope you know i’m counting down the days.”
“counting down the days till what exactly?” the pad of your thumb wipes away a tear as it falls. 
“i’m counting down the days until you’re at mercedes. the day when we’ll be able to be together for the rest of our lives. the day where i’ll finally be able to go forward with our future.”
“our future?” your heart swells as he leans in.
“yes, our future. the future in which i’ll be able to make you my wife.” 
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
“and it’s lights out here in montreal! the canadian grand prix is underway!”
“push, push.” the command floods in, “you should be able to overtake magnussen.” 
“got it,” you swallow thickly, adrenaline coursing through your veins, “let’s fucking do this.”
as george flew out from the pole position, max hot on his tail, your mind hones in from the chaos of the starting stretch, focusing on the task at hand. 
if you were able to overtake kevin magnussen, then you would more than likely be able to do the same to the ferrari boys as well. that would prove to be a challenge, as both of them were vastly competitive, but the determination set your heart ablaze, goading you to step on that pedal. 
this was it, the canadian grand prix. 
one of the crucial races. just another rung up the ladder to that final destination. 
the world driver’s championship.
and by god, you were going to get there by any means possible. 
yet, kevin was hellbent on maintaining his position, veering in your path. 
on the track, every inch was necessary in order to overtake another car. if you miscalculated the distance by even a hair, the results could be catastrophic. 
cursing under your breath, you alleviate the pressure on the pedal, “he’s not giving me any fucking room guys.”
“you’ll have your opportunity,” james’ voice chimes in, “just be patient, american girl.”
“well i want it now,” you counter, gritting your teeth, “how the fuck am i supposed to be the world champion if i can’t even manage a fucking pod–”
that’s when a horrific crunching noise cuts you off, the world around you slowing as you’re propelled several feet into the air, the wind whistling. 
it was like everything all around was frozen, your car rolling, barreling towards the barrier. blood roars in your ears as you gasp for breath, the panic crashing over you like a tidal wave.
oh god. 
this was it. 
squeezing your eyes shut, you brace for impact, one last image flashing across your mind as the car collides against the rigid surface.
toto and his beautiful eyes, the mocha depths glittering like stars as he dimples form, bearing a wide, radiant grin as his nose scrunches.
that damn smile. 
it was going to be the death of you. 
i love you. 
you hear a voice. his voice. so rich and brassy, thick with the accent you had grown to absolutely adore.
that’s was the last thing you hear before everything goes dark. 
in the stands, fans jump to their feet, their attention lasered in on the scene before them. alex albon of williams racing screeches to a halt, scrambling out of his car.
he stumbles slightly the first few steps, desperate to reach his fellow driver, buried among the wreckage. he shouts across the track, his field of vision blurred as his voice falters. 
“fuck, fuck, fuck! i’m coming! i’m coming for you! hold on!”
calls come buzzing across the radio waves. 
“red flag! we need the fucking red flag!”
“red flag! fuck! where is the safety car?”
“where is the fucking safety car?”
“hello! we need a red flag!”
“where is the medic? we need a fucking medic!”
in the mercedes paddock, a team principal rips off his headphones, his chest heaving as he frantically makes his way towards the entrance of the garage, scanning the track. 
he makes out the outline of alex albon, desperately tugging you out of a pile of crumpled metal and tires. 
as his line of sight falls on you, all he can see is the way your head rolls, limbs lolling as he lays you on the ground, his pleas crying out.
“where the fuck is the medic? she needs help!”
˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖
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silverskye13 · 5 months ago
Text
Etho looks down quietly at his basket, making sure everything he needs is inside. He knows it is best to only make one trip down to the water. The water is treacherous. He is strong enough to withstand it, but of course, everyone who ever drowned thinks they're strong enough until their lungs are bursting. So. He double checks. He makes sure.
He has a week's worth of laundry. Some dishes he needs sand from the river to scour. A bucket, so he won't have to make this trip for another few days. There are a few pieces of leather armor in need of a quick rinse before they're polished. Also, he's thirsty. He tries not to drink his rain water. He needs it to last.
Finally, Etho belts on his sword, hefts the basket over one shoulder, and the empty bucket with his free hand. He looks to the short path that leads down to the dock. The water is blue as the diamond sky above, edged in gold from the slowly gathering sunset. Birds are singing. Breeze whispers through the willow branches and cattails. Across the river, a small herd of deer is moving through the rushes. One breaks apart from the others to drink. Etho sighs out a long breath, steels himself, and walks down the trail.
The water is cursed. Very few people still come to the river for chores. Most only dare to run down for a few buckets of water when the well is running dry.
_____
When Tango saw him gathering his things earlier, he'd shaken his head and made a warding gesture with his hand. Protection. For himself. For Etho. Or just to ward away the idea of evil.
"Scream, I guess," Tango had told him. "I doubt we'll make it in time, but yanno, we'll know what happened."
Etho had only offered a tense smile behind his mask. Everyone would know what happened, scream or not.
"I'll be fine," Etho said. "I've been fine before."
He said it a lot more confidently than he felt, and Tango wasn't reassured. Tango had a good nose for things like that. He sniffed the air, and made the chagrined expression of someone who could smell a coming thunderstorm.
"Yeah. Sure." Tango sniffed again, and then tapped the side of his nose with a knowing finger. "On second thought, maybe save your breath."
_____
Etho walks out onto the dock, his footsteps silent as he can make them. He took his boots off by the dock's edge. They're heavy when they're wet. He sets the basket down gently on the aged wood. He fills the bucket first. In the neat and tidy plan of his habits, he thinks the bucket is the one he least wants to be left last with. It's heavy and cumbersome, and requires leaning over the water's edge. So he fills it, trying to disturb the water as little as possible, and pads back to his boots to set it down gently beside them. Then he's back to his basket, and getting to the louder work, what he know will attract attention.
He grabs a shirt and dunks it into the water, wringing it out a few times before scrubbing it against the dock's edge. Someone nailed a washboard here, probably to make it easier for everyone else who needed to scrub up -- one less cumbersome thing to drag to the riverside. Beside it, Etho can see long scratches in the wood, vanishing off the side. He has large hands, so they don't line up to him, but the unmistakable look of nails scratching, clinging, is recognizable even still. He wonders idly who made them. Probably someone playing, before the water was cursed. Or an animal that swam across the bank and needed help scurrying out.
He is tempted to think it's something more sinister, but he knows better.
The water turns from diamond blue to sunflower yellow, then to blazing orange with rusted and bleeding edges. The herd of deer on the other side of the water wanders off, sated. A fox calls in the wood somewhere, an uncanny, very human scream. The bird calls twitter into silence, replaced by chirping frogsong. Etho wrings out the last of his clothes and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. He checks how far the sun has dipped in the sky, and decides he has an our yet before dark settles in.
With his clothes washed, he sets them back in the basket, neatly folded. They'll wrinkle probably, but when he puts them out on the line, the wind will straighten them out. His knees are sore from kneeling, his back from leaning. His armor will be easier to clean if he can settle in, brace it on his crossed legs.
Etho looks around the water, at the deceptive stillness. It's a slow, lazy river, hardly pushing the water fast enough to put ripples on it. There is one place near the opposite bank where a long shadow stretches from a stone, broken by the reflection of red sunset. It's the kind of image he would expect to see on a lake on a windless day. He's heard before that quiet rivers make for deadly waters, that there is a current in holes in the riverbed that will devour someone.
But Etho isn't in the water. He's on the dock, and the dock is safe. Nothing will drag him off it. Nothing in the water is strong enough. It doesn't have to be. There is some comfort in that, in knowing he can't be devoured against his will. It is why he still comes to the river. It is why he dares. Etho sits back and crosses his legs, bracing his leathers against his knees. He scoops a palm full of water onto them and scrubs, trying to get blood out of the small cracks where it will settle and rot. His chainmail is back at the fort up the hill, where its heaviness can't encumber him. It cleans itself reasonably well, all the links clattering together, just so long as he doesn't roll in any mud.
There is shuffling on the dock behind him, the creaking of old wood. Etho tilts his head, breathes in deeply through his nose. His pulse doesn't quicken. After a momentary pause, he resumes his work.
"Hey BDubs," he says conversationally. "Trying to sneak up on me?"
"Wh-- no. Of course not." There is mischief in BDub's answer, a grin in his voice. "The great Etho? Never. You probably heard me coming from a mile away."
"Maybe not a mile," Etho chuckles humbly. "You going to join me?"
"Well, I don't know," BDubs laughs, leaning over Etho's shoulder. "Is it safe?"
"I don't know why it wouldn't be."
"Water's cursed," BDubs reminds him. "There could be boogiemen about."
"You trying to tell me something BDubs?" Etho asks slyly, peering up at his friend.
"What? No of course not," BDubs laughs. He sits beside Etho, plunging his bare feet into the water beside the dock. "Even if I was, you know me Etho. You? Kill you? You'd kill me first."
"I don't know about that," Etho hums, splashing another palm full of water on a buckle clasp and scrubbing at a rusted stain with his thumb. "You made pretty efficient work of Grian."
"Grian had it coming," BDubs shrugs. "Got too caught up listening to the music."
Etho chuckles. "The music was very good."
BDubs kicks his feet in the water, humming the tune momentarily under his breath. It's a haunting sound, not really meant to be sung. Not by anything human. Etho shudders in spite of himself.
"Man, don't do that."
"Sorry! Haha! Sorry. Couldn't help it," BDubs grins a gap-tooth smile in Etho's direction, his eyes bright and gilded by the setting sun. "It's probably one of the coolest kills I've ever gotten."
"I'll make sure Tango knows you said that."
"Oh, Tango's fine." Bdubs waves a hand dismissively. "He's just upset 'cause I scared him."
"You did more than just scare him."
Dark room. Dark water. Tango screaming and running, scrabbling at the walls with his nails. If they ever went back to that little cave, Etho wondered if there would be marks on the walls like the docks, played, desperate fingers, digging.
"Well he's alive, isn't he?"
"I guess he is."
"Then he should get over it!"
Etho shakes his head, laughing. BDubs' voice is over-loud on the quiet lake, but its a good sound. Full of intensity and joy, and revelry. It made the silence between his words stark and empty, and Etho was always loathe to fill it.
Bdubs suddenly wraps an arm around Etho's shoulders, pulling him into a conspiratorial embrace. "Hey, I've been meaning to talk to you, by the way."
Etho suddenly has goosebumps on his neck, his spine, his arms. BDubs' arm is cold against his shoulders. He smells of bracken and standing water, and his eyes are bright as sunset. Etho takes a long, slow breath in and holds it for a moment.
"Uh... Yeah, BDubs?"
"I've got a plan, you know, for the others," Bdubs continues, his voice dropping to something near a whisper. There is something on the edge of his tone like the ringing of bells. Excitement. Thrill. Hunger. "But I'll need some help. I mean, I'm good at redstone, you know 'ol BDubs knows his stuff. But I need an expert. Someone good at traps."
"You know you've always got me Bdubs," Etho laughs, and it is hard to keep the nervousness from his voice. He's not sure he succeeds. "I'm happy to help. Just uh--" He shrugs his shoulders, and BDubs' arm falls away. "You know. Keep your distance."
"You're not scared of me, are you Etho?" Bdubs laughs, and it's loud and boisterous, and perfect. It echoes off the water like glass. Bells and ringing. He gives Etho a prideful, knowing look. "No, you're not scared of little 'ol BDubs. I know what you're scared of."
BDubs suddenly turns and slips into the water. Not all the way. His hands are still clinging to the wood, his elbows resting on the dock like it was a pool side. But the splash hits Etho's side and makes him shudder so hard, he drops the armor he'd been polishing. In a flash he's on his feet, backing away two, three steps. His movements feel too slow and heavy, and there's an instant of panic in him.
"Woah man!" Etho snaps, startled. He reaches for something, anything-- "I said keep your--!"
But BDubs is laughing, kicking his feet, stirring up the mud at the bottom of the river. "Oh come on Etho. It's water."
Etho takes three long breaths, filling his lungs to bursting before pushing the air out again heavy through his nose.
"You're fine you big baby," BDubs grins, resting his head on his crossed arms. His legs stop kicking, stop stirring up the mud, and Etho can see the water is shallow enough that he's standing on the bottom. He'd thought-- he'd thought-- "You'd think I tried to drown you, jeez."
He thought it was deeper.
Etho held his breath for a moment, counted slowly. He wanted to reach his hand to his neck, to check his pulse. To see how fast his heart was beating. He moved his hand to, and at a mocking glance from his friend, decides instead to stoop to pick up his dropped armor. He walks carefully to his basket and places it inside.
"Why'd you come down here, anyway?" BDubs asks. "If you're so scared, I mean."
"You know me, BDubs. I always come back," Etho answers, almost a reflex. A rehearsed answer. "Who else would I go to?"
"Tango and Skizz?"
"They won't keep me safe like you will." Etho points out. He shudders again, the cold from BDub's touch had seeped into him more than he thought it had. He's acclimating though, like jumping into a pool. It's a cold that seeps out of him, warms as it settles. "It's me and you to the end, right buddy?"
"Of course Etho. I'd never betray you."
Etho looks through his things one last time, then frowns. He turns the basket with his foot. He glances at BDubs, who still watches him from the water's edge. Then he takes a chance and crouches down beside his basket, rifling through with both hands.
"Lose something?" BDubs asks, standing on his tiptoes to get a better look.
Etho looks around, checking first the dock, and then the water beyond. In the deeper water over the side, he sees the flash of a buckle in the dying rays of the sun.
"Oh, huh," BDubs hums disinterestedly. "Guess you'll have to get that."
"BDubs," Etho scowls.
"Fine! Fine. I get it. You don't wanna get wet." BDubs puts up his hands, as though surrendering. "The water really isn't all that bad." He offers Etho a quick little salute. "Be right back."
He takes an exaggerated breath and splashes beneath the dock, stirring up mud and river plants. He breaks the water's surface shortly after, holding up the fallen armor piece triumphantly. "Ta-da! Hold your applause. I know I'm great."
Etho, in spite of himself, chuckles. He shivers again -- the evening is getting cold -- and reaches a hand out. BDubs places the buckle in his hand, then reaches his other hand up to clasp Etho's gently. It's awkward and off-balance, Etho leaning precariously over the side of the dock, and BDubs on his tip-toes, holding him in place. It isn't a hard grasp. At any moment, Etho can take his hand away. He has always been stronger than BDubs.
"Hey, Etho, I really have missed you, man," BDubs says, smiling fondly, his voice soft. It isn't a whisper. It simply isn't loud and brash like he normally is. Heartfelt. The kind of tone that beckons, that wants to be listened to. "I mean-- I've missed us doing things together. It reminds me of the good 'ol days, you know? NHO and Mindcrack. We make a good team."
"We do," Etho agrees. He takes a long, slow breath. He shivers.
He frowns.
Etho pulls his hand out of BDubs, and BDubs offers no resistance. Etho looks down at his hand, at the wrinkled, waterlogged skin. He rubs his thumb across his forefingers, feeling the odd texture, grounding himself on it. Etho takes a deep breath in, lets it out again slowly.
"How long have I been in the water, BDubs?" Etho whispers.
Etho is still holding the belt buckle in one hand, still looking down at the wrinkled fingers of his other. BDubs is still in front of him, only his head and shoulders above the water. Etho looks back over his shoulder. The dock is startlingly far away, the basket sitting on the very edge. Beyond it, his boots and water bucket are sitting in the grass beside rushes and willow branches.
"Does it matter?" BDubs asks, smiling gently.
Etho takes a long, deep breath through his nose.
"Oh, don't be scared," BDubs says, moving silently closer. He reaches out his hands and grasps Etho's arms, a gentle touch, reassuring. A friend trying to assuage fear. His eyes are blazing red and orange with the setting sun, but the sky is black and salted with stars. "I didn't drag you down here, Etho. You came to me, remember?"
"BDubs--"
"You know I'd never betray you," BDubs continues, taking a slow step backwards. He pulls Etho with him, and Etho, by habit and familiarity, takes a step forward. The allure of BDubs' voice tilts his vision. He's on the dock, holding the buckle that fell in the water, and BDubs is clasping his hands, and the sun is setting. The water is up to his chest, and the world is dark star-filled, and BDubs is taking another step backwards, and Etho is following. "I could have betrayed you day one, and I didn't. I'm just asking for your help, Etho. You and me together, right?"
"BDubs--"
"It's the deep water, isn't it?" BDubs croons, like he's speaking to a child. "The deep water scares you? It's okay. You're fine."
Etho is fine. His breathing is slow, his heartbeat even. He wants to be scared. He should be scared. But BDubs is his friend.
BDubs reaches up to Etho's neck, not to strangle or to threaten, but to gently cup his hands around him. He pulls gently on Etho, not to drag Etho down, but to raise himself up, so they're nearly eye to eye. Etho feels water around his shoulders, and shivers.
"It's okay," BDubs says. "I would never hurt you, I promise. We don't have to go any deeper." His voice even and calm, inexorable. Etho's pulse doesn't quicken when he says, "You know how many people drown in shallow water? It's easy. I'll be with you the whole time."
The water is around Etho's neck, and BDubs is above him just slightly. One hand raises slowly to the back of Etho's head, fingers gently tangling in his hair. It is the caress of someone who cares for him deeply, someone who wants him to stay. The feeling is wholly dissonant from the words being spoken. Water? Drowning? How could someone who loves him so much drown him?
"You want to stay with me, right?" BDubs asks. "You and me together, we'd be unstoppable, Etho. The best duo the Life Series has ever seen."
BDub's hand on Etho's neck moves just slightly, the thumb pulling around to rest on his adam's apple. The hand in his hair clenches just a little. A warning. "You're not thinking about betraying me, are you?"
Etho shivers again. He wants to be afraid.
"You know, Grian said some things before he drowned," BDubs's hand on his neck tightened just a little. Etho could feel his pulse against BDub's thumb, finally, finally beginning to quicken. "He said you were a survivor. He said you'd leave me -- heh -- high and dry. You wouldn't do that, would you, Etho?"
Etho's pulse quickened more. There was a cold numbness in his limbs that he hadn't even noticed gathering, and his sluggishly awakening panic pushed it from him.
"BDubs," Etho said, his voice small and hoarse in his throat, "let me go."
"Etho..." BDubs said warningly.
"Let me go!" Etho shouted, planting his hands on BDub's chest and shoving backwards away. What he felt, in that brief second, was neither skin nor flesh, nor the softness of fabric. He felt tangled river weeds, and fish scales, slimy and cold against his skin. The cursed thing that looked like BDubs but wasn't, released Etho spitefully. His claws tore from Etho's neck, scraped along the back of his head to come free with pale strands of his hair. Suddenly there were arms around him, and Etho screamed and thrashed as he was dragged.
"I've got you dude! I've got you!"
It was Skizz, his voice a thunderous bellow in Etho's ear, his arms feverishly hot against him where they clamped like vices around his waist. Skizz dragged Etho from the water like he weighed nothing. Etho got his feet underneath himself and clung to Skizz, staggering out of the water as quick as he could. He heard feet pounding on the dock, and glanced over to watch Tango sprint across the wood. He stooped, grabbed up Etho's basket, and sprinted back with it, the reaching, clawed hand of the thing that looked like BDubs snapping for his ankles and missing.
"I got him!" Skizz shouted to Tango, scrambling onto the grass, refusing to let Etho go until they were well up the path. "Did you see how close he was?!"
"Yeah I saw!" Tango snapped, choking on his own fear, gulping in air and coughing it back out again. "It tried to drag me in!"
"Oh my god, are you okay dude?" Skizz demanded, and, when Tango nodded, he turned back to Etho. "Are you okay? I didn't see you go under. Can you breathe?"
Etho, who had collapsed into the grass the moment Skizz released him, lay there gasping like a hooked fish. He shivered, pale and cold from how long he spent in the water-- how long had he been in the water. He could still feel the thing's burning claws in streaks across his neck, and a tickling of blood at the back of his head.
"Etho?"
"I'm okay," Etho gasped, "I'm sorry I just-- I needed-- I wanted--"
"I know what you wanted!" Tango snapped angrily, the anger of someone who had risked his life. The anger of someone who thought a friend of his was dead, or dying. "But it's not him, Etho."
"It sounds like him," Etho whispered. He threw an arm over his eyes and shivered again. "It sounds like him, though."
"I know it does buddy, I know," Skizz said, his voice full of sympathy and pity. He waited with mountainous patience as Etho pulled himself together, and then helped Etho stand.
Together, they walked back to the fort.
Behind them, something cursed and hungry in the dark water, sang, and its voice was sweet and familiar.
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stargirlinterludefr · 6 months ago
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YES TO HEAVEN: jj maybank x reader
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Synopsis: Three times JJ is told you love him (+1 time he finally says it back.)
TW: mentions of physical, emotional and verbal abuse, mentions of drug usage (weed), alcohol consumption, mention of Luke Maybank, mention of child abuse, angst to fluff, use of y/n
If there is one thing everyone in the Outer Banks knows about JJ Maybank? It’s his ferocious loyalty. He’s probably the most loyal man to walk the planet. The boy would walk into a fire blind to save the people he loves even if he only had a 0.99% chance of doing so, he’d rather take that chance over anything else.
But, there was one thing you knew about JJ Maybank and that was the fact he was terrified of love. The irony right? A boy so full of love that he’s nearly bursting at the seams, petrified that he isn’t worthy of the very thing.
And yet…you love him as though it’s as easy as breathing.
A fact that he can’t seem to except, no matter how hard he tries.
-
1st Time: SHARING A JOINT
The first time you tell JJ you love him, and not in the friendly way, is when you are both high as kites.
And that’s exactly what JJ pins it down to, the fact that you’re only saying you love him because you’re high. There couldn’t possibly any other reason you love someone like him, right?
“It’s crazy as shit to think that the stars…they’re just like a bunch of dead suns but they’re still vibin’ it up in the sky man.” JJ rambles, intoxicated brain running at a slower pace than usual but still managing keeping up with his everyday hyperactive sober brain.
You stare lovingly, not at the dead suns, but at JJ. Despite how much you’d smoked, your eyes held so much adoration that the Maybank boy could feel it burning into the side of the face and he didn’t dare turn you’re way because he’s sure he’d up and bolt at the sight of such love.
“I wish I could be a star, just chillin’ light years after my death and being some beautiful light in the sky it’s so-“
“I love you.” You blurt out, mind not catching up to the words that had slipped past your lips and perhaps not even realising you’d said them out loud until JJ’s head snapped in your direction at the speed of light.
The look on his face nearly made you cry, the look of utter terror that flashed on his features would be enough to make anyone cry because how could anyone hurt this boy? A boy so special, kind and loving.
A boy who currently looked at you like you had three heads.
“W-What?” JJ splutters, he’d planned to play it off jokingly, as though you were saying it in a friendly way. But he wasn’t stupid, sure he’s had a lot of cuncussion due to all the blows to the head he’s taken, but he wasn’t stupid. Nor was he blind.
He knew the way you looked at him and he knew he looked at you that way too.
You cheeks flush slightly, JJ also tries to downplay that as you being high outta your mind, “I just…I love you, Jay.” You whisper, so earnestly and full of meaning that JJ laughs.
He actually laughs.
You feel sick.
“Nah, you don’t love me man.” He throws out, mind sobering up so quickly that it almost gives him whiplash with the speed it happens. He sits up and shuffles away from you slightly, the feeling of rejection burns deeply in your gut.
You don’t feel so high anymore.
“But I do, love you I mean.” You state, beginning to anxiously pick at your nails as JJ scoffs, tongue rolling on the inside of his cheek as he pulls himself to his feet.
It’s almost embarrassing how quick you are to follow.
“Why’d you-“ He starts, throwing his hands up before slapping them back to his thighs, his glare cutting you in half like a sharp knife. “You- you’re high, y/n, you prolly’ ain’t gonna remember this in the morning.”
You try to speak, but your mouth is hoarse and you wonder if you even have the strength to open it.
“Let’s just forget about this, yeah?” He sighs out and you nearly cry at how you nod, forcing a smile for his benefit.
2nd Time: JOHN B
JJ is sat in the hammock at the Château, blue eyes intently watching as you, Kiara and Sarah giggle like three little girls as you share stories animatedly between one another.
The boy doesn’t even realises he’s smiling at the sight until John B speaks from beside him, “What’s got you looking so happy, and if you dare say you’ve jacked off in my hammock I swear to god…I’ll kill you.” JB warns jokingly, bringing himself to sit across from the blonde haired boy as JJ’s cheeks basically flush.
“Nah man, you know I wouldn’t do that shit infront of impressionable ladies.” He mocks, eyes darting to you and back to John B who looks at JJ as though he’s got him all figured out.
“What’re you doin’ anyway? Thought you, Pope n Cleo were off gettin’ some beers?” He then quizzes, trying to play it off, he can essentially feel John B’s interrogation looming.
The Routledge boy shrugs, “We were, we got back like ten minutes ago, you not hear us call out?”
Busted. He’s so fucking busted.
JJ clears his throat as he leans back on his arms, “Was probably nappin’ the sun has been killin’ me off, bro.”
“Uh huh, you sure it’s the sun that’s been making you all…distracted?” John B quizzes, eyebrow raised as he stares intently at his best friend who refuses to look him in the eye. Completely out of character for JJ’s golden retriever like nature, he never avoided eyes with anyone unless he was afraid.
JJ clenched his jaw, his eyes unknowingly travelling to you once more and this time, John B follows his line of sight and his mind clicks into place.
“Ah.” He him making JJ’s head snap toward him as the Maybank boy narrows his eyes toward his best friend.
“What? What does ‘ah’ mean?” JJ interrogates quickly, nudging JB with his knee so the boy would answer him instead of wearing a very annoying smirk on his sun kissed face.
“Ah means that you have feelings for y/n.” John B states bluntly, deciding to not beat around the bush because he knew better than anyone that beating around the bush is exactly the thing that has prevented you and JJ from confronting your feelings for this long.
JJ shifts uncomfortably and shakes his head, “The fuck? Only feelings I have for y/n are like the same ones I have for like…Kiara and Cleo, hell even you man.” JJ quickly defends and from the corner of his eye, he tries not to watch as you laugh so beautifully at something Sarah said.
Your laugh was like JJ’s own personal drug, if he could bottle the sound and get drunk to it every night he would.
John B laughs dryly before saying, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Jay, she obviously likes or even loves you back so why not just…you know?” He says, imitating kissing motions with his hands as JJ’s face scrunches up.
“First of all, that makes you look like your a puppet bein’ controlled or some shit,” JJ begins, sitting up slightly in the hammock “And secondly, she obviously doesn’t like me and I don’t like her, we’re just friends.” He stresses, shrugging despite the desperate look in his eyes that always tells John B the truth of it.
And to prove himself wrong, both you and JJ turn your heads at the same time, catching each other’s gaze for a few moments. You always felt as though the world comes come to a halt when this happens, as though both you and him were the only ones in the world but then you feel Kiara nudge your shoulder and you remember JJ said he basically wouldn’t feel the same way about you, ever.
John B shook his head with a small laugh as he watches the interaction, standing up from the hammock as JJ’s eyes dart from yours and up to John B who gives him a quick pat to the shoulder.
“I don’t know what you tell yourself, bro, but…friends don’t look at each other like that.”
3rd time: AFTER A FIGHT WITH LUKE.
The third time that JJ is told you love him probably goes down in the worst way possible.
JJ had just had a huge argument with his father, the reason for which he couldn’t even remember now, all he knows is Luke had punched him square in the jaw and followed it with a kick to the ribs for good measure.
So, JJ was bottled to the brim with anger. And to make matters worse? You were looking at him with so much love that it made him feel sick, he didn’t deserve that love. He didn’t deserve you.
He was currently sat on the dock of the Château, face tensed and twisted with anger as he stared out at the water and you sat beside him…face twisted with anguish at the fact this had happened to the boy you loved.
JJ couldn’t look at you, again. But not because he didn’t want to but because he knew that if he did, he’d likely flip the top off the bottle that was holding everything inside of him and the thought of doing so absolutely terrified him.
“Do you want me to get some ice for your cheek? It’d probably help with the swelling.” You ask softly, eyes trailing down the side of the boys face as he doesn’t respond.
JJ really wanted you to be quiet but your love and care was overflowing and his was overcome by a blinding anger that he was struggling hard to contain, the anger that was hanging loosely by a thread which he sensed was about to be snapped at any moment.
“Or maybe a beer? Or I could roll a joint? It might be good if you-“
“God, would you just shut the fuck up!”
Snap.
Your face subtly drops but you’re quick to pick it back up, you know you have no right to be upset, he’s just angry at his dad. He’s not angry at you, right?
“All you ever fuckin’ do is yap down my ear, ‘oh do you want some ice JJ?’, ‘do you like this new shirt I got JJ?’, ‘I love you, JJ.” The boy mocks and you feel as though you’re being sliced open, your feelings laid bare like a wounded animal.
JJ scoffs out a dry humourless laugh as he raises to his feet, you are once again embarrassingly quick to follow. “I mean, it’s so fuckin’ tiring, you spout so much worthless shit down my ear like how am I supposed to get a clear thought when you’re clinging to me like I’m some sort of lost limb! It’s pathetic as shit, bro!”
His chest heaves in pure anger, anger you desperatley try to believe isn’t directed at you.
“This is just your anger talkin’, Jay, it’s not me you’re angry at its-“ JJ groans loudly enough to cut you off as his hands gesture to you wildly.
“And here you go again! Wafflin’ bullshit that I don’t give a fuck about, dictating to me how I should feel! Is that what you hoped? When you told me you loved me? That you’d get the same thing said back?” Your heart beat is sickeningly fast in your chest and you try to will your voice to come out as strong when you mutter;
“I mean, maybe? I-I never expected for you to say it back-“
“Damn y/n, I mean I know you’re smart but I never took you to be blind as shit! You and me? We ain’t gonna happen!” As JJ’s fuse burns out, his chest heaving and his words all but escaping him your heart shatters.
You both stand there, staring widely at one another.
Regret seeps into JJ’s eyes so quickly that you don’t have time to notice, your own eyes holding so much hurt that it cuts right through JJ’s anger and grasps harshly at his heart. Tugging roughly at the love he has for you, his blue eyes sweeping over your soul shattering expression.
JJ wants you to scream back, he wants you to hit him, he knows he deserves it. But you’re not his dad, and he’s unleashed his anger on you like you were.
You’d never lay a hand on him, the thought of doing so would likely make you keel over and vomit. You’re probably the most gentle person he’s ever come across and he’s just thrown whatever gentleness you’d extended to him, through your love for him, right back right into your face. Harshly.
And all you say in response?
Nothing at all.
You nod, tears now horrifically slipping down your face as you simply turn and walk away.
JJ’s ashamed to admit he doesn’t go after you, he remains frozen in place. Mind whirring at the fact that for a second, he’d acted exactly like his father.
+1: JJ SAYS IT BACK.
You never claimed to be an expert on love, you actually found it incredibly hard to believe in. Growing up and not seeing your parents love one another is a harsh reminder that you don’t actually know what love is supposed to be.
Or, maybe you do.
It’s the love you hold so dearly for your friends, the small things you love like the music you listen to and the mismatched socks you wear.
Love is how you’d define what you held in your heart for JJ, despite all the cruel words he’d hauled your way.
There is one thing your parents taught you about love…the fact that it hurts.
You’d never seen your parents actively be happy together, but when you looked upon old photos and gazed at your older siblings you knew they must’ve loved each other once upon a time. You and your siblings were a product of that love, the proof that danced in front of their faces to ensure they don’t forget. Proof of a love that burned out.
You don’t think your love for JJ will ever burn out and that’s what hurts you the most. You can’t even bring yourself to be angry at him for what he said, because he was right.
Why did you expect him to feel the same way? Why did you even hold out hope?
You hadn’t seen the Maybank boy since your fight, Sarah had told you that he was searching high and low for you but you’d somehow managed to stay out of his path.
In other words? You were hiding on the beach where you first told JJ you loved him. In a very cliche movie kind of way, you knew he wouldn’t think to check this particular spot until the last minute.
And you didn’t intend on being here when he did figure it out, but, in the aftermath? You’re insanely glad you were.
You hear him approach, you don’t acknowledge him but JJ approaches anyway and he stands still just watching you for a few moments, clearly undecided on what he could say to you.
JJ had come up with a million different speeches and scenarios of how this would play out but he didn’t expect to be tongue tied the minute he caught sight of you laying on the beach, simply gazing up at the stars.
So, he brings himself to lay beside you. He keeps a respectful distance but the fact you aren’t maiming him to death or screaming for him to leave gives him the slightest flicker of hope.
“You know, it’s uh crazy as shit to think about the stars, they’re just a bunch of dead suns but they’re still vibin’ up in the sky.” JJ quotes and he swears he sees the corner of your lip twitch, you just won’t give him the satisfaction of a smile.
“I always liked the stars, in a sort of fucked up way, they remind me that i’m not alone. That there’s billions of people under the same exact sky livin’ and breathin’ at the same time as me.” He rambles, his head now turning to you so he can gaze upon you.
This time, you’re the one who can’t bring yourself to look back.
“What I’m tryna say is, the stars…they remind me of you.” At that, your eyes find his, JJ smiling softly as he catches your gaze.
“Stars are so beautiful, they can direct you on the places you need to go a-and they remind you that no matter what, they’ll always be there, so insanely gorgeous.” You sit up and JJ is proudly fast to follow you this time.
“Wh- why are you saying this, JJ?” You whisper, voice so gentle that JJ’s heart aches at the fact he said all those cruel things to you.
“I’m saying this because…I-I love you, and i’m sorry i’ve been such a fucking idiot and i’ve been hiding behind this stupid ass wall I put up but i just know that ever since I met you…no one else has been worth even thinkin’ about.” He rambles desperately, hands coming to clasp your own as you stare up at him.
You’re so beautiful that JJ has to physically restrain himself from simply smashing his lips onto yours before you can take the time to respond.
You stare at him with so much fear in your eyes that JJ imagines it’s exactly what he looked like when you told him you loved him that first time.
“B-but what if things get like complicated? What if we fight? I-I mean-“ You start but JJ is quick to cut you off.
“I don’t care how complicated this gets, baby, I want you.” He says so earnestly and full of meaning that it takes you all but two seconds to lean forward and kiss him.
JJ happily excepts your kiss, the two of you breathing a sigh of relief at the feeling.
And from the corner of his eye, JJ thinks he sees the stars shine a little bit brighter.
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