#there are probably more but i don’t have a good memory and searching it up yields no results | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

of-cauldrons-and-inkpens · 1 year

Text

You Missed My Heart: PART 1

PART 1 LINK | PART 2 LINK | PART 3 LINK

Description: Miguel had died months ago. At least, my universe’s Miguel had died. Maybe I should have noticed when I could feel him touching me in my dreams, but grief is a hell of a thing. That is, until I woke up in a house that looked just like mine, but somehow different.

Miguel had taken me from my universe and put me in one where he could relive his past, whether I liked it or not.

Word Count: 11,107 Author’s Note: I wrote this instead of doing my college work, but I also didn’t proofread. Hopefully there aren’t too many typos! I’ll probably add more chapters in the following days/weeks Content Warning: smut, mild breeding kink, reader is being held against their will, Miguel being manipulative and an ass, bit of angst (I mean his wife and child are dead so yeah)

Minors DNI! Story is below the cut

The dream was hazy. Miguel sighed as he began to inch toward the edge of the mattress, drifting out of the shared embrace that we had slept in. Arms and legs untangled from one another as he drifted away from me.

I reached my hand outward, catching onto his hand before he could slip away for good. “I need to go to work.” He whispered, his voice husky and warm from sleep. But, despite his protest, he lay back down beside me. “Don’t go.” I said. My hands worked their way through the darkness, moving to curl around his broad shoulders. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to feel his strong heartbeat against my chest and listen to him breathe one more time. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t real. I didn’t care that this was now a soft and distorted memory; this was all I had left of him. I had convinced myself weeks ago that if I dreamed of him enough, it would almost be like he wasn’t gone. “I have to. Alchemax is unveiling a new project today and I have to be there.” He leaned in, brushing the tip of his nose against mine. His breath was warm, working as a perfect antagonist for the frigid air of our bedroom. “Please Miguel.” I begged. He cut me off by pressing his lips against mine. The kiss was languid and wet. Our bodies were still naked from the previous night’s activities as he rolled on top of me. “Miguel…” I whispered. “Please don’t leave me.” “I’m not going anywhere.” He said. His lips slipped off of mine as he lowered his face, moving so that his mouth could graze the shell of my ear. There, he whispered the one thing I thought I would never hear again. “I love you…”

Something brushed the side of my face, pulling me from my dream. I jerked upward, searching for what had caused it. But I couldn’t see through the pitch black of the bedroom. In the darkness, I was so sure that I could smell him. He had been dead for months, but his scent still lingered in the walls and all of the soft places in the house. It was to the point that I was terrified of moving or washing anything; if I did, that last piece of him would vanish forever.

Hot tears slid down my face.

I had been crying again. But that had become such a common occurrence that I couldn’t even be surprised. Tears slid down my neck, soaking into the collar of Miguel’s Alchemax t-shirt that had been worn thin. Crying had become an every night thing since the funeral. Maybe if I could understand what the hell even happened to him, then I could be okay. But there had been no information about any of it. I had been told there was an accident at work and that there was nothing that could have been done to save him. But the term accident meant so many different things.

I lifted my hand to my cheek to wipe away the next batch of tears. But, as my fingers brushed my skin, I couldn’t help but notice the distinct warmth on that side of my face.

Had someone been here?

Had the gentle brush been entirely in my head?

I swallowed hard as my eyes searched the darkness. “Miguel?” I asked. But there was no answer. The delusional part of me wanted to hear him stir inside of the bathroom that attached to the bedroom. I slid my hand outward, searching through the sheets that would always remain cold.

The black out curtains that covered my window blocked out any light from the city. The only light in the room was from the small machine that Miguel had set up in the corner. I was never sure what exactly it did, but it always gave off a pale blue glow.

I glanced around the room, seeing that the pictures were all still lying face down on the dresser and bookshelves.

Nothing was different. He was still dead, and I was still alone.

I swallowed hard as I reached for the bottle of sleeping pills that sat on the bedside table. I had gotten them after stepping off one of the curbs in Nueva York without looking. But, before anything could happen, a man had grabbed me, jerking me out of the way seconds before my body had the chance to collide with the car that was racing down the street. Maybe if I hadn’t been so exhausted, then I would have thought before I walked.

The pills were my only chance at getting any rest these days. I unscrewed the top of the bottle, dropped one of the white pills into my hand, and then replaced the white plastic lid. I discarded the bottle onto the nightstand and then popped the pill in my mouth.

I just needed to go to sleep. If I could sleep, then I could see him again.

I leaned back against the sheets, watching the walls of the hallway through the open door of our bedroom. If I hadn’t known better, I could have sworn to God that I saw a faint orange and pink glow dance against the walls before being consumed by darkness.

No dreams came. My vision was dark, trapping me in a dreamless darkness. The pills always made my body heavy with sleep; it was almost impossible to open my eyes when I was like this. I didn’t see him in my dreams, but I could hear him. His voice was faint, speaking in delicate murmurs.

Fingers brushed against the skin of my face as he pushed several of my curls behind my ears. It was something he had always done, especially when I was sitting on the couch beside him. I had always wondered if he did it so that he could see my face or if it was just his way of getting my attention. But I guess that didn’t matter now.

I flinched at the reminder.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’m here.” Miguel whispered. He pressed a gentle kiss against my forehead. I felt the bed move under me, sinking on the edge as he sat down. “I’m gonna keep you safe.”

“You need to drop this.” A soft female voice said. Her voice was no more than a whisper.

“I can’t do that.” Miguel’s voice was firm; he had already made up his mind.

“Miguel, you’re torturing her. Just leave her alone.” The delicate voice pleaded. Behind my eyelids, I saw pink and honey color light flash. “Give her time. Let her mourn then let her move on. Maybe she could be happy. She could get married and have a good life.”

“Lyla, I’m not sure if you know this, but telling me that my wife is going to fuck someone else and that that’s why I should let her go has the exact opposite effect.”

“Let her be happy.” The girl pleaded.

“She should have died. I’m saving her.”

“Miguel, please let her go. Please, I really-” I heard him click something, making the second voice fall silent.

Warm arms slipped under my legs as I was overwhelmed by the smell of Miguel.

My Miguel.

He smelled faintly of cologne, sweat, and something else. He pulled me into his arms, laying my body against his strong chest. I felt him grab a heavy arm and place it on his shoulder. Beneath my fingers, I felt a weird material cover his skin.

What the hell?

I tried to open my eyes, but I couldn’t force myself out of the dream. The medication weighed me down, anchoring me into this strange haze.

Miguel bounced me in his arms a couple of times. I groaned, feeling him stand up. One of the blankets caught on my foot, tugging on my tired body. Miguel gently tossed the blanket onto the bed, offering a few more gentle bounces to my body as he started to walk.

“You’re going to be so happy.” He whispered. Miguel pressed a second kiss against my skin.

Blinding light came streaming through the window. I winced, lifting my hand to shield my eyes. I lay there for a moment before a thought occurred to me.

When was the last time I had been awakened by sunlight?

Miguel had always worked such random hours that we had hung thick blackout curtains over the window so that we had a chance at getting some sleep.

“What?” I pushed myself up in the bed, feeling my t-shirt drop down to cover the soft skin of my stomach. But the left side was caught on something, keeping that side of my abdomen exposed. I glanced down to see a thick bracelet that had been attached to my wrist. I pulled the shirt off of the bracelet, allowing it to fall and give me some sense of modesty as I glared at the contraption.

What the hell was this thing?

I glanced around, searching for some idea as to what was going on.

The only clue was a bright orange post-it note that had been pressed onto the bedside table. It was sitting between a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin. Plucking the note off of the table, I quickly began to read it.

‘Please don’t be scared. I’ll be back soon. Take this for your head. It will take a bit to get used to all of this.’ It had been signed with a name that immediately made me shutter.

Miguel.

No. No. No.

Did I die?

Or did I finally go insane?

I pushed myself out of the bed, searching for some clue as to what the hell was going on. This was my bedroom. At least, it looked like it was. The closet was the same, the bookshelves were the same, even the weird off-blue shade that Miguel had picked for the walls was the exact same.

It was then that something caught my eye. All of the pictures were sitting upright. I could see our mutual smiles behind the glass. They were photos of us on dates, photos of us at the weird events that Alchemax held, and even some of the more intimate photos we had taken of us in bed with our bodies barely covered by the thin ocean of sheets.

I stepped forward, moving toward the closet. I jerked one of Miguel’s button-ups off of the hanger and inspected it. The spot where he had spilled wine on the cuff was missing. Instead, the material was bleach white.

This was wrong. This was all wrong.

Everything was familiar, but still foreign somehow. There were sheets that were the same color but didn’t have soft faded patches that had been acquired from stains during love making. There were clothes that I remembered wearing, but they didn’t have the small tears or stains in them. Everything was put together from memory, but it wasn’t my memory.

If I didn’t look too closely at it, it could almost be perfect.

Slowly, I stepped forward. As I moved toward the dresser, I stopped. In my home, my real home, there was a creak in the floorboard. Miguel had spent an entire weekend trying to fix it after we had moved in, but it was all in vain.

Maybe I was just paranoid. That was the only solution.

I leaned backward, then forward again in an attempt to get the floor to creak.

A deafening silence filled the room.

I reached down and pulled at the bracelet. It was heavy on my arm. I slipped my fingers under the band, attempting to pry it off of me. But it was no use. It had been secured at the base, making it impossible to remove.

Then, I did the only thing I could think of.

I ran.

I bolted from the bedroom, moving down the hallway. When I reached the stairs, I took them two by two. Frankly, I was amazed that I didn’t slip and break my neck. But fear is a hell of a motivator. I sprinted through the living room, searching for the front door of our house. I threw open the front door and rushed outside, ignoring the fact that I wore only a thin t-shirt and underwear.

I needed to get the hell out of there; I didn’t care about being modest at this point.

It was Nueva York; the buildings were the same, so was the noise. Sounds of construction, traffic, children playing, and music blasting filled the air. But, I couldn’t help but notice the main thing that was missing: no people or vehicles.

“Hello?” I called.

But I was all alone.

“Hello?” I screamed.

Something grabbed my hand, jerking me backwards. I stumbled but was caught before I could collide with the pavement. Strong arms curled around my waist and hauled me upward. I flailed my arms and kicked out my legs in an attempt to get free, but it was no use. The figure turned around and began to carry me back to the house as if I was nothing more than a doll. “You weren’t supposed to leave the house.”

I knew that voice. It was the one that haunted my dreams and filled my every ‘what-if.’

Miguel.

“What the fuck?” I screamed.

“Stop trying to fight me.” His voice was flat. I glanced behind me to look at him. He wasn’t my Miguel. His eyes flickered somewhere between chocolate brown and blood red. The muscles on his shoulders were more defined and the line between his eyebrows was deeper. But maybe that was because of the dark scowl that he wore as he carried me up the small steps of the brownstone.

When he stepped inside of the house, he threw me onto the hardwood floor. As my head hit the floor, he reached behind him and flipped the deadbolt.

That was to make sure that I didn’t try and escape again.

Miguel wasn’t dressed how I was used to. My Miguel always wore some kind of standard, normal clothes. Nicer clothes for work, soft pants, and sweatshirts at home. But this man, the imposter, wore a red and blue costume that stretched over his hard muscles and accentuated his domineering frame.

“You were supposed to wait. I said I would be back soon.”

“Who the hell are you?” I twisted my body so that I was sitting up on the hardwood floor. I pulled my legs close to my body, attempting to hide my thin underwear from him.

“You’re joking right?” He asked. He stood over me, inspecting me with a look of both confusion and disappointment.

“No, I’m not. And what the hell did you put on my arm?” I shook my wrist, trying to loosen the device.

“Stop trying to take it off. If you do, you’ll die. Unless that’s what you’re hoping for.” He said as he studied me. I froze.

“What?”

“It keeps you alive in this universe. You’re not from here; you don’t belong here, so if you take that off, you’ll glitch until you die.”

I glanced around the room, taking in all of the little imperfections. The room was wrong, reminding me that I was in some kind of strange prison.

“What is all of this?” I asked. Miguel stared at me at if the answer was so obvious.

“It’s our home.”

“No… no, it isn’t.” I said. “What did you do to me?” I pushed myself off of the floor. As I did, I pulled at the bottom of the t-shirt. The man stared at me, his eyes dancing between the terrified look on my face at the pale skin of my naked legs. As his eyes drank me in, I could see them turning to a deeper shade of red.

“Who are you?” I asked. He let out a dark chuckle. As he did, I couldn’t help but notice that sharp white fangs that protruded from his mouth.

“Sweetheart…”

“Don’t call me that.” I said. He rolled his eyes.

“Look, I’ve been very sweet to you. But now you’re starting to piss me off.” His voice was sharper this time. He moved toward me and I stepped back.

“Why do you look like him?” I asked. He knew exactly what I meant.

“Because I am him… in a way.”

“I don’t understand.” I said. He once again tried to fill the distance between the two of us. I stepped backward, feeling my back hit the side of the couch. “You died… he died.”

“In your universe, yes. Please call me Miguel. I know this may be new to you, but I am your husband, just a different version of him. I mean you no harm.” The dull ache from being thrown on the floor said differently. “I did all of this because I love you.”

“You don’t know me.” I said. I slid my hands against the side of the couch in an attempt to find something to cling to. He let out a dry laugh.

“That’s where you’re wrong. I know you in every single universe. I’ve known more versions of you than you can imagine. Versions where you live, versions where you die. So, in a way, I know you better than you even know yourself.”

“If you knew me so well, then you would know Miguel and I never married.”

“Purely semantics. Besides, that’s something that I fully intend on correcting.”

“You’re insane.” I said.

“Don’t fucking call me that. You have no idea how hard I worked to fix everything for you; how hard I worked to make sure that everything would be perfect.”

“Miguel, where the fuck am I?” I demanded. “And I don’t want you to keep saying I’m home. This isn’t my home. Where am I?”

“You could be a little bit more grateful. You should have died.” He said. “You weren’t supposed to be pulled out of the way of a car and you were.”

Anger flashed through me. Just looking at him filled me with a mixture of rage and sadness that mixed together in a sludge that did nothing but make me want scream at him. “I’m supposed to be dead? You’re dead! I went to your funeral! There’s a goddamn sign in the Alchemax lobby for you.” My throat burned and my eyes stung with tears. “Was that all some kind of sick lie?”

“No, your Miguel did die.” His voice was matter of fact- almost cold. It was as if he had said this all a million times before. Hell, for all I knew, he had. Maybe this was some kind of sick game he liked to play. “But, that’s no matter. I’m here now. I made a little pocket universe for you; where you can live and where you being here won’t affect anything. You can stay here with me, and things will be exactly as they should be.” I glanced at the locked door behind him. “You being here won’t affect any other universe and it keeps you out of your own, making sure that all of the canon events happen exactly as they should. The canon is safe and you get to live. Two birds, one stone.” He was so proud of himself.

“Do I have a choice in staying with you?”

His face twitched at my question. “I’ve watched you cry for him at night. I’ve heard you scream and beg for him to come back. You wear his clothes and listen to his music and talk to yourself like he’s still there. For God’s sake, I’ve watched you touch yourself to pictures of him. I just assumed you would have had a warmer reception to me.”

“You had no right to spy on me.” I winced, remembering the feeling of my face being touched in my sleep. He had been there, watching me as I mourned. Besides, there was something in the way he emphases a warmer reception. He was hoping I would immediately adore him and drag him into the bedroom to screw until I couldn’t walk straight. He wanted us to immediately slip into some weird little habit where I pretended to be his loving wife. He said I died in other universes. Was I his replacement, just as he hoped to be mine?

Miguel sucked on his teeth before he stepped forward.

Without thinking, I twisted my body around and bolted toward the kitchen. I had no idea where I was even going; I just wanted to be away from him.

I got about five steps away before he reached outward and grabbed me. This time, his hold was harder. His arms crushed themselves against my body as he lifted me upward and began to carry me toward the stairs. This time, he was holding me so tight that I was sure he was going to break my ribs.

“You’re hurting me.” I gasped.

“Then stop trying to leave me.” He said. “You’re not going to get far and you’re just going to end up hurting yourself.”

He carried me up the stairs, his eyes dark red in the dim light. He carried me to the bedroom at the end of the hall. When he reached the room, he looked down at me.

“Say you love me.” It was a second chance. I paused for a moment, trying to find a way to fake sincerity.

He wasn’t my Miguel. He wasn’t my angel who I curled up with on the couch or who insisted on making me listen to old music that nobody but him would ever like. This man didn’t have that gentleness about him; he wasn’t sweet or loving.

“I love you.” I tried. I knew I sounded like I was faking it.

“At least I know you’re a shitty actress.” He muttered. He dropped me on the floor of the bedroom and then stepped outside before I had a chance to make another getaway. He slammed the door shut.

“Miguel, please let me out.”

“Ah, now you want to be nice to me.” He mocked.

“You kidnapped me. I’m sorry if I’m not the person you were hoping for. If you want someone better, just get a different me from some other place. I’m sure the universe is just littered with them.”

“I saved you. Your universe would have collapsed if it weren’t for me. I offered you the chance to live in a different place, where none of that can ever hurt you and you hate me for it. You want to be pissed? Be my guest. But in time, you’ll love me. I know you will. You always do.”

“Yeah, Miguel, it doesn’t feel like you’re giving me a choice in the matter.” I said. “Why can’t you just find another girl? Anyone else?”

“It has to be you. Because it always is, no matter what. Every time, we end up together so I can’t just grab some random person. Besides, there aren’t too many of you who aren’t already with some version of me. Stealing wives from other versions of me just sounds wrong.”

Yeah, that would be the wrong part. Not the whole kidnapping thing. He keeps flipping between lunatic and romantic who is waxing poetic about our deep love. Maybe I would have been charmed if I had actually known this man. Plus, there was something weird about the way he said it. Had he considered it? How did he find widows versus wives?

“Miguel, sweetheart, how about you let me out of here and then we can find some kind of arrangement that we both like?”

He rolled his eyes as he locked the door from the outside. “When you decide to be the version of you that I know and love, then we can talk.”

Bastard.

I kicked the door, but I knew it was useless. He was already walking away from the door. In the distance, I heard his voice as he began to speak to someone else.

“Lyla, I’m a little busy right now.”

“It’s urgent.” She said.

It was hours before he came back. I didn’t hear him when he was stepping toward the door. I only heard him when he unlocked the door and let out a low sigh.

“I brought you dinner. It’s in the kitchen. I expect you to eat dinner with me tonight.” He said.

“Thank you.” I squeaked out. I hadn’t eaten since the night before. I was starving. Besides, if this was his idea at a peace offering, who was I to reject. He obviously didn’t want to return me to my real home. Maybe I should just get used to this. “I’ll be down in a minute. I want to clean up a little bit.” I said.

“I’ll get everything ready.” He said. With that, I heard him step away from the door of the bedroom. At least he was receptive to me needing a moment, rather than dragging me downstairs to eat right now.

I sighed to myself as I pushed myself off of the bed. I couldn’t just wear a t-shirt and underwear. I already looked like an absolute mess. My face was swollen from crying and my curls had turned into a frizzy mess from being manhandled so many times in the last twenty-four hours.

My best bet was a shower to calm me down and hopefully take away some of the puffy redness around my eyes and nose. I didn’t want him to see that I had sobbed when I was alone; he may have carted me around in my underwear, but I still had my dignity.

There was a small bathroom attached to the room. It was one that I was familiar with. It was exactly like the one at my house; there weren’t any superficial tweaks that he had made. At least, none that I could see upon first inspection.

I quickly showered, scrubbing my body gently as I went. As I slid a loofah along the sides of my body, I winced. Dark bruises were starting to blossom across my ribs from where he had squeezed as he carried me.

Damn it, that hurt!

I winced as I washed my body, careful not to aggravate any new sore spots that I had gotten. I then washed my hair, making sure that it was nice and clean.

Stepping out of the tub, I realized that I hadn’t grabbed a towel. I was sure that he would put them where I always did. After all, that was really the only place for them in the bathroom. I quickly ducked down and pulled open the door to the bathroom cabinet. The towels had been stacked on one side, random trinkets and things he had brought for me rested on the other. I snatched a towel from the pile as I eyed the objects.

They were the usual fair, mixed in with a few oddballs. Tampons, deodorant, razors, women’s shaving cream, a perfume that I wore pretty often, a couple of bottles of hand and body lotion, a toothbrush, toothpaste, an eyelash curler, a new tube of mascara, hair gel, and a dozen or so other hair things. I sighed and quickly added several of the things to the counter. I needed to brush my teeth and do my hair. As I stacked those things on the counter, I couldn’t help but notice that there were more things resting against the very back of the shelf. Against the wall sat two small pink boxes that were still in their clear wrapping from the drugstore. I frowned as I pulled them forward, moving them closer so that I could see them. The first was a new box of pregnancy tests. I shook the box; sure enough, it actually contained what it said it did. Part of me expected the box to be a decoy and to either be empty or filled with something outwardly sinister, like a camera. Why did he buy me pregnancy tests? I flipped the second box over and was greeted by a bulk box of ovulation test strips, meant to check for when I was ovulating. I winced equally at both of the packages. I quickly shoved them back into the cabinet and closed the door.

Part of me wanted to know why those were what he chose to buy me; the other part was scared to know the answer.

I quickly stood up and began to dry off. It was a short time between when I finished showering and when I stepped out into the bedroom, my hair styled with my curls down, my teeth brushed, and my skin dried of any excess water.

Stepping to the closet, I noticed that all of the dresses in the closet were too formal. Most of the clothes that I typically wore were missing. No t-shirts, jeans, or even standard pajamas. Damn it, Miguel. I quickly walked over to the dresser and opened the bottom drawer.

Based on what was there, my best bet was the baby pink nightie that lay on the top of the pile of clothes. It was obviously new; a tag was still attached to the spaghetti strap and frankly, I had never seen it before, so I figured that it was something he had picked out himself.

I pulled the dress on, wincing when it stopped several inches above my knees. I pulled on a pair of underwear and then snagged a grey cardigan from the closet in an attempt to have a chance at being warm.

What I was wearing was closer to lingerie than actual clothing, but that didn’t seem to matter at this point. He had dragged me around twice in my underwear, on top of the fact that he said he had watched me touch myself to him. My face burned at that thought.

Besides, if he was right and we were always together, then none of this would be new to him. But maybe it would make him be nicer to me if he thought I was being nicer to him.

I stepped through the hallway, careful not to lose my footing in the dim light. As I went, I couldn’t help but notice one of the more glaring differences between my universe and this was. The door to the room that rested next to the bedroom wasn’t stained with its dark russet shade. He had painted this door yellow. That was clearly a recent change; the air still smelled heavily of paint. But why the hell had he painted it in the first place? Maybe he was used to it being a different color and was perfecting it to fit his little fantasy.

I made my way downstairs. He was sitting in the small breakfast nook that rested in the kitchen. He had set out the white plates and arranged the food so that I had easy access to everything. As I rounded the corner, he glanced upward. Something stirred in his dark eyes, but he didn’t say anything. Miguel was sitting at the table, pushing around an eggroll with a plastic fork. He had changed out of his standard red and blue spider suit into an old sweatshirt and flannel pajama pants.

Lucky bastard.

He looked tired. He had a dark stain of blood on his left cheek and I was sure that it wasn’t his. I didn’t want to think about whether or not the owner of that blood was still alive, because I knew there was a good chance they weren’t. I watched him for a moment before I stepped away from the table. He frowned, watching me closely. I was sure he was watching to verify that I didn’t make another run for it. I quickly pulled a washcloth out of one of the lower cabinets by the sink and then turned on the faucet. Once the water ran warm, I wet the rag, wrung it out so that it wasn’t dripping, and then I turned off the water.

I stepped back into the small dining area. “Miguel.” I said in an attempt to get his attention. His tired eyes drifted up to meet mine. The eyes that were once a burning red were now a warm brown. They were almost the shade of coffee. He watched me with such an intensity that it made my face turn a dark maroon. I was sure that he noticed, but he didn’t remark on it.

I leaned down slightly, moving so that my standing height could line up with his sitting size. God, he was so damn tall. “Miguel, here. You have blood on your face.” He reached up to take the cloth but was surprised when I gently pressed the warm material to his face. “Just hold still for a second.” I whispered. For a moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had changed out of his suit for comfort or if it was just as coated in blood as his face was. The idea made me shudder internally.

I gently wiped away the dried blood, folding the cloth as I went so that I didn’t rub old blood against his face. When I reached the hollow of his cheek, I slipped one hand under his strong jaw and had him tilt his face to the side in an attempt to give me a better angle. He closed his eyes, giving in to the gentle touch.

He was touch starved. I could tell by the way his breathing slowed and the hairs on his arm stood on end. He wasn’t used to being touched; not anymore. Not in any way that offered any kind of tenderness.

“There you go. All clean.” I said. He opened his eyes and he nodded. His eyes then dipped downward toward my dress.

“Nice outfit.”

“It would appear that most of my actual clothing is gone. So, I have plenty of clothing for the bustling city life outside and I have plenty of lingerie, but everything else is a bit sparse.”

A smile pulled at his lips with my comment. Then, he nodded. “I’ll bring you your clothes from your home universe.”

“Thank you.” I said. Miguel leaned forward and grabbed a container of orange chicken.

He had ordered us Chinese food. It was something that I couldn’t help but note was the same as we had had on our first date. I glanced at the label and confirmed that it was the same restaurant and everything. We had eaten there the night we had first met. We had dipped out of a party at Alchemax early. I hadn’t wanted to be there, but my father had worked there for so many years that it almost felt like an obligation. When I had turned to leave too fast, I knocked wine all over Miguel, but he hadn’t seemed to mind.

“Are you okay?” This Miguel asked. I quickly nodded as I was pulled from the distant memory.

“I am. Thank you for dinner.” I pushed a small amount of food onto my plate and then returned the container to the center of the table.

“You need to eat; really eat.” He said. His brown eyes danced over my face as he searched for something in my gaze. He was hoping to find some kind of love there; a familiarity or affection that I could offer him.

“I feel sick.”

“That’s just because you aren’t used to being in a different universe. Consider it like jet lag. You’ll get used to it in a few days.” He noticed when I didn’t move to eat. I stared into space, feeling my previous convictions about being sweet to him begin to slip away. “I could always make you eat.” He said.

“You wouldn’t do that.” I muttered. He let out a low sigh and then returned to his food. He wasn’t going to argue with me. Or maybe I was right; maybe there were some things he wouldn’t be willing to do to me. But he had walked in sporting horror-movie levels of blood on his skin. So, who knows?

“Is there anything that’s bothering you?” He asked. “You can always ask me.”

“Are you going to lock me up in my room again if you don’t like the question?” I asked. He didn’t respond.

Tread lightly, I guess.

“Why do you look different than my Miguel?”

“I’m Spiderman. Your Miguel wasn’t. He was close, but he didn’t quite get there before…” His voice faded off. He was trying to be sensitive to me, in his own fucked up way. Or maybe his own narcissism wouldn’t allow him to talk about his failures, even in a different universe.

“Do all Spidermen look like you?” I asked.

“Are they all so devastatingly handsome? Afraid not, sweetheart. They don’t usually look the same. Hell, they can look like anything. I found one that’s literally a cartoon pig. But appearances aside, they can mostly do the same things: climb walls, shoot webs, the whole lot.”

“Ah.” I said. “Do they all have the…” I tapped my finger to my teeth, motioning for the fangs that protruded anytime he spoke. He shrugged.

“That seems to be a thing entirely unique to me.”

Did I sense a bit of insecurity there?

He furrowed his brow as he turned his attention to the dinner plate. Damn it, now I felt bad.

Why the hell did I feel bad for hurting his feelings? He kidnapped me and had dragged me around like a rag doll. But I couldn’t ignore the guilt that started to brew inside of me.

I sighed as I moved closer to him. Even if he was my captor, I couldn’t help but see him as the man who I still loved. Even if that ended at the physical resemblance. I slid to the edge of my chair and reached my arm out for his face. My fingers slid against the rough stubble of his jaw, tracing the side of his face for a moment. He leaned his head to the side, moving into my touch.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered. He nodded, lifting a hand upward. He laid his fingers on top of mine, holding my hand there against his skin. God, he was burning up. Did he always feel like this? Maybe he was actually sick. My Miguel never ran this warm. Or maybe it was just a side-effect of the spider bite. I didn’t understand any of that well enough to question it and I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask about it.

Suddenly, something clattered to the ground in the kitchen, making me jump. I pulled my hand back from his face, feeling the reality of the situation settle in. I slid my hand back into my lap, watching as his eyes lingered on for entirely too long. His brown eyes swam with a deep want. He wanted me to keep touching him.

Maybe sleeping with him would knock him out of this lovesick spell. Or maybe it would only make it worse. He stared at me, moony eyed and desperate. He was Miguel, even if he wasn’t my version of him. Maybe he could genuinely love me, even if only in his own fucked up way.

“If you loved him so deeply, do you think you could ever love me the same way?” He asked.

“Miguel…” I said. His face twitched slightly. I couldn’t say no; maybe I could, eventually. Or maybe he would become crueler, and I would hate him every second of my life. I didn’t know what to tell him. He leaned back in his chair, his face twisting in an attempt to conceal a deep pain.

Change the conversation quick. Change it before the night could descend in chaos with either us screaming at one another or him locking me in the room again. Or maybe he would just send me back to my own universe to die. After all, if he couldn’t get what he wanted from me, then there was no use in keeping me here.

He made a low noise and then returned to eating, never saying anything about how I had dismissed him.

“Why did you paint the door in the hallway?” I asked. He paused, trying to think up an answer. Then, he swallowed his dinner and shook his head.

“Just decided that it looked better that way.”

“But why? What was wrong with the original color?”

“Does it really bother you that much that I changed one thing?” He asked. His voice had an edge to it now. I clearly was not supposed to ask about the door. But why? It was just a damn door.

“No, but it’s weird that that is the one thing you decided to change. I figured that there was probably a reason.” He rolled his eyes as he took another big bite of food.

“Can’t you just be happy? Most people would overjoyed if they had the opportunity that you do.”

“Yes, I’m quite sure that most people would just love to be stolen from their bed by their boyfriend’s psycho twin. Frankly, that’s every woman’s dream.” My voice was dripping with so much sarcasm that he rolled his eyes. “How long are you planning on keeping this up? This isn’t the Truman Show. You can’t just keep me locked up here for the rest of my life so that you can get your kicks spying on me. And I’m not going to act out some fifties sitcom for you.”

“You don’t have to. I just want you to be… you. Or, as close to it as possible.” He said. As close to me as possible… the words rattled around in my head for a moment.

“You want me to be her.” His face twitched. “I lost him and you lost someone who looks exactly like me.”

Dear God, that was exactly it. All of my suspicions were correct. I was supposed to play house with him, while pretending to be a very specific version of myself that he had once loved. I had to be the perfect version of his wife; the one who doted on and loved him, or else this was all for nothing.

“Have you ever read The Great Gatsby?” I asked. He stared at me, his gaze littered with something.

“Tread lightly, sweetheart.”

“The book is about a man who tries to relive his past. He is so sure that repeating everything and making little adjustments will fix his world.” I swallowed hard, trying to make sure he understood what I was saying. I wasn’t his toy; I wasn’t meant to be wound up to perform for him. “Miguel, you can’t fix things by redoing them. People die. You have to let them go. If your wife died, you need to let her go.”

“I don’t hear you saying that about him.” He sneered.

“That’s because I didn’t kidnap you. I was willing to let you… to let him go.” All of the terms were confusing. This man looked like my Miguel, but he wasn’t. He was a different version of him, which I guess could also make him him, just a different kind. God, I was confusing myself.

“That’s bullshit. I know you want him back. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in the way you look at me.”

“I think what you’re seeing is a mixture of fear and your own reflection.”

“You love me.” He said.

“I don’t know you, Miguel. I don’t know who you are. I know who you look like, but that doesn’t really help your situation.” I paused for a long moment. “How did she die?” I asked. He shook his head.

“That’s none of your fucking business.” He snapped. I flinched at his words.

“I have the right to know how she died.”

“No, you don’t. You don’t even know how your own husband died and you think you have the right to pry into my life.” With that, he pushed himself up from the table.

He tossed the plate into the sink and it shattered against the metal of the basin. I heard him swear in Spanish under his breath. He was pissed but he hadn’t meant to do that. Maybe that was just an every day occurrence with spider strength.

He began to head to the archway that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. As he stepped, I heard him swearing under his breath. I also heard my name several times.

“Miguel, where are you going?” I asked.

“You hate me so much, maybe it would be better if I wasn’t around.”

“Miguel, where are you going?” I repeated. He muttered more words under his breath. I watched as he pushed several buttons on the sides of his wrist device. He flipped a top piece on the metal bracelet.

“Lyla-“ he started.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I pushed myself up from the table, following him as he left the kitchen. He didn’t reply. I rounded the corner, following as he stepped into the living room. Upon entering, I was nearly blinded by a massive orange and pink hole that swirled and twisted in the center of the room. With every step he took, he drifted closer to it.

So, that was how he managed to leave and then come back. If what he wore on his wrist was capable of doing it, I wondered if mine was, too. No, surely not. The intent was to keep me here; giving me an opportunity to escape would defeat the entire purpose. He said that if I took it off, I would die. I had no choice but to believe him on that front.

“Miguel.” Still no answer. “Where are you going?” He stepped toward the portal without a sound.

“Miguel, where the hell are you going?” I repeated.

He rolled his eyes as he glanced down at the device on his wrist.

“If you leave, what the hell am I supposed to do? There aren’t any people outside. I’m going to have to guess that all of the buildings are empty. Are you coming back? Am I going to starve to death? What if I get hurt? What if I fall down the stairs and die? When the hell are you coming back? How am I supposed to contact you?” The words fell out of my mouth so fast that I didn’t have the chance to consider if these were stupid questions.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” He scoffed. But he didn’t offer me any kind of actual answer.

“Miguel, you said you were my husband. You can’t just abandon me.” He flinched, but he still did not turn around. “Please…” I begged. If he left, I was stranded. At least with him here, I was guaranteed human contact and sustenance.

“Miguel, I need you.” I said. As the words left my mouth, I did the only thing I could think of to get his attention. I slid my hand up to the cardigan and quickly slipped it off of my shoulders. He didn’t seem to notice or care when it dropped to the ground below me. I then reached upward and grabbed onto the thin spaghetti straps of the pink nightgown. Without hesitation, I pulled them over either shoulder, allowing the gown to slide entirely off my body and pool onto the floor at my feet.

“Miguel.” I repeated. This time, my voice was no louder than a whisper. That was enough to get his attention. Or maybe he had heard the dress gather on the floor at my feet. I swallowed hard, feeling the cold bite at my bare skin. I was standing almost naked in the middle of the living room, wearing only a thin pair of underwear that offered very little coverage.

Miguel glanced backward. His eyes caught expanse of my bare skin and I swore I saw him smile.

“Don’t leave.” I said. I lifted my hands and crossed my arms. It was a force of habit. I felt so exposed like this. Though, I quickly lowered my hands, knowing that getting his attention was my best chance at him staying.

He turned around to face me. “Please say something, Miguel.” I whispered. The longer I went without a reaction, the more I started to feel like an idiot for this. Maybe I had just made myself look stupid in front of him. Or, better yet, maybe this was something his wife wouldn’t have done; maybe this would make him send me back home to die.

He slunk forward, a predator approaching prey. I saw the portal swirl into a smaller and smaller hole in the universe. Then, it closed, leaving us alone in the dim light of the living room.

Miguel moved so that he was only a few inches in front of me. The material of his shirt grazed my naked skin, making me wince. The shirt was too rough against my goosebump littered flesh. He stared down at me. As he did, his eyes turned from warm brown to a deep red again.

His palm drifted up to cup my cheek. His skin burned to the touch. I swallowed hard, feeling his fingers stroke the side of my face. It was almost as if he was petting me; like I was a toy for him to play with. He leaned down. His lips grazed the shell of my ear as he whispered, “Let me know if I hurt you.”

“Huh?” He pressed his mouth against mine, hard. His lips were warm as he began to work them, moving them so that they forced my mouth open. I moaned, overwhelmed by it all. As his lips slid against mine, I was sure that I would be bruised tomorrow.

A fang brushed my bottom lip, making me gasp. “Gentle, Miguel.” I whispered.

“Sorry.” His warm breath covered my face. He smelled intoxicating. He straightened his stance, moving away from me. When he pulled away, I let out an audible whimper.

God, please tell me I didn’t genuinely want him. I swallowed hard, feeling myself getting slick between my thighs. I was sure that if he looked, he would see a spot forming in my underwear.

I wanted to hold him. I tried to grab his shoulders, but our heights were too off. He was too tall for me to grab hold of. I pushed myself onto my tippy toes, but even that wasn’t enough. I was still too short for him. Miguel noticed this and leaned downward, allowing me to curl my arms around his strong shoulders.

“That’s my girl.” He slipped his hands down and curled his fingers around my bare thighs. He jerked my body upward. I curled my legs around his hips. He was already getting hard, causing his pajama bottoms to strain.

Miguel stepped forward, carrying me up the stairs. I knew where we were going: the bedroom. I pressed a gentle kiss against his cheek. Even in the dark, I could tell he smiled.

He was getting exactly what he had wanted. But I couldn’t bring myself to make it all stop. I wanted him. I had craved him for so long and here he was. He wasn’t my Miguel, but maybe he wouldn’t die. He was stronger than my Miguel. Maybe that would allow him to stick around.

He twisted the door handle, leaving deep dents in the shape of his fingers in the cold metal. He was trying his hardest to be gentle with me, but I knew it was a battle he would most likely lose.

He tossed me on the bed, throwing me just a tad too hard. I landed on the opposite side of the mattress, groaning as my head almost collided with the wooden headboard. “Miguel.”

“I know, I know.” He teased. He flipped his hand over, shooting a fine web that caught my ankle. “Come here, sweetheart.” He rolled the webbing around his fingers, pulling it tight. I gasped, feeling my body sliding across the sheets. He dragged me down to the edge of the bed.

“Miguel!” I squealed. He smirked as he pressed his knees into the bed, pulling me so that I was only a few inches away from him. He pulled the web off my skin, making sure that it didn’t hurt me.

“Do you do that a lot?” I asked.

“As often as you, sweetheart. Next time, I can web you to the headboard.” My face flashed bright red. He chuckled.

Miguel reached down and grabbed the bottom of his sweatshirt. He hauled it upward, pulling it over his head before discarding it on the floor. Taut muscles danced under his skin. Every inch of him was bound in hard muscle, covered in perfect skin.

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss against my knee. His fingers wandered up my thighs, feeling my bare skin. He pushed his other hand into the mattress.

“Miguel, please.”

“Please what?” He asked. I took his free hand in mine and guided it up to my chest. He moaned, offering a soft squeeze.

Miquel scrambled up to my chest. He caught my nipple in his mouth and moaned, licking the sensitive skin as he sucked. His fingers kneaded my other breast, stopping every once in a while to offer the hard peak a gentle pinch.

I brushed my fingers through his dark hair. He smiled against my skin, releasing my nipple from his mouth. “What?” I asked.

“Let me know if I’m too rough with you.” With that he slinked down to the warm skin of my thighs. He traced his lips across the bare skin. As he went, he opened his lips to gently suck and kiss the bare flesh. Every so often I would feel a burst of pain that lasted no longer than a second. He mumbled something against my skin. I pushed myself up onto my elbows, moving so that I could see what he was doing.

Another sharp pain shot through my left thigh as he buried his face in my skin. Miguel glanced upward, feeling my eyes on him. His fangs had nipped my bare skin, making me yelp. “I’ll be more gentle.” His voice was warm and weighted with lust.

He slipped upward and slid his fingers under the waist of my panties. He bit the material with his teeth. I heard him snip the material and rolled my eyes.

“You can’t do that to all of my clothes. I barely have any to begin with.”

“I’ll buy you whatever you want.” He pressed a warm kiss against my bare hip. Then, he moved to the other side. He repeated the same action, slicing through the material using his fangs. He placed a kiss on that side, as well.

“You’re such a showoff.”

“Am not.”

“You could have just pulled them off of me the normal way.” I fought back a laugh.

“I can bench press a city bus. I don’t need to showoff to you. Besides, learn to have some sense of romance.” He threw the remains of the panties onto the floor. He immediately pressed a soft kiss against the mound that had been covered by my underwear.

He was extremely careful when he shifted downward. But the dull ache on the skin of my thighs where he had bit made me want to make my only request. “Hey, no teeth.”

“Funny, that’s what I always tell you.” He muttered. I rolled my eyes. “Lay back and hush up.”

“You’re so damn bossy.” I shifted on the mattress, spreading my legs wider for him. He placed his hand across my folds and gently spread them to expose my clit. He flicked his tongue across my clit. “Fuck, Miguel.” I lifted my hips off the bed, moving closer to his face.

He started to work, flicking his tongue over my clit as the index finger on his free hand traced my opened. He collected my wetness on his finger, sliding it around to make sure that I was good to go. Then, he slipped in his middle and index finger, sinking in until his knuckles touched my pussy.

I moaned, feeling his tongue work its magic.

Fuck, he was good at this.

He curled his fingers inside of me, brushing my sweet spot. I grabbed the back of his head, feeling his head bob under my palm as he licked.

Then, something occurred to me. He knew every inch of my body because he had fucked me thousands of times in the past. Even if it wasn’t me, it was a girl who was exactly like me. Maybe I was just that predicable. Or maybe he was just that good.

He picked up his speed, lapping between my folds as I curled my fingers in his hair. I was close and he could feel it. He could feel the twitches and miniatures spasms on his tongue as he worked. “Miguel, I’m close!” I whimpered.

He licked faster. Suddenly, pleasure shot through me, filling me with a white-hot heat. I moaned, spasming around his fingers as I came undone.

Miguel whispered something into my thigh as he pushed himself off the bed. Then, he pulled down his pajama bottoms, allowing for his cock to spring upward. It smacked against his lower stomach, heavy and decorated with a dark vein that ran along the underside. He kicked his pants off into the floor and then crawled on top of me.

He pressed a soft kiss on my lips. I could taste myself on his lips.

“This may hurt at first. I won’t move until you’re ready.” He said. He reached down between us. I watched as he grabbed his dick, stroked himself twice, and then lined himself up with my entrance. Without another word, he slid inside, making me gasp. I curled my legs around his hips, pulling him in deep as possible. “That’s my girl.”

I was overwhelmed with a stretching sensation. Arms rested on either side of my head as he stayed in place, waiting for me. After a moment, I leaned forward and kissed him, giving him the go ahead. One hand drifted up to my face. He caressed my cheek and his lips glided against mine.

He drew his hips back, sliding nearly all the way out. Then, thrusted upward, hitting deep inside of me. I gasped into his mouth. “I forgot how tight you are.” He murmured, his words slurring together.

My hands slid down his muscled back as he started to fuck himself into me. All the while, he kept his mouth on mine. I could feel his heart beating against my chest as he worked.

“Miguel…” I moaned, rocking my hips against him. I could feel my lower stomach tightening.

Suddenly, he whispered my name. It was so gentle that it was almost unsettling, considering the circumstances. I glanced up to meet his gaze. But as my eyes met his, he dipped downward. He buried his face in the curve of my neck so that I couldn’t see his eyes.

“Miguel, what’s wrong?”

He rutted his hips upward, burying himself as deep as possible. I gasped, digging my nails into his back. Despite how hard I had sunk them in, they didn’t break the skin. He was indestructible… at least, physically. I slid one hand across the skin of his back, moving to his dark hair. I could have sworn I heard him murmuring something into my neck. I could feel his lips moving against my skin, offering some kind of low prayer. But to who?

“Miguel…” He pulled his hips back again and then quickly slid inside of me again, grinding his hips against me to get a reaction. I gasped, tightening my hold on his hair.

“Say you love me.” His voice was dreamy, and his words slurred from pleasure.

“What?” I asked. It caught me off guard.

“Say it.”

“I love you.” I felt his hips still their movements. He was weighing the authenticity of my words. After a moment, he lifted his head from my neck.

“Say it again.” His eyes peered into mine. He was searching for something in my stare.

“I love you.”

“Good girl.” With that, he continued to beat into me, groaning when I would tense around him.

We were both close. I could tell by the chorus of whimpers and moans that were filling the room. That familiar tightening in my stomach was close to coming entirely undone.

He pivoted his hips, hitting the perfect spot inside of me. Miguel stared down at my features. He wanted something very specific from me before he finished. He ground his hips, making me gasp.

Fucking hell, Miguel.

With that, I felt myself come undone. Pleasure shot through me, making me clamp down on his dick. He grunted, never stopping his movements. “Miguel, I love you!” He groaned at my words. He kept hitting deep inside of me, making sure to grind himself against me every couple of thrusts.

His orgasm overtook him. He groaned my name as he gave one final thrust, hitting deep. I felt his body tense under my hands.

Slowly, we both came down from our highs. We were dragged back to the reality of the bedroom. The day had faded into night, leaving us in darkness.

He had finished inside of me. I could feel a deep warmth inside of my stomach. I also felt a distinct wetness that was hard to ignore. I sighed, relaxing into the mattress. I unhooked my legs, waiting for him to slide out of me. But, instead, he reached behind him and closed my legs again.

“No…” He murmured. Then, he leaned down and pressed a kiss against my lips. In this position, I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. It was so intimate; so loving. Maybe he really did see me as his wife. He pressed another gentle kiss against my mouth. I closed my eyes, giving into the softness of the moment.

“You have to do something for me.” He said. I opened my eyes to look at him.

“Okay.”

“I want you to love me like you loved him. I want you to look at me like I’m your hero and that I’m special.” He inhaled sharply before he reached forward to brush one of my curls off of my forehead. “I want you to care if I die.”

I nodded. What other option was there? I was trapped in his little universe; it’s not like I could ever leave or be with anyone else. Besides, we were still literally connected at the hip.

After what felt like an eternity, he slid out of me. He leaned back on the balls of his feet to inspect me. I immediately closed my legs, though that did little good. He reached forward and grabbed my knees, prying my thighs apart. Warm cum dribbled out of me, coating the naked skin of my upper thighs.

He smirked at his handy work before pushing himself off of the bed. He disappeared into the bathroom for a moment, turning on the faucet and grabbing a towel from the cabinet.

It was then that something occurred to me. “Miguel, I’m not on birth control.” I said. He nodded, acting as if I had just told him about the weather. He stepped out of the bathroom holding a damp washcloth. “Miguel.”

“What, sweetheart?” I stared at him, feeling my mind begin to race. He climbed onto the bed, moving to where I was laying. He sat down between my thighs and gently began to clean the remains of him off of my skin.

“You didn’t… you didn’t use a condom and I’m not on birth control.” I said. I could feel my heart beginning to race. Why wasn’t this bothering him in the same way?

“You’re my wife.” He said as he wiped my skin.

“Miguel.” I repeated. I wanted him to react.

“What are you wanting me to say?”

“Anything.” I said. I wanted some kind of actual reaction.

“Things are exactly as they need to be. Whatever happens, happens.”

“That’s not an answer.” I said.

“Maybe you need to learn to be happy with what you’re already working with.” He finished cleaning me up and then walked to the bathroom. He had made sure to only clean the skin outside of my body. He didn’t try to remove any of the fluid inside of me, despite how much there was.

He came back to the bed and quickly climbed in. “You should get some sleep.” He said. I stared at him, searching for some idea about what he was thinking. He offered a soft smile in return.

Was he fucking with me?

Did he really love me or was he just using me as a quick screw?

Did he actually want me to be his wife… or was this some fucked up mind game of his?

He leaned back against the pillows and then lifted his hand. He curled a finger toward him, motioning for me to come. “I’m not a dog.” I muttered.

“Then be a good girl and do as I ask.” He reached forward and gently grabbed my body. He slid me closer to him, moving me so that my head lay against his bare chest.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Afraid so.” He said. He placed one hand on my shoulder and the other on my side. He slid his fingers up and down either side of my body, taking in every soft dip and curve. Every so often he would lean down and kiss the top of my head.

I couldn’t help but notice the way that his fingers traced over my lower stomach. He looked wistful as he traced the soft skin. I squirmed, feeling insecure.

“Stop wiggling and get some sleep.”

“Then stop feeling me up.”

“I’m not feeling you up. I’m trying to be nice to you.” He murmured against the top of my head. He pressed another kiss against my hair.

“You’re an ass.” I muttered. I rolled his eyes as he continued to pet my bare skin. His heartbeat played in my ear.

As I began to drift off to sleep, I felt him begin to play with my frizzed curls. He would coil a stand of hair around his finger and then let it go, satisfied with the soft curl that had formed.

It was something that my Miguel liked to do, as well.

Maybe they weren’t all that different.

I heard his strong heartbeat against my ear as I faded away from the room.

Before I fell asleep, Miguel pressed a gentle kiss against my forehead. “Please don’t leave me.” He whispered.

I love you...

#miguel o'hara #Miguel Ohara smut #Miguel o'hara smut #Miguel O'Hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #Miguel ohara x you #Miguel o'hara x you #Miguel ohara imagines #Miguel ohara fanfiction #spiderman99 smut #spider verse smut

3K notes · View notes

princessbrunette · 6 months

Text

when kitty!reader gets arrested for stupidly overstepping with a cop, it’s a no brainer that jj is coming to pick her up from the station. you’re expecting cockiness, maybe some middle fingers, and then some shared banter with you to cheer you up. what you don’t consider, is how hard it might be for jj to step foot back in that place.

your demeanour immediately softens when he steps up to the office to collect you, after being unnecessarily searched by a cop. his eyes are raking over you cautiously as he’s talking to shoupe, a hand rubbing at his chest anxiously which really — should have been the first sign that he just didn’t like it here.

from the way he was lacking mirth — clearly displeased, you assume the night would head in another direction instead. hard core dominance, a punishment — perhaps being forced over his lap or overstimulated until you cry. to think like this, he’d clearly spoiled you in the past.

you start rambling as he walks you out the station gripping your arm, barely getting a breath in.

“since when is it a crime to give ‘attitude’ anyway? they really think i’m a threat to anyone? what a bunch of pussies — seriously jayj, these are the people meant to be protecting us. all i did was state the truth, being that —”

“hey, hey alright—” he’s sudden with the way he addresses you, your words cut off as he pulls you to stand directly infront of him, both of his hands on your shoulders. you brace for the telling off that you probably deserve. instead, his voice is soft and he looks tired. “are you okay? did they touch you? ‘cus if they did i’m heading back inside so you gotta tell me now baby.” his gaze is intense and the little relieved smile you had was completely wiped from your face, blinking up at him like the seriousness had just settled in.

“i… no. they didn’t hurt me they just cuffed me but it was fine.” you’re taken aback and he sighs, tonguing at his bottom lip in thought before stepping back and pulling his cap off to run a hand through his hair.

“you know, like — i had hoped that you’d atleast paid attention and learnt from my mistakes. these cops they’re not — they’re not good people. you get that, right? like — if you piss ‘em off once, they don’t stop picking on you. look what they did to me.” his voice is still uncharacteristically soft with you, totally exasperated. you hug yourself, suddenly a lot more ashamed.

“really?”

“yeah. really.” you feel the irritation he’s holding back. “look i love you babe, and i’m glad you’re okay — but i’m not happy. at all. pretty pissed right now, honestly.”

the ride back to his is silent, and you hope that once you’re home things will simmer down. you just want to forget the day you’ve both had and go to sleep. apparently, so does he — but not with you. he avoids your eyes as he drags a pillow to the couch in the living room, followed by a blanket.

“jayj?” you sound so broken that he wants to give in, but you have to learn. he physically flinches at your voice, resisting.

“no, okay. i’m — i’m not mad. i just… being back in that place, after my dad…” he finally looks at you, and the memory of seeing you in there visits him all over again, springing that bothersome irritation in his chest. “i thought you’d get it. gimme a little time here.”

he sees how shattered you look and presses his lips together, dragging his feet towards you. he softly grips your face and kisses your forehead. “go to bed. it’s fine.”

you cry when you shut the bedroom door. you cry as you change into your pyjamas. you cry as you brush your teeth. you do eventually drift off, but you’re back up at 3:30AM, sniffling once more. you get it, you messed up — but neither of you needed this.

you pad into the living room to find jj staring at the ceiling, eyes floating to you where you paw at your eye, unable to stop the quiet mewls as you cry. he doesn’t say much, just opens his blanket to welcome you in beside him.

the anger at you returns, but you don’t mind when you’re on your back with your legs around his waist — your teary eyed boyfriend pummelling his dick into you repeatedly. he grits his jaw, pulling himself together.

“you think you’re a bad girl now, ain’t that right kitty? wanna do bad girl things n’get arrested jus’ like your boyfriend? you can’t handle that shit, your spoiled ass can’t even handle being scolded a little.” he rants breathlessly before sitting up to get a better angle, the blanket sliding off his back. he pushes your legs up and you whine.

“i’m s— i’m sorry papa won’t do it again!” you cry and he scoffs. it’s mean.

“you’re damn right, mama. clearly i got some bad behaviour to correct. what’s gonna teach you a lesson? me fuckin’ that little ass?”

your eyes glimmer with hope at the premise of this punishment and he gives your cheek a swift little tap before you get any ideas. “yeah, don’t gimme that look kitty. ain’t gonna feel like a reward when i do it, can tell you that for free.”

#jj maybank prompt #kitty!reader

685 notes · View notes

jennifer-jeong · 7 months

Text

Fluff | Genshin x GN!Reader What Made Them Fall For You?

Xiao, Wanderer/Scaramouche, Diluc

SUMMARY Headcanons on what makes the genshin pookies fall for you <3

CONTENT Fluff, gender neutral reader, men falling for reader, reader is not traveler but is friends with them, mentions of character's trauma, CHARACTERS ARE 18+

AUTHOUR NOTES I hope to eventually write about all the men >:) it will probably take a while to get to it but I’ll try to keep each one short to encourage myself to finish them all hehe.

XIAO

I think Xiao would start to fall for you because you see through his tough, mean guy act. You can tell that even though his words are harsh and he’s telling you to leave him alone, he’s just protecting you. You might not see it at first, but as you understand his condition, his karmic debt, you understand him. Your realization makes you feel warm knowing that Xiao is really just an innocent soul who wanted to keep you safe. He wants so badly to never hurt anyone ever again and “repent” in solitude even though he has nothing to really repent for; he was forced to kill by his previous master and his karmic debt only comes from killing the remnants of old gods and absorbing their debt.

You start to hang around him more as a result and, much to Xiao’s dismay, he doesn’t hate it. In fact, he actually enjoys how you reignite the warmth in him, the warmth he hasn’t felt in so long since his fellow Yaksha have passed. But did he want to let you in? Shouldn’t he push you away? He’s been alone for so long, why change that now? He felt like he didn’t deserve to enjoy company again, that he didn’t deserve you and your kindness. But maybe just this time… just once, would he allow it.

WANDERER

I think Wanderer would start to fall for you because you make him feel human emotions like he’s never felt before. He’s always searched for a “heart” in the form of a gnosis, thinking it would make him human and make him feel loved and wanted. But even when he had it, it didn’t feel right. Even now, with his anemo vision, he feels more, but still not what he wants. But with you, it feels perfect. Others would probably describe what he feels as something like “butterflies in my stomach” but since he probably doesn’t really experience physical things like that, being a magical puppet and all, he thinks about how you make his vision glow. When he feels a surge of emotions, it feels like he’s using his vision. It feels powerful, happy, strong, and warm, like how a light breeze feels on a sunny afternoon.

You know about his past, what he did, and how the world wronged him. He’s been so traumatized and can barely comprehend his emotions. So when you reach out to him after he regains his memory and a new anemo vision, you try to help him through his emotions in the gentle way that you do. You’re so soft with him and it makes his vision heart ache. He believes he doesn’t deserve you but you try your best to show him otherwise. As you two get closer, you never really notice, but the wind always picks up just a little bit when he sees you.

DILUC

I think Diluc would start to fall for you because you don’t just see him as “the young and rich son of the Ragnvindr family estate.” You see him for him: Diluc. You see a beautiful soul with a broken heart that has put up walls that he intends to never break down again. Others might think that Diluc is just cold, but you and the others close to him know that no matter how cold he may seem, the pure fire that burns inside him always spreads its warmth to those around him. He’s believed for a while now that barely anyone can see what he’s hiding underneath, that people want him for his money, his property, his material things. But you prove him wrong time and time again. You sweetly say hi to him every time you see him not because you want to put on a facade to get on his good side. You don’t help him break up a fight at the tavern and clean up after because you want a monetary reward. You don’t bake him an adorable strawberry cake for his birthday because you want something back. No, you do it because you care, because you have so much love to give, and Diluc feels so lucky to be a part of your life.

He feels his feelings grow for you as time goes on. He feels you getting closer and he barely hesitates to let you in. You didn’t break down his walls, you politely made a door for yourself to enter and it makes you both laugh to think about it that way. He stays reserved around most others but always holds the door open for you, physically and metaphorically.

|| MASTERLIST ♡ || Thank you for reading! ||

761 notes · View notes

oh-koenig-my-koenig · 8 months

Text

waking up in his bed

(cw: age gap 25/41, nsfw, mdni, marks, a bit of spit stuff, dry (wet?) humping, swallowing)

part before: hanging off König's shoulder

When I open my eyes up again, for just a moment, I don’t know where I am. My own confused image stairs back at me – right, the mirror on his ceiling! And I laugh to myself because it’s ridiculous. The whole concept is!

I stretch myself, yawning. Realising that I’m alone in the kingsize bed. I mean, it would be impossible to miss the big guy. I still feel his lingering touches, the way he held onto me as we fell asleep together. Reminders of the first time hooking up after the concert.

I’m somebody who normally can’t sleep in a tight embrace, but he was pratically latching onto me both times. Subconsciously in his sleep. Holding onto me, softly still. If it were possible for him to wrap himself around me completely, I bet he would’ve done it. His big arm resting over my torso, the forearm securely between my breasts, his hand on the side of my face. One of his legs strewn over one of mine. Almost like a human weighted blankie. And I still slept soundly.

I yawn and stretch again, until I notice a little piece of paper stuck to my arm. I peel it off and look at it.

That explains where he went off to, but it also makes him out be a liar, because I don’t believe I look anywhere near cute in the morning. Drooling into the soft pillow underneath my head. My hair standing off to the side. Probably snoring as well.

And I have to laugh as I see the little doodle in the right corner. Honestly, it’s a relief to see – considering the man’s many talents – that he isn’t good at everything. Drawing doesn’t seem to be his forte. But at the same time, this was painfully cute. The note, the doodle, everything. I giggle to myself and finally pull back the covers.

I assess the ‘damage’ while I get up: Booty hurts a little bit, probably from getting fucked into the hard wood surface of the bar. The muscles in my legs are a little tense, my shoulders and neck feel a bit stiff, and my pussy is a little bit sore (and deeply satisfied). The hickeys and the faint bitemark on my inner thighs bring a little smile to my face. It couldn’t have been clearer if he had written ‘König was here’ in waterproof sharpie on them.

I put on my shirt, still not daring to take one of his because of how it might look, and curse myself because I didn’t pack more clothes. It’s not terribly stinky or stained, but it definitely looked better yesterday. I quickly brush my teeth, my eyes darting to the shower, remnants of last night in the forefront of my mind before I go on a search for my panties.

I find them on the floor in the bar, the memories of yesterday flooding me, the forgotten cocktail still on the bar. He had to make another one, because the icecubes had already melted and the gin was warm.

I leave the cellar going up the stairs until I stand in the living room again, looking at the books I set aside yesterday.

There is another crystal tumbler on the end table, this one empty. Just one because we shared it.

The glass moving from my hand to his and back, while we were listening to music, talking. Cuddling on the couch. My legs splayed over his thighs, barely reaching all the way to the other side. His arm around my waist, his thumb painting little circles over my hip. My fingers tangled in his hair and digging into the scalp, massaging gently until he was humming quietly.

His mouth placed on the glass where mine was, just a moment before, taking another sip.

Lingering kisses, slow and sweet, turning into little sips of the drink being passed between us. Tasting him and the gin at the same time. A heady combination.

I felt myself getting sleepier and sleepier the later it got, until I yawned and almost fell asleep in his arms, then he finally got me to agree that we should head to bed.

I hear the front door open, the sound ripping me from my memories. I turn around, skipping in that direction.

König is standing in the hallway, taking off his shoes, a grocery bag in his hands. In his usual leatherjacket, shirt and… sweatpants? Casual black sweatpants. Yeah no, I totally feel normal about them. I can’t help but ogle him, because he looks like a wet dream, even in the most mundane outfits.

He sees me, his face lighting up in a grin. “No pants again, huh?”, he comments, his eyes dropping down my body.

I blush. “Uh, I can put some on, if it bothers you.”

He laughs. “Doncha dare hide that cute ass of yours.” He comes closer and leans down, dropping a kiss onto my mouth and his hand to my ass. Patting it twice, quickly and playful. “I almost didn't want to leave bed this morning...”, he whispers against my lips and deepens the kiss, for just a moment.

“I got your note.”, I say as we tumble into the kitchen.

He puts the shopping bag down on the counter. “Yeah, went to the supermarket. And I also got us some croissants from the bakery.”

“The little shop at the corner to Main Street?”, I ask.

“Yes.”, he smiles.

“Hell yeah, I love their croissants, they're the best.”, I exclaim.

“Baked goods, the only thing the french are good at.”, he comments pointedly.

“Oh man, you and the french.”, I laugh as I hop onto the kitchen counter beside the coffee maker. Watching him unpack the groceries and getting said baked goods.

He pulls one croissant out of the brown paper bag and hands it to me unceremoniously. I grab it and take a bite, the flakey dough bursting as my teeth cut through it. The little sigh that drops from my lips sounds a little too enamored, a little too enthused for just eating a croissant. He looks at me, his jaw dropping just a bit.

“What?”, I ask, still munching on the pastry dough.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head mumbling something that sounds a bit like "never thought I'd be jealous of a fucking croissant".

That makes me laugh. "Thanks for getting them, but you didn't need to get up early for that."

He shrugs. "I'm an early bird anyway out of habit, and I had to go out and buy some milk, because I forgot about that.", he explains, pulling said milk out of the grocery bag.

I look at him, a little confused.

"I drink my coffee black, so I never have any milk at home.", he adds, as if that was a given.

A grin stalks on my face. “Of course you do.”, I say pointedly.

“Now, what's that supposed to mean?”, he asks.

I tilt my head and pull my brows up, all like 'are you being serious?'. “Let's just say that I would have been way more surprised if the over 40-year-old metalhead, who has a car that looks like it's from the nineties, who still collects vinyls and CDs, who would rather drink his gin neat and who's biggest kitchen appliance is a barista coffee machine with all the knick-knacks – if he drank a latte in the morning.”

He laughs, the hearty sound making me all giddy. “Tell me how you really feel.”, he says, his eyes sparkling at me, while jokingly clasping one hand over his heart.

“Sorry.”, I say, grinning at him.

He waves it off. “Don’t be, I deserved that.” He gets some coffee beans ready, putting them through the grinder and then fitting the portafilter into the barista machine.

While the coffee drips down into the cup, he comes closer standing right in between my knees. “But, how about you, missy? Do you like a latte in the morning?” The little quirk of the corner of his mouth is telling me that this isn’t just some question about my coffee preferences. It’s one of his telltale signs.

“I do, but I feel like I'm missing the joke here.”, I say, looking up at him. Sitting on the counter, he still towers over me, more than a head taller than me.

He chuckles. “Well, ‘Latte’ is also another word for boner in German, so...” He sees the grimace I'm making and laughs some more, and I join in, while shaking my head. He steps away and repeats the process, getting another coffee ready.

"I'm starting to think that your language only has dirty innuendos and curses.", I remark, jokingly.

He grins. "That just might be my vocabulary." He pours some milk into a metal jug and froths it, adding the froth to the mug after the coffee is ready. Wincing at the shitload of milk he put in. "Here, a latte for the lady.", he says, while handing me the mug.

My eyes drop down of their own volition, as I take it from his hands. Openly staring at his crotch, where his sweatpants are clearly tented by his dick. And he comes even closer with the way I'm looking at him.

My gaze pans up again until it lands on his face, his expression stoic, as he’s pulling an eyebrow up, like he’s awaiting what I’ll do. I take a drink, tasting the coffee on my tongue. "Thank you. For the latte." Trying to hide my grin behind the mug. "Sir.", I add, cheekily.

He leans forward, placing his hands on either side of me, caging me in. The look in his eyes burning into me. I still grin up at him, but I feel like I'm in danger. In danger of getting devoured like one of those flaky croissants.

"You wanna say that again with your lips around my dick? Hm?", he asks and my breath halts. Thinking about yesterday again. When I sat on his bed, gagging around his cock.

"Maybe.", I whisper. He just leans down to kiss me and I can taste the bitter coffee on his tongue, as it strokes against mine. Slow and deep.

I put the cup down to the side before my arms reach up, holding onto his shoulders, his hair falling to the front, the tips of it brushing over my skin. I push some of it back, my fingers tangle in the long strands, while I answer his kiss.

He's not breaking away, still caging me in, even though one of his hands moves to my panties. The fingers toying with the hem, easily slipping under the fabric. My legs spread even wider, I squirm into his touch and our kiss gets messier, sloppier. His thumb finds my clit, softly pressing against it, and the light touch makes me needy for more.

"Fuck, please.", I whimper into the kiss, and I can feel his lips turn up into a smile. He breaks away, keeping up the constant brushes against my clit, kissing down to my neck.

My hand tries to reach for his dick, but he catches my wrist. "Just- let me.", he murmurs, pressing his hot mouth against my pulse point. Sucking on it softly. A needy mewl escapes me when his middle finger slips into me. Just one digit, not quite enough to fill me up, even with his big fingers.

Soft teasing touches, enough to get me worked up, but not enough to get me anywhere near finishing. And he knows what he's doing.

König pulls back, his lids hooded, his gaze intently on me, which makes me acutely aware of the expression on my own face, the O shape of my mouth. His finger is still moving inside me, the brushes against the most sensitive spot make me squirm.

I teether on the edge of an orgasm, until he pushes another one inside me, filling me up. His fingers move fast now, against my fluttering walls. Coaxing the release out of me and I come, pulsing around them. Leaving me wet and needy for more touches.

He pulls the panties over my pussy again, the fabric soaking up my juices in an instant. His hand clasps over it, softly massaging over it, until they soaked wet with my own juices.

König simply pushes his sweatpants down, pulling out his cock, letting it rest against my clothed pussy. Then he spits and a dollop of saliva drops onto my panties. The sound alone makes me whimper, while I lean back until my shoulderblades hit the cabinets behind me.

The spit runs down, right over the tip of his dick. He drags it through it, spreading the wetness on his length, soaking my underwear even more. Slow and deliberate, taking his time. The slick just being enough, so he can flit over it.

I groan at the sight, the filthy little move making me even hotter. He pulls up one eyebrow while looking at me, the smirk on his lips infuriatingly cocky. He ruts his hips forward, his hard dick pushing against my pussy lips and clit. The friction due to the fabric in between us, against my sensitive skin, is almost too much to handle, my hands gripping his arms, nails digging into his biceps.

His hands splayed on my thighs and he looks down, my eyes following his until we're both fixed on the spot where he is rubbing himself against me. The little hickeys on the skin next to it. His thumb coasts over the bitemark on my inner thigh, a faint imprint still showing up. He lifts his hand for just a moment, pressing a kiss to his pointer and middle finger and then pressing them onto the mark.

If I wasn't so wound tight from his teasing touches, I think I would've actually awww'ed at the little gesture, him kissing the bite better. Like this, I only sigh, grinding against his dick, searching for more friction.

He slumps forward, his forehead resting against mine. "Fuck, I need to be inside you.", he grunts, his words sending a shiver down my spine. He lifts me from the countertop, my legs wrapping around him.

"What, no magic condoms appearing out of thin air this time?", I tease him, my fingers stroking over his shoulders.

“The magician is out of props for such stunts.”, he grumbles. “And there will still be enough time to fuck you on every surface in the whole house.”

He hurries upstairs to the bedroom where he sets me down on the bed and we both scramble to get off our clothes. I pull my shirt over my head and fall into the soft mattress, watching him shed his. His dick is hanging out his sweatpants, half caught in the waistband, bobbing up and down with his movements before he lets the pants fall down to the floor.

He grabs a condom out of the pack that's lying out on the nightstand, the packaging torn at the front, and puts the rubber on.

My eyes pan up from the dark fluff of his happy trail, the tummy, the upper abs and his huge pecs, dark hair peppered over them. His nipple piercing. The broad shoulders, adorned with black ink that spans down his arms as well. Trying not to look at the parts where cuts and other scars disturbed the otherwise impeccable images inked into the skin.

He looks back at me, from underneath his eyebrows, one of them quirking up, as he climbs onto the mattress, his weight pushing it down.

I yelp and giggle, as he grabs me by the hips, pulls me into him, until the swells of my ass hit his thick thighs. My legs drop to the side on their own, and he takes that as the invitation it is, his hand pulling the wet panties to the side and just slipping into me.

We both groan as he settles deep inside me, the stretch of his thickness making my head drop back and my eyes roll back.

His hand catches my chin, softly digging into it. Making me look up as he sits back on his knees and slowly starts to fuck me.

“See how fucking pretty you are?”

His eyes are on me, on my face, while I look up at the mirror, focused in on the point where we are connected. Seeing how his dick pushes into me, until he's balls deep, his tip pressing up against my cervix.

Sliding out, inch by inch, almost completely pulling out. In again. I feel the stretch as my pussy takes him in. It's a tight fit, but I'm wet and dripping from how he worked me up.

And out. The feeling of emptiness only dissipates, when his hips snap forward, filling me up quickly, and a moan drops from my lips, the shape contorted to an O.

He starts to fuck me harder, his hand coming around my throat, his fingers closing around my neck, gentler than I would have liked. Pulling me into him while he pounds into me. His hand is other still grabbing onto my panties, the fabric aching as he uses it as leverage to move me into his thrusts.

Rip.

The sound of fabric ripping cuts through the otherwise soft erotic soundscape. The drowsiness drops out of his gaze, his eyes widen in shock, as he looks down, stopping his thrusts. "Scheiße, sorry.", he curses.

I laugh a bit while I shake my head. "Don't worry, it's just clothes.", sitting up on my elbows, reaching out for him. Needing him to continue.

He lets go of them, the fabric hanging from my hips, and leans forward, pressing a deep kiss onto my mouth in apology. His hand softly strokes the side of my face, his thumb caressing my cheek. Close, so close, his forehead resting against mine, as he rolls his hips against me.

He straightens back up, picking up his thrusts again. His arm spans over my whole body, the muscled limb covering half of me. I feel so small compared to him, the contrast so stark when I'm splayed out like this in front of him.

His hand moves down a bit and his thumb pushes against my lips. I lick it, play with it and then release it with a pop, but just a moment later two of his fingers push into my mouth again.

He sinks in deep, my lips closing around them. Two is almost too much already. I start to lick them, to suck on his fingers, hesitatingly at first, but the little sounds that drop from his lips spur me on.

He moves them in unison with the pushes of his dick into me. The combined touches making me lose my mind fast. It almost was like he was fucking me from the front and back at the same time.

I gag around him, spit coats his digits as I suck them off like I would another part of him. And I guess, he is thinking about that as well, the heat in his gaze intensifying.

The sight mirrored back to me – of his dick pounding into me, while his fingers are fucking my mouth all sloppily, pushing into the wet heat, my lips barely reaching the lettering on his knuckles, is getting me worked up.

From the way he's looking at me, his eyes fixed on my face, while I swallow him up, it's driving him crazy too. Groaning, as I take him deep.

Him, just him, fucking me. And me at his mercy. Full, so full of him. And I can't help but think about what it would be like to have him fill all of my holes. The thought alone sends a tingle of filthy desire down my spine and I hum around him.

"Fuck, look at you, taking me so well.", he drawls. His words, the soft growl in them, wash over me and I can feel the zap of pleasure deep, when he bottoms me out, his dick hitting the right spot again.

I come, my body arching off the sheets, my sighs and screams muffled by the fingers in my mouth, as my eyes roll back.

He doesn't stop, fucking me through it. My pussy squeezes around him, and while I still come down from the orgasm, I can feel his other hand grabbing my hip, holding tight. His fingers still in my mouth, stroking against my tongue. Sinking into my throat, the letters on his knuckles disappearing as he pushes further in, and I gag around them once again.

They leave my mouth, all of a sudden, and I take a deep breath. "Please fuck, I-", he groans. "I want to come in your mouth. May I?" The inflection in his voice is almost pleading.

I nod, the thought alone sending another shiver of arousal through me. “Yes.”, I answer breathlessly, still a little hazy from my orgasm.

He pulls back entirely, his dick slipping out of my pussy. I scramble onto my knees, while he gets up from the bed, standing in front of it.

Getting off the condom quickly, his hand running up and down his length, continuing to chase his release. My spit is still on the two digits that were just inside me, now slowly coating his cock.

I press a soft kiss to the tip that is leaking precum, tasting the saltiness on my tongue. Flicking it over the piercing. My eyes pan up, searching for his, before I take him a little deeper into my mouth. Sucking on his tip while he jerks himself off. Hasty and desperate. A rumbly moan shakes his chest, his eyes rolling back.

"Fuck, gonna cum.", he mutters, the words all breathy.

I hum around his dick, licking and sucking eagerly, when he spills onto my tongue and down my throat. I lick up every single drop, swallowing it all. He shakes and shivers when I don't stop sucking until he's spent.

I release him with pop, when his fingers grip my chin, and open my mouth to show him. "Good fucking girl.", he drawls, the praise washing over me, as I sit back on my knees. He crouches down a bit, his eyebrows raised in anticipation. Like he's waiting for something, but he doesn't say anything.

My cheeks blush red, as I remember what we talked about before. "Thank you, Sir.", I say, looking him straight into his eyes.

His answer is a deep satisfied sound, almost turning into a growl, as he leans forward, capturing my mouth in a kiss. Crawling into bed again, pulling me onto his front, until I’m strewn over him like a blanket that isn’t even big enough for the big man. He’s softly stroking my back, the touches comforting and gentle.

I push my cheek into his pecs, the hairs on his chest tickling the soft skin, and I breathe in his scent. The warm calming tone. I feel his upper body rising and sinking with every single breath of his, until we are in unison. The deep calmness almost carries me away, and I feel myself getting sleepy. I mean, we didn’t get a lot of sleep. And getting fucked liked this was tiring, although not tiresome at all.

In the silence around us, a thought of mine cuts through post-fuck haze.

“I don’t wanna go home.”, I whisper against his chest, after looking for the right words to say.

His hand stops for just a second. “Then don't.”, he answers simply, continuing his soft caresses.

I lift my head from his pec, looking at him. “Are you sure? I don't want to disturb your vacation.”, I ask.

“I'm not on vacation, I'm on leave.”, he explains. “And you're not disturbing anything.” A little reassuring smile is appearing on his lips.

“I didn’t bring much though. Not even like any more clothes.”, I say hesitatingly.

“Would it be terribly selfish of me to put you in my stuff to keep you here?”, he asks, the smile widening a bit.

I laugh. “I fear, I won't fit into any of that. I mean, I think I could build a tent to sleep in from the shirts you wear.”

“That's fair.”, he grins at me, pushing my hair out of my face. And then he kisses me again, sweet and slow, until I sigh against his lips.

“You have to stop kissing me like that.”, I say, teasingly.

His smirk drops from his face. “Why?”, he asks.

“Because it makes me want to sit on your dick again.”, I jokingly confess.

He starts laughing, his whole body shaking. “That can be arranged.”, he grins at me.

“But – we can’t stay in bed the whole weekend.”, I retort.

“We can’t?”, he pipes up, his question somewhere between a pouty joke and sincere query.

I think about it for a second. “Mmh, I don’t know. Might tire you out, old man.”, I tease him, sticking my tongue out at him.

His eyes light up, all of a sudden, I get flipped, the whole world is spinning around me. He is on top of me, his weight presses me down into the mattress. His thighs spread my legs for him, his dick lying over my tummy, already hard again.

He grabs another condom. “If you keep this up, we’re gonna go through the whole packet.”, he jokes, one side of his mouth topping up in a smirk.

“Is that a challenge?”, I ask, caressing down his chest, inching in on his dick, while he is still fiddling with the rubber.

He grabs my wrists and pins them over my head, stretching me out on the mattress, while I grin up at him, splayed out like that.

“If you want it to be…”, he whispers against my face, his lips kissing down to my neck while he pushes inside me.

The mug on the kitchen counter is still half full, the coffee now cold. I take a sip, relishing the milky liquid running down my throat. Sitting here at the kitchen island in just his shirt. The Dark Tranquility one he wore when we first met.

“What are you doing?”, he asks me, utterly confused, as he sees me. He put on his sweatpants again and they are as delicious as they were before. Especially in combination with his naked chest.

“Finishing my coffee.”, I explain, taking another long sip.

“But that’s… cold.”, he says, the disgust palpable.

“Yeah, I like it like that. I drink them lukewarm. At best.”, I explain, with full confidence.

“Woman, you drive me crazy.”, he sighs, then laughs, making himself another coffee. Fresh, hot and black. “One of these days, we’re gonna manage to drink the drinks at the temperature they’re so supposed to be enjoyed at.” The loud noise of the coffee maker cuts through my laughter.

“We can certainly try.”, I say, taking another sip from my blasphemous coffee.

“So, about your stuff.”, he starts, as he leans against the kitchen island. The mug in his hand is looking ridiculously small compared to him. Just like me.

“Yeah, my panties are kinda ruined now, too.” I say and shoot him a pointed look.

“I don’t have any panties that will fit you.”, he says, the corner of his lips quirking up.

“No shit sherlock.”, I remark sarcastically, lifting the shirt that is hanging from my shoulders. That’s almost reaching to my knees. You could fit three of me in there.

“We can go to your apartment, you can look after Mimi and get some clothes, and then come back here. It’s no big deal.”, he suggests.

I sigh. “You sure?”

He nods, just waiting for my answer patiently. While I contemplate if it was okay to stay here for longer.

“Okay, quickly, just to get some stuff.”, I agree.

When we go to leave, I notice that my shoes are neatly lined up, not at all how I left them, when I stormed into the house yesterday evening. Standing just right beside an old pair of his combat boots.

next part: painting his nails or more stuff in the Masterlist ~

#metalhead!könig #she likes the dark #könig #könig cod #könig mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig mw2 #könig fanfiction #cod mw2 smut #könig smut #konig smut #cod smut #könig x reader #tw: age gap

632 notes · View notes

hyypnotix-writes · 1 year

Text

Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ good luck! good bye xx ~

~ Part 1 ~

________________

One night.

One perfect night.

That’s all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

It's not that you haven’t tried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until she wasn’t, of course.

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

You knew even then that you should have.

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

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

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

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

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

It was just one night.

It was one perfect night.

________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

Oh ..maybe she is!

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

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

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

“Do you find every woman attractive?”

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

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

“No. Not once. Why?”

“Never ever?”

“Y/N!”

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

“About women?” She queries.

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

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

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

“Stop doing that!”

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

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

“I need your help.”

“I don’t care!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing. I was just—”

“Thinking about women?”

“No!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why? For a man?”

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

“..and ..was it?”

“Mhmm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N?”

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

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

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

See what I mean? What the hell?

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

Did you?

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

“..we broke up.”

Shit. She would make this all about herself.

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

“I am fine ..I broke up with her.”

“Well, thank fuck for that!”

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

“She was horrible!”

“You could’ve said.”

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going in Spain?”

“Barcelona.”

“Why?”

“Football.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But what if it’s a sign?

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

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

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

“You’re still going with that?”

“Why don’t you believe me?”

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

“I hadn’t met her before.”

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

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

“I don’t mind doing that.”

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

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

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

What’s the worst that can happen?

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

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

Mm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

________________

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grow up and turn around. Just turn around.

It’s her. It has to be her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“….Hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?” She questions.

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhmm.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alexia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh oh!”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She really is very curious.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I really missed you too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just don’t let her burn it!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

________________

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

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

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

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

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

“Long day?” You ask.

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

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

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

“I was given it.”

“By?”

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

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

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

“What do you mean?”

“Going for the best player on the team.”

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

“..What do you mean?”

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

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

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

No.

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

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

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

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

“Who is Alexia Putellas?”

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

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

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

Your Alexia, is Alexia Putellas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She really is absolutely everything.

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

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

“You can’t wear it!”

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

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

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

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

894 notes · View notes

vashs-turtleneck · 3 months

Text

Three Empty Words.

✧ More than friends, less than lovers.

Rating: EXPLICIT (18+ ONLY)

Summary: You love Vash. Does he love you back? It's complicated. Pairing: Vash the Stampede x reader Wc: 1.8k Cw: angst, smut, situationship, penetrative sex, pwp, crying, rough sex. An: trying to get myself back into writing after being gone for a little bit so sorry if this is a little bit messy! Also I don't usually do song recs buuuuut Song Recommendation: Sugar - Sleep Token

Vash is emotional.

He'd probably never outright admit that to you, and he seems awfully intent on keeping you at an arm's length no matter what you do, but you've been around him long enough to notice those rare and faint cracks in that perfect facade. As much as he tries to hide it, you can see it. His eyes are sad and his smile is hollow. He desperately seeks for love in a world where it feels impossible to find, and yet denies himself of it when it's right there, walking alongside him.

But there are some nights, after particularly strenuous travels and when too much venom has been spat his way where that handsome facade finally cracks.

He's vulnerable, and he reaches for you, baring to you his fleeting moments of weakness. Deep down, you know what he's really searching for. Forgiveness, acceptance, love. But now, he seeks you for comfort in any way you're willing to give it to him and as much as you are willing to give him. He wants mercy. At least for the evening.

His will is strong enough that he'll never allow himself to have you, but just weak enough that he can't truly resist you. He yearns for you.

And you're not quite sure how it all started, or how you both got to this point - how you let things get so messy - but damn it you'd be lying if you said you didn't want this in any form. As long as you can have him. Even if it's just physically. Even if it's just for a night.

Sometimes it's loving, with worshipful hands – one smooth and cold, one warm and calloused – tracing your lines with a reverence you have to tell yourself isn't real. With wet lips pressing featherlight kisses along the curves of your neck and down the divot of your collarbone, his mouth wandering a slow, meandering path along your body and meticulously etching out every spot that makes your breath hitch like he's trying to commit it to memory.

It's tender, with languid strokes that have one orgasm flowing into the next, until you're left a pliable, boneless mess beneath him, whimpering his name over and over and your body begging for him to do whatever he wants to you. Luckily for you, you're in good hands. He's here to take care of you, even if it's for his own selfish reasons.

Your name falls off his lips like a plea for forgiveness, kisses oh so tender, drinking your moans like they're the sweetest ambrosia. He roves over your body with intimate familiarity and pulls you apart piece by piece with his fingers, his mouth, his cock, cataloging every inch of your skin before he puts you back together so he can do it all over again, all while whispering a litany of praises and sweet nothings.

“You're so beautiful when you're like this. Always so perfect, mayfly.”

“You're doing so well, feel so good around me.”

“Am I hurting you? Don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart. Just wanna make you feel good.”

“Let me just move your legs like– Yeah, like that. That feels good, right? Just like that. Now I can fuck you deeper.”

“You like me filling you with my cock like this, mayfly? You take me so well. So perfectly.”

“You're so pretty like this. All flushed and delicate.”

“Not so fast, angel. Wanna make this last. Wanna savour you.”

“So beautiful when you come. I could watch you for hours.”

“I love you.”

Sweet, beautiful, angelic, the words dripping from his lips like syrup. You hold on to them while you can, because you know they'll be gone come morning.

You wish he'd let you in. You wish he'd truly open up to you and not only seek you out when he's desperate. Fuck, you love him. You see him at his most vulnerable moments, you hold him close when he lets you, and you let him take pleasure in your body as he needs because you love him, all sides of him.

But, Vash is also angry, and that's a side of him he keeps hidden even in his most delicate moments.

Sometimes, those feelings he keeps buried deep bubble up. When he's completely run out of those briefly lucky moments and he's forced to face the darkest, sickest sides of what humanity has to offer and he's made to question what it's all even for.

Sometimes it's almost selfish, possessive, with him wordlessly cornering you and his large frame caging you in against the nearest surface, strategically leaning his arm up on the wall next to your head so that you have nowhere else to run off to, nothing else to look at, only him - wholly commanding your attention with sapphire eyes begging for something he knows you can give him. He needs a reminder, and you're far too swooped up in the typhoon to deny him.

It's impatient, with his flesh and bone hand holding your hip in a bruising grip while cool metal keeps your face forcefully pressed down into the dusty sheets. You wouldn't be able to cry out for him to stop even if you wanted to as he steals your breath away every time his scarred hips slam against the softness of your ass, your desperation making itself obvious to him in the form of the slickness pouring from between your thighs. He has your mind swirling under his ruthless onslaught of pleasure as he takes full advantage of each and every one of your lewdest weaknesses. He knows exactly where to touch, where to taste, where to tease, where to bite, red marks littering your pretty neck that'll bloom into faint purples and blues come morning. The dingy walls echo with the wet sounds of flesh connecting as he starts greedily chasing his own pleasure with every rolling buck of his stuttering hips, your name spilling from his lips like a curse, fucking you like it's another sin for him to bare.

“Take it. Take all of it, mayfly. I know you can.”

“Spread your legs wider. Wider.”

“Look at you. Such a mess.”

“Gonna fuck you dumb, make sure you don't know which way is up or down when I'm done with you. Until the only thing you know is me.”

“Say my name.”

“Say it louder.”

“Touch yourself. Wanna watch you cream on my cock.”

“That's it. Fuck– That's it.”

“So fucking pretty when you fall apart.”

“Come for me. Come for me now.”

“Such a good little thing for me. Nobody else gets to touch you like this, make you moan like this, fill you up like this.”

“Tell me it's all for me. Tell me it's all mine.”

“Look at me.”

“Let me see you break.”

And when his breaths calm and his pleasure filled haze fades, when that fleeting moment of rapture dissipates, the guilt comes flooding back, leaving him faced with where he is, what he's done, and worst of all, who he's done it all with.

No matter how it goes, it always ends the same way, with him whispering his broken apologies as streams of tears pour from those ethereal pools of azure.

“I'm sorry.”

“I'm so sorry, mayfly.”

“I'm so sorry.”

It doesn't matter how many times you try to comfort him, how many times you tell him that you want this, or that you want him. Your sweet and gentle words do nothing to ease the ache he feels in his chest. If anything, you're making it worse.

“I don't deserve this. Any of this.”

“Especially not you.”

“Never you.”

He always stays close to you for the night. He sobs and lets his tears fall on the skin where your neck meets your shoulder, brokenly weeping his regrets, begging you for forgiveness. He cries until the exhaustion seeps into his bones and pulls him into a deep sleep, his tears still staining his cheeks and his limbs still tangled with yours.

You wrap your arms around him and keep him pressed to you, savouring the soothing heat of his body on your skin, the feeling of his breath on your neck, the peaceful tempo of his inhales and exhales. Your thumbs brush away any remaining tears, your fingers ghosting over his sun-kissed skin, dancing over the curve of his jaw, the highs of his cheekbones, over that cute little mole, down along the bridge of his nose until you're tracing over those slightly parted lips. You keep him close while you still have him, holding on to these fleeting moments of intimacy you get to indulge in. Like always, it'll be gone come morning.

It never goes into the morning.

No, when the morning light spills through the curtains and when the suns rise, you both pretend none of it ever happened. He rolls off of you and walks off towards the shower without a word. His tear-stained eyes are still puffy and red, but they don't even look at you. He keeps quiet, and when you're both cleansed of any evidence of your passionate evening together, he gives you that lovely, empty smile that you've grown to recognize.

It hurts every fucking time you see it.

You wander through empty desert together, making small talk, just like friends do. Never do you discuss what's happened, what you two are, what you feel.

Once again, you're kept at an arm's length.

Until the next night, or maybe it'll be the night after, when he's suddenly hugging you from behind with his breath on the column of your throat, whining and apologizing as he begs for you.

“I'm sorry. I know I don't deserve it, don't deserve you, but just… please. You're the only one I can trust with this.”

“Please, mayfly. I need you. I'm sorry.”

Sometimes, he waits until the marks he left on you have faded. Maybe it's so he can mark you up again, pretend like any and every part of you belongs to him and give in to that satisfaction he gets from knowing he's the one who does this to you, that he's the one who leaves you writhing and moaning and begging on soiled sheets for any ounce of his touch.

Or maybe it's so he can admire every inch of your divine, unclaimed flesh, and he can pretend he was never selfish enough to try to mark you to begin with. He can pretend that he was never so foolish as to believe he could touch the holy body that is you with his blightful and wicked hands.

And he can pretend that those three beautiful words never fell from his perfect lips.

divider source.

#trigun #vash the stampede #trigun stampede #trigun maximum #vash #vash x reader #vash x you #vash x you smut #vash x reader smut #vash smut #vash the stampede x you #vash the stampede x reader smut #vash the stampede x reader #vash the stampede smut #vash the stampede x you smut #trigun smut #pipwrites

203 notes · View notes

declareqenius · 7 months

Text

stitched up

warnings: blood, stitches

summary: you were sent on a mission with your father, tony stark, but something went wrong with the new prototype, resulting in you being injured. wanda needs the closeness and the confirmation that you’re right in front of her, but natasha’s emotions nearly get the better of her.

a/n: this is not how i wanted to end this originally, but i’m having some writer’s block and just wanted to post something again. i may do a part two but it depends on if y’all would like to see a part two or not!

“If your arm wasn’t bleeding this much, and if my mind and heart didn’t ache every time I glanced away from you, your father would be hanging from the ceiling by his ankles.”

Of course, leave it to your girlfriend to say something so poetic, yet so vulgar, in a semi-serious situation.

Wanda’s arms are crossed as she worriedly checks over the rest of your body, trying to keep herself from peeking at the gushing blood coming from your shoulder. The only thing that holds her back from storming down the hallway in search of your father is her need to see that you’re going to be okay. Meaning she has to sit there and watch on as Bruce slowly stitches the gash shut.

“We both know you would do so much worse than that, Wands.” You try to mask your slight wince with a cheeky grin, but of course your girlfriend notices.

“You’re right. I think I’ll let Natasha have her fun first.” She makes it sound like a joke, however you both know it’s far from such a thing.

Wanda’s eyebrows are still tightly furrowed together, her eyes constantly checking over you as if the second she looks away some new injury will magically appear. Even though you’re the one covered in blood with the stitching needle in their arm, you can’t help but want to comfort her.

“Hey, love,” you gently place your first finger under her chin and guide her head until her eyes meet yours, “I’m alright. It’s okay.”

She searches deeply within your eyes, and it’s a miracle you maintain eye contact with her. The sheer build up of love, worry, and warmth you find within her soft green irises takes you aback.

“It shouldn’t have happened.”

She says it so firmly. The sentence is so contradictory to the emotions she showed you seconds ago. The feelings she only allows you and Natasha- your other, probably furious, redheaded girlfriend- to read and memorize, to know like the back of your hands.

Her Sokovian accent is thick, which only happens when she’s scared, angry, or safe. And, right now with Bruce in the room, you know it’s a combination of the first two.

“You’re right, as always,” you give her a smile, which she mirrors, and you stow the memory away as a small victory. “But it did happen. And there’s nothing we can do about it now except let Bruce stitch me up, okay? I’ll be good as new afterwards. Right, Bruce?”

Your eyes don’t leave Wanda’s because you know looking at Bruce will somehow make the stitching process hurt more.

The man only gives a nod and soft grunt of approval.

“See? Nothing to worry about, my dear.”

“Nothing to worry about, huh?”

A calloused voice cuts through the room. You’re the first to snap your head up and break the heartfelt moment with Wanda. The quick movement causes Bruce to tug the stitches more than intended, and you close your eyes and take in a slow, deep breath. The soft hand soothingly running along your uninjured arm is the only thing keeping you completely grounded at the moment.

“Cause from where I’m standing, detka, it looks like something we should be worried about.”

Once you open your eyes again, they immediately fall upon Natasha, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed and undoubtedly pissed off.

You’re aware her anger isn’t directed at you. You know _why _she’s pissed. Your emotions would most definitely get the better of you if either one of your girlfriends was injured and you couldn’t do anything to prevent it. It would be worse if you could have prevented it.

The certainty of your words and relaying the facts to her wouldn’t calm her down, but you know there’s no calming her down on your part. Not when you’re sitting on a stool injured and had to be carried to the med bay so you wouldn’t bleed to death.

“HYDRA got the jump on us, Nat. We weren’t expecting it and there was nothing that could have been done to ensure our safety. You know that. We had the Iron Man suit and the counteract prototype with us, and that’s it. Dad decided to use the prototype because it was all we had. It malfunctioned and I didn’t have enough time to move out of the way after the HYDRA agent pushed me towards it.”

You’re clear with all of your words and your voice never wavers, nor does your eye contact. Natasha may be the Black Widow, and only a very select group of people could ever talk to her the matter-of-fact way you just did, but sometimes she needs a reminder that things happen no matter how much one tries to prevent them.

“He could have kept you safe. That should have been his priority. You’re his daughter, Y/N. That’s way more important than barging into an intel mission unprepared! With only a prototype, no less. Especially when it puts your life in danger!”

The two of you hold eye contact with each other for a few seconds until you glance away and focus on watching Bruce finalize his stitch-work. Watching the needle thread through your skin makes the pain undeniably worse, but you can’t seem to force yourself to look at your girlfriends.

You don’t see the guilt-ridden regret that crosses Natasha’s features before she looks at the floor beneath her.

Tony wasn’t unprepared for the mission. Neither were you. Both of you surveyed the perimeter twice. Both of you were careful at every corner you turned. HYDRA just happened to outsmart two of the smartest people in the world.

Minutes later and Bruce finishes stitching your left shoulder up. Natasha stands at the door impatiently and Wanda watches her but still makes sure to have some physical contact with you.

“Alright,” Bruce stands from his chair, “twenty-five stitches. No major physical activity for the next two weeks. That includes missions, working out, and... I don’t have to say it. Let’s give the wound time to heal itself, okay?”

You nod and thank him before he takes his leave, passing by a very guilty, annoyed Natasha.

“Natalia, podoydi syuda, pozhaluysta.”

Wanda is the first to speak once Bruce leaves, and you’re grateful she took the initiative. Neither of them like seeing you hurt since both have lost so much in their short lives, but Natasha eats herself up over your injuries. She always thinks she’d be able to do something to prevent them, especially in the field. Wanda’s reactions are slightly more reasonable, but her worry gets the best of her and she often needs physical contact to remind herself you’re still there.

Natasha begrudgingly takes a seat next to Wanda, who immediately holds out her hand to give the former assassin the option of physical contact. Your shorter girlfriend hesitates before she gently take Wanda’s left hand in her right but makes no move to touch you or glance in your direction.

The chairs they sit in are lower than your stool, and part of you finds it funny that you’re the one that’s been placed in that position.

“Moglo byt’ gorazdo khuzhe,” Natasha mutters, staring at her boots and focusing on the way Wanda’s thumb rubs back and forth along the back of her hand.

It could have been much worse.

“Odnako eto bylo ne tak. Ona vse yeshche zdes', i my nuzhny yey pryamo seychas.”

It wasn’t, though. She’s still here and she needs both of us right now.

Wanda’s voice is soothing as she softly speaks to Natasha.

You let them have their moment and offer the Sokovian a small smile when she sends a gentle wink your way.

Both know you don’t understand the conversation. You’ve picked up some basic Russian, words or phrases they say a lot, but when they get into full conversations and larger sentences, all you can do is either pretend you’re busy or sit and watch their facial expressions to gauge the nature of the conversation.

They speak a minute longer and Natasha starts relaxing. Her furrowed brows even out, her drawn lips ease into a relaxed expression, and her eyes- although still holding an ounce of anger- start to glisten. She finds the need within herself to look at you, check you over for any other injuries- although Wanda has done that several times over- and finally, search your beautiful eyes with her own.

“Nat-”

You move to speak, wanting to voice your concerns and reassure both of them you’re okay even though they can see you sitting here in front of them. However, Natasha stands from her seat and takes a step over to you. She keeps her eye contact with you and gently, with a slight nod of confirmation from you, she slots herself between your legs. Her hand comes up to your cheek and she notices a small bruise forming above your eyebrow. It makes her eyes water a little more.

“I’m sorry, muy lyubov. You’re injured and I’ve been acting like a dick. I won’t apologize for wanting to keep you safe, or wanting to make Tony pay for his lack of common sense, but I will apologize for directing my anger toward you. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry, detka.”

“It’s okay, Nat. I forgive you. I understand why you were so angry, I mean, I would be too if you or Wands were in my position. So, I get it, but next time I need you to try and talk to me, okay?”

Natasha nods her confirmation, and you know from the look in her eyes that she’s determined to work on her communication with both you and Wanda.

“Thank you, my love.”

Sometimes you all understand each other in different ways and need each other for different things, but in the end, the three of you fit together like nothing anyone has ever seen. The journey has been long and will continue to be, but none of you would have it any other way.

Natasha’s eyes are still teary, and you can’t help but tilt your head up just enough to catch her lips in a slow, soft kiss. Enough to remind her that she’s forgiven and that you’re not going anywhere. You break apart after a few moments and see Nat’s small smile. It could be better, but you’ll take it for now. However, you notice Wanda getting impatient after having watched you kiss Natasha.

You look over at Wanda with a grin on your face, “Anything you’d like to say, Wands?”

“My turn.”

Wanda gets up from her chair and stands to the left of Natasha. She gently cups your left cheek with her right hand and kisses you much like you did Natasha, except with more fervor- as if she could express gratitude for your life through a kiss. When she pulls away there’s a smile on both of your faces, and her eyes have replaced worry and anger with unconditional love.

It never ceases to amaze you how willingly and openly your girlfriends give themselves to you.

#wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #they're here #i'm trying to get back into writing please go easy on me

347 notes · View notes

bcyhoods · 1 year

Note

could I please request steve and shy!reader and her first time staying the night at his place? lots of timid cuddling and just overall sweetness? I loved your first steeb drabble!

ohemgee yay i’m so glad you liked it!! thank u for for such a cute req, i hope i did it justice🫡 | 1k fluff, gn!reader

You were going crazy, without a doubt. You’ve already finished showering, but you’ve been locked away in his bathroom for 15 minutes. The pep talk you’re giving yourself in the foggy mirror does nothing to calm flutter in your stomach.

“Everything okay, honey?” You hear Steve call from down the corridor.

“Yes—Yeah, I’m okay!” The words are rushed and clumsy as the nickname runs through your head on repeat. And while you’re about to sleep in his room for the first time, it’s too domestic for your racing heart. You hope he doesn’t notice.

Giving yourself one final nod of scarce confidence, you pull open the door and softly let it close behind you. You’re practically walking on the balls of your feet so as not to make any noise.

When you peek into his room, you see the plain of Steve’s back facing toward you. You let your gaze shamelessly trace through the freckles and moles that grace his skin, then to the muscles that tense in his biceps as he fluffs one of his pillows. He’s mumbling to himself as he punches and pulls at the cushion.

Once you push past the door, he turns like he’s a child caught stealing the last cookie from the jar. He’s doe eyed with flushed cheeks and messy hair.

“Hey, there you are,” he sings with a gentle smile.

“Hi.” You timidly wave with a smile just as sweet.

“I was getting worried,” he starts as he meets you by the door, “Started to think you fell in or something.” Steve laughs it off, but there’s a small twitch in his eyebrows that threatens to expose his nerves.

Because while you were in the bathroom, Steve had been giving himself his own encouraging speech. One which also fell quite short, but he was better at concealing it. At least he thinks he is.

Your clammy hand reaches for his, a reassuring effort to soothe both your worries. “No search party necessary. I’m still standing,” you reply softly. He releases a hefty exhale — a mixture of a shaky laugh and a sigh of relief — and gives your hand a small squeeze.

“I’ll be right back. You can sleep on either side, I don’t mind.”

He’s quick to jog out, leaving you to roam every inch of his bedroom.

You’ve been in Steve’s room countless times before, you probably have every trinket and frame committed to memory. But every detail has somehow become more intimate since the last time you’ve visited. Every knick knack is a window into Steve Harrington’s being and by tomorrow morning, you’d become even more familiar. The thought only further warms your chest once your eyes land on an old love note you’d given him, preserved in a framed picture of you right on his bedside table.

By the time he returns, you’re already under the covers with a cheesy smile and patting the empty space next to you.

He uses some sort of excuse so that he can keep a dim nightlight on: Just so you can see everything in case you need to get up in the middle of the night. And Steve Harrington doesn’t have a secret aversion to the dark.

No, Steve Harrington is a romantic, and he just really wants to see your pretty face.

“Are you okay?” He whispers as he settles beside you. He moves to bring the blanket up to your chin and traces the underside of your jaw with his knuckle.

“Yes, I’m okay, Stevie.” You giggle at his concerned expression and reach up to smooth out the wrinkle in his brow before you convince yourself not to.

“Good. Good…just checking.”

And though you’re both laying face to face, sharing the same sheets, he’s entirely too far away for your liking. All you would have to do is extend your arms just a few inches until they reach his shoulders. But really, it’s a few inches too much.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks again lowly, noting the pensive expression on your face.

Your stomach flips and your hand flies to pick at the skin of your lips. Now, you would just need to ask. But it’s so difficult when he’s staring right at you, practically oozing adoration. Now there’s a knot in your mouth where your tongue should be.

“Steve?”

He hums. The knot tightens.

“You don’t have to, but…can you, um—would you want to…” you trail off as the rest of your question dissipates.

“Do you…do you want me to hold you?” He finishes for you. He’s already moving to sit up before you can say ‘please,’ eager to wrap you up in his embrace.

You sit up the slightest bit so that he’s able to slither his arm underneath your head. He’s laying on his back while you’re curled into his side. You rest on his bicep, legs tangled with his own and an arm around his middle as you play with the fingers of his other hand.

“Is this okay? Am I hurting you?” You turn slightly so that you’re peering up at his face, chin resting on his shoulder. It’s an awkward angle and you know it’s going to result in a dull ache in your neck, but you can’t be bothered to care with his lips so close.

“No, no,” he’s quick to rush out, “This feels nice. I like this.”

It’s not until you see his wide smile that you notice the ache in your cheeks thanks to your matching expression. Without giving it a second thought, you push yourself up to kiss him, eliciting a sigh from the boy. It’s lazy, and it doesn’t last for more than a few seconds before you’re drawing back to hide your burning face in his chest.

He pauses to gather his bearings and gives you a kiss to the top of your head. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just asked.”

“Shut up, please.”

#officially jumped on the ‘steve calls you honey’ train #god i need a steve harrington shaped bf #ᝰ cece’s scribbles #✿ convos with cece #steve harrington #steve harrington thots!#steve harrington blurb #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x gender neutral reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things fluff #joe keery

1K notes · View notes

imyourbratzdoll · 4 months

Text

𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍

part 2 of 🌧️welcome to hell🌧️

summary - after catching your husband and best friend, you struggle with the negative thoughts that attack your mind.

warning - mentions of cheating, negative thoughts, self-hate, betrayal.

the gif I use isn't mine, headers by me.

part 1 - part 3

Warnings and Reminders - Please do not plagiarise, copy, repost/republish, adapt, or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third-party sites. The only platforms I post my work on are: Tumblr and Wattpad. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel etc.) All my works are fiction and may be dark or triggering content: READ ALL WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.

Your thoughts were running wild as tears continued rolling down your face, your lip bleeding from all the biting you were doing. You ignored the pain as your teeth dug once again into your bottom lip, you didn’t want him to hear you. You couldn’t confront him right now, your chest felt like it had been stabbed a thousand times and then someone had reached inside, gripping your heart, and squeezing.

You clutched your hands close to you as you lean forward, mouth falling open into a silent scream, tears rapidly falling before quiet sobs escape and your hands move to grip the sheets. Him fucking her kept replaying on repeat, like a broken record. Your head tilted back as you continued to cry, vision blurry as tears filled them and you stared up at the ceiling. Questions continued to intrude your mind alongside the image of them.

Why weren’t you good enough?

Why did they do this?

Was this the first time?

Could you have done better to stop this from happening?

Maybe if you were prettier than her, he wouldn’t have cheated.

Your thoughts continue to attack you and you quickly pull the blanket to your mouth as you sob into it, clenching your eyes shut, more tears slipping out from the force and pain. After a few more minutes of crying, you had finally begun to calm down, only a couple more tears slipped from your eyes.

You looked down at your left hand, staring brokenly at your wedding and engagement ring. Did the vows you two spoke mean nothing to him? You played with your rings as you thought back to your wedding day, realising something you probably should’ve on the day.

You were standing there, looking at yourself in the full-length mirror. Your eyes were scanning your wedding dress with a soft smile as you felt like a princess. Your gaze snapped up as the door opened and Sarah stumbled in with a smile, her hair slightly ruffled and her lipstick smudged. She looked up at you and smiled– Looking back at it, the smile didn’t look at all friendly, it leaned more towards it being a smile someone gives you when they know something you don’t, one that seemed almost malicious.

“Sorry, I got a bit caught up.” Sarah bit her lip, moving closer. “Oh! I ran into Johnny on the way back and he looked good. He didn’t seem like he had cold feet or anything.”

You smile, sighing happily. “Yeah?”

She nods, fixing her makeup and hair in the mirror before turning to you. “Yeah, he really seems to love you, Y/n.” When you walked down the aisle, his hair was slightly tousled, and you missed the lipstick stain hidden in the collar of his shirt. You were too blinded on your wedding day, eyes and heart filled with love and dreams. If you weren’t so blind, you would’ve seen the looks the two were giving each other.

You blink out of the memory, realising this whole time it was before your eyes, but you were too blind. You thought Johnny had changed from what everyone knew him as, but he had just found new ways to lie. You crawl to the side of your bed and reach underneath it, pulling out a photo album filled with your wedding photos. Sitting back, you open it and begin to flick through, your eyes narrowed as you search for something, anything. You don’t know if you want to confirm your memory or not, but you couldn’t stop yourself as you continued to flick through every single photo. Analysing every little detail like your life depended on it.

You stopped, your hand slightly shaking as you stared down at one. It was a close up of you and Johnny, your eyes zeroed in on the small stain inside his collar, the colour matching awfully close to the one your best friend was wearing on the day. You flicked to another photo, your breath catching as you notice how close they are in this photo, they had been getting food and you didn’t think much of it. But now, as you stare down at the photo, you realise it wasn’t normal for them to be THAT close, with THAT look on their faces. Their fingers seemed to be brushing and your heart clenched because at this point, you were married. He CHEATED on you on your WEDDING day. He cheated with your BEST FRIEND… She betrayed you… They betrayed you.

You choke up when you remember a conversation you overheard from one of his friends.

“Damn, did you guys see the chick Johnny went home with during his bachelor party last night?!” The guy whistled as if he was imagining the woman. “She was so fucking hot! I think she’s close with Y/n? She’s that one–”

“Yeah, yeah! I know who ya talkin’ about! She’s fuckin’ fine!” Another one of his friends chimed in, “You’re tellin’ me he managed to score her before the big day?!”

“Yeah! Apparently, she’s so good, he’s gonna keep seeing her.” There was a pause. “Which should be easy for him seeing as his soon–to–be wife is close to the woman.”

You didn’t know why you had forgotten that conversation, maybe somewhere deep down you were hoping they were talking about another Johnny, another Y/n, another wedding. It was as though your mind and heart worked together to stop you from being hurt. You wouldn’t have gone through with the wedding if you knew he fucked your best friend at his bacholer party! You would’ve been saved from the hurt from what happened afterwards. You would’ve never caught them, you would’ve never remembered her coming in after doing god knows what with him on your wedding day.

He said he loved you with a knife against your throat. All his words and promises began to feel like nothing, because that was what they were. Nothing. They never had any meaning behind them, the only person who thought they did was you. You had been fooled all this time. You wondered why he still never slept with you after your wedding night. Was he sleeping with her this whole time? You rarely saw her, so they would’ve had to meet up secretly. Was she that much better than you that it caused him to just never want to sleep with you again? Or was it in some twisted way, his way of being faithful to her, even though you held his last name?

You hadn’t realised you had started crying again, still so softly as to not alert the man in the house. Your body began to feel weak and drained, with the last bit of energy you could muster, you slipped the photo album back into place before drifting off into a nightmare filled sleep.

You had woken up ten minutes before Sarah got back, you decided to pretend things were slightly normal for now until you could figure out what to do. You let yourself wake up before heading down to the lounge room, sitting with Johnny, you stare blankly at the game on the screen. The front door opened and from the corner of your eye, you watched as your husband became excited when he heard it. It was strange… Before you never even noticed the smallest things, now it seemed as though everything had enhanced.

Sarah walked into the room, and you watched as her eyes landed on Johnny first before she even noticed you. You watched as her demeanour immediately changed and she flashed you a very fake smile. You returned it, even though your face was fighting against the action. It felt you weren’t even there when she sat close to your husband. You felt like an outsider in your own home, your own marriage. You watched as they acted like this was routine for them, like it was natural. You felt like you weren’t the one married to him. You didn’t know what hurt more.

Your thoughts ran wild as the three of you sat there, watching the screen. Well, you were watching the screen…

What were you going to do?

How were you going to get through this?

Would this be your life if you couldn’t find anywhere to go? Couldn’t find it in yourself to leave?

Would you one day wake to your best friend telling you she’s pregnant, but never mentioning the father. Only for you to know and watch as your husband dotes on his child with another woman.

Would you ever find love again if you left?

Could you even leave?

How long were people expected to leave when they’ve found out their partner is cheating on them? Immediately? Weeks? Months? Years?

Could you really be alone again?

A voice in the back of your mind spoke, criticizing you, questioning you. Did you actually think you mattered to him? Silly silly girl. You mean nothing to him… Just look at them, so perfect together, like they were made for each other. You are just getting in the way. You were so stupid for not seeing it before.

This is your own fault for being so blind.

You were brought out of your thoughts when she stood, sneaking Johnny a look. “I’m gonna head to bed, I’m exhausted.” Her smile stretched so wide as she looked at you, reminding you of the one she gave on your wedding day. “Thank you so much for letting me stay again, Y/n. I’ve missed us being together.” Was that a double meaning behind her words? You couldn’t bring yourself to reply, only nodding with another fake smile.

You watched as your husband watched her walk away, with a look he had never looked at you with. Your heart followed with each step your best friend took. Your gaze moved back to the tv when Johnny turned his attention to you. “Do you think we should head off as well? I’m pretty beat.” He stands and stretches, not even waiting for your response as he is already heading to the bedroom.

You sit there for a minute, your mind filled only with negative thoughts, your eyes and heart heavy.

This was your fault. You weren’t good enough. This is your fault.

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

217 notes · View notes

katszumi · 10 months

Text

“haji?” his name escaped your lips in a whisper.

the lamps from the street lit up the night sky, the stars from above doing it’s best to keep the night awake. still, darkness surrounded the area, only dark figures could be depicted from their eyes.

you could only guess it was close to midnight from the way the moon shone and the cold slap of wind that gushed your way. however, the quick warmth of your face and the rapid throb inside of your chest disregarded the chills.

iwaizumi analyzed you, his eyes wandering your body as if you were a stranger.

“haji, what are you doing here?”

his lips parted, he wanted to answer you, but he wasn’t even sure why he ran to your house at midnight. he just needed to see you.

“my flight is tomorrow.” he announced like you hadn’t known. all of the third years celebrated one final time before his departure, resulting in endless laughter and tears. as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t want to leave japan behind, because you were still here.

“i know. that’s why you should be getting some sleep, you have a long day tomorrow.” you forced yourself to swallow; to eat away the gnawing feelings that were in the back of your throat aching to come out. you didn’t want to put that burden on him, especially at a bad time like this.

iwaizumi dryly chuckled. of course you were trying to care for him, but he could see the wistful look you gave him. he could tell you were tired due to the bags under your eyes, but your eyes were wide with adoration and hope.

he took a step forward, “you’re too kind, you know that?” his words soft. “can i sleep here tonight? i can’t wake up to an empty room, i just can’t.” he rambled.

without hesitation, you widened the door for him to come inside. you knew it probably wasn’t a good idea for him to stay, but, who were you to tell hajime iwaizumi no?

quickly, iwaizumi welcomed the warmth of your home to his body. his eyes traveled the rooms nearby, he took a mental screenshot, because who knew when was the next time he’d be here or if you even still lived here when he’d come back. he wanted to remember as much of you as he could, but he knew the figments of his memory just wasn’t enough.

he followed you to your bedroom, the two of you sitting next to each other on your queen-sized bed. he always loved the size of your bed, it seemed to fit him more than his own bed at home.

“i’m sorry for knocking at your door so late.” he apologized, his eyes finally settling in to the dimly lit room. he could now make out your features that he was so infatuated with.

“don’t worry about it. i’ll always answer the door for you, haji.” and god, he loved the way his name fell from your lips. like you were destined to say only his name only.

iwaizumi sighed, “america is going to suck without you or oikawa there. it’s like i have to start all over again, just without the company of you two.” he confessed.

your hand found his, gently grabbing it and rubbing circles against his rough skin. you could feel the callouses that were starting to form on his palm, most likely from lifting weights.

he allowed you to fiddle with his hands, he found solace in your touch. his eyes closing for the first time tonight.

“you’ll do great in america. you’ll find new friends and new company to keep you busy. who knows, you might even find someone you’re interested in.”

immediately, his eyes flew open, his head turning to face you. haven’t you realized that it was you he was interested in. it was you that won his heart years ago.

“wha—“ you said from his sudden turn, wondering if you said something wrong, but he interrupted you before you could finish.

“i don’t want to do that. i don’t want to find someone i’m ‘interested’ in. it’d be useless anyway.” he murmured the last part.

now your ears piqued at his comment.

“what do you mean it’d be useless?”

he paused. “i’d be searching for you in every girl i’d meet.” iwaizumi declared. “that’s why i’m here, y/n. it crushes my soul that i’m leaving you behind. i want you by my side, i feel empty whenever you’re not.”

you could’ve sworn that you heard a sniffle emit from the male beside you, but you knew not to comment on it, or he’d probably end the conversation right there.

you cupped his cheek with your hand, a half smile forming on your face. only you were able to see this side from him; the affectionate, tender side that no one else have been able to witnessed.

“it breaks my heart you’re leaving me too. but i know you’re destined for great things. but i know you’ll be able to visit and i’ll always be a call away. it hurts me knowing my two soulmates are moving thousands of miles away. but i can’t be selfish, haji. it’s not about me.” you protected your feelings, because you knew if it turned into more, the morning would be too much of a heartbreak.

iwaizumi shook his head. “but i want you to be,” he pleaded. “i don’t want to get on that plane tomorrow morning with regret because i didn’t have enough courage.”

“courage for what?” it was a stupid question. you knew what he meant, but you were so nervous.

“to tell you i love you.” his eyes searched you for any discomfort, the words almost causing him to have a heart attack. iwaizumi knew he was bad with feelings, especially with how he dawned this proposal onto you a night before he leaves for another country.

but if he didn’t tell you now, he wasn’t sure if he would even board the plane tomorrow morning.

disregarding your feelings before, you leaned into his touch, your nose touching his. you could feel his breath hitch, the warmth of him radiating onto you. your free hand cupped the other side of his cheek as you pressed your lips onto his. years of emotions spilled from the delicate kiss you shared, like a river overflowing its bank.

and you two laid there, peppering slow kisses on each other’s faces, wiping the tears that slipped from both of your eyes.

iwaizumi knew more than before that he was so terribly smitten with you, but he wished that his final hours with you weren’t ticking away with a plane ticket to america with his name on it.

—

ahhh there’s nothing like a man who’s bad at expressing feelings till the last minute🤌🏽

#iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi hajime #iwaizumi fluff #iwaizumi smut #haikyuu iwaizumi #iwaizumi x you #hq iwaizumi #iwaizumi angst #hajime iwaizumi #haikyuu x reader #aoba johsai #aoba josai x reader #anime #anime fanfic #haikyuu fanfiction

748 notes · View notes

jadeoru · 2 months

Text

SMUDGED LIPSTICK!

11: fresh start -> prev / mlist / next

now playing: i dont like who i was then - the wonder years 🎶

The uproar of cheering and applause thumped in your head. Your forehead was slick with sweat, and you were still catching your breath as you ran backstage. Your back pressed firmly against the wall, heart beating so loudly you could hear it; adrenaline coursed through your veins. You watched as the rest of the band flooded into the room, smiles spread widely on each of their faces - even tsukishima’s. Nishinoya was jumping so much so you worried he would take flight. Excitement surged through the room, it was moments like these in which you found yourself appreciating all of the effort you put in to reach this point. All of the shows that went wrong: when you got booed, when you got into fights, when there were tech problems that ultimately ruined the entire show, when your nervousness found a home inside of you, feeding off of your doubts; shaking your hands, and trembling your voice. All of those humiliating, daunting moments you faced together. Everything had to go wrong for the present to feel so right. You were exactly where you belonged.

“Oh my god did you see the crowd? They went fucking insane!” Nishinoya practically yelled, arms flailing around as if they were fueled by raw excitement. Everyone nodded their heads exhilaratingly. “Holy fuck guys, we killed it!” you ran your fingers through your hair, wiping the sweat off of your forehead. All eyes turned to you as everyone smiled. With a shout of your name, your friends began to drown each other with their praise. Kiyoko’s voice boomed through your ears, “Yn, your stage presence is absolutely captivating - We’re so lucky to have you in the band! Without you the crowd would probably be asleep!” placing her bass safely against the wall, she walked up towards you and pulled you into her arms. You smiled so hard your cheeks began to ache, leaning into her warm touch. “Don’t say stuff like that. You’re gonna make me cry, Shimizu. Oh my god I love you so much. You're the best damn bass player I've ever seen.” you laughed, squeezing her tightly one last time before pulling away. She simply kept smiling, before turning back to the other members, and continuing her words of admiration towards them. You stayed with the others for a good while, spewing your affection to them insistently, before taking a deep breath in.

“Guys. I think I'm gonna go find Sakusa.”

Despite being 6-foot-something and undeniably the sexiest man in the bar, finding him proved to be impossible. Your eyes searched the whole building. Every time you thought you were getting close, all you were met with were traces of him: a white surgical mask stuck to the sticky floor, a half empty bottle of hand sanitiser abandoned on a somehow even stickier table. All you could find was proof of your clean freak ex-best friend’s presence, but not the actual man himself. Frustrated, and growing tired, you got yourself a vodka cranberry and stood awkwardly in the corner of the room. Maybe he’d find you instead?

After a few minutes of wallowing in regret and reminiscence of your memories, your hopes of seeing him again were quickly discarded as a group of people approached you. They looked at you with metaphorical fangs bared, and eyes filled with envy. Oh fuck.

“Hey, ‘yer the girl that was singing on that stage, right?” one of them called out. He was tall and lanky, with messy hair and a drunken slur in his voice. the rest of them snickered from behind him. He must’ve been the ‘leader’ of the group. You straightened your back defensively, trying to seem taller; more intimidating. “And what if I am?” your eyes flicked to the people behind him, who laughed.

“It’d be a shame. Yer way too pretty to be singing stuff like that. Enough of that emo bullshit.” you scowled, rolling your eyes. Was this guy serious? “I’ll sing whatever the fuck I want, asshole.” your lips curved downwards, trembling slightly with brewing anger. He smiled at you sinisterly.

“You’ll never get a husband with that attitude, doll. Men aren’t into that edgy style ya know?” he spoke in a patronising tone that you couldn’t bear.

“Am I supposed to care what dickless men like you think of me?” you knew you shouldn’t be speaking to him like this, you knew that it would only make the situation worse. but, you were way too stressed out to deal with this maturely. If he wanted to start a fight, then you’d finish it.

“You should - Just look at you! You’d be so much prettier without that black shit all over yer face. And the screamo music? Are ya tryin’ to look like a weirdo?” Did he seriously come up to you just to say pointless bullshit like this? Your fists clenched with anger, jaw clenched as you looked at the group of men with all the hatred you could muster up. “Suck my dick.” you spoke through gritted teeth. His eyes widened with shock, surprise quickly being replaced by offence. “‘Scuse me?” he asked, but you both knew he heard you well. The rest of his group looked at each other with a sinister expression, as if they knew what would happen next. You took a step forward, not caring if your boot stomped on his foot in the process. “I said,” you poked a finger at his chest hardly, enunciating each word with a rough poke. “Suck. my. Dick.” you spat at him. Muttering a low ‘you bitch’, he grabbed your hand and squeezed it tightly, almost in an attempt to break the bone. “Yer gonna fuckin’ regret that - you bitch. I’m gonna fuckin ki-” His words were quickly cut off as he was pulled backwards by the back of his shirt. He turned around, eyes widening in fear as he stared at the man now in front of him.

Staring at this man with pure disdain was none other than Sakusa motherfucking Kiyoomi. And he was pissed.

“Leave her the fuck alone.” he pulled him back harsher, causing him to stumble over, nearly falling. His words shot out like bullets, laced with venom that tasted like pure hatred. The man quickly stuttered out his apologies, aware of how much weaker he was in comparison to him. “Hey man- it was just a joke! We were just playin’ around!” you almost wanted to laugh at how pathetic the man looked now, if not for being frozen in complete shock. “Yeah? Well it’s my turn to play around then.” he spoke with the ghost of a smirk on his face. You could see the way his fist was clenched, his knuckles were white as he held onto the fabric of his shirt. Without warning, he raised his hand, and punched him in the gut. As he leaned over in pain, grunting dramatically, Sakusa took this as the perfect opportunity to push him, slamming the man down to the ground. The people around you quickly processed what was happening, and tried to avenge their fallen friend. They circled you and Sakusa with the look of pure evil displaying on their features. Before they could get their hands on him, Sakusa grabbed you by the arm, and dragged you to the back of the bar, leading you outside.

The cold night air pricked at your shoulders, as you stared at the man in front of you. “Holy shit, Sakusa..” you muttered, still in disbelief from what just unfolded in front of you. He took a step towards you, and with a fast beating heart, you took a step back. Your back pressed against the wall as you stared up at him. He scanned your face for any sign of injury, before whispering, “Are you okay?” In stark contrast to a few minutes ago, his voice was much softer now - much like his gaze. You nodded your head shyly, scared that if you spoke up now, you’d accidentally let out all of your emotions. You’d be damned if you didn’t think he was hot as fuck back then. You’d never forgive yourself if you accidentally told him that. He hummed at your response, eyes flicking to the door to make sure you were alone.

“Are you ready to listen to me now?” he asked, trying to sound calm, but there was no denying the desperation in his voice. You struggled to suppress the smile that crept onto your face. “What if I say no?” he leaned in closer to you, almost enough to feel your breath on his face.

“Then i'll keep waiting”

You smiled at him. You smiled at him for the first time in forever. He treasured the sight with every ounce of his being. You were just as beautiful as you were the day you left him. He couldn’t help but smile back, albeit significantly smaller. “Will you keep annoying me about this?” you asked, crossing your arms, your smile shifting into a playful smirk. “Of course I will.” he said, blunt as ever. You chuckled. “Then fine. Talk to me.”

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before he began speaking. “Look. About… then - I…” he paused for a moment, searching for the right words to say. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for the things I said to you - For what I did to you. I know that saying sorry isn’t enough to repair the pain I put you through but I swear I’ll do anything to make it up to you. And I know i sound fucking pathetic right now but I just need you to know how much I regret everything that’s happened between us.” The way he spoke was the exact opposite of how he normally was: messy, frantic, unprepared and, of course, pathetic. He wasn’t sure how long he was talking for, in all honesty he wasn't sure how to stop. He explained everything to you, not leaving out even a fraction of how he had felt or what was going through his mind. You had to do a few double takes to make sure this was still the same Sakusa you had known before. For once, you thanked his blunt honesty. He rambled on and on, only stopping to catch his breath. When he finally stopped, you could see the embarrassment that shadowed his eyes. It was evident that his mind was beating him up for talking so much. A moment of silence hung around you. You struggled to fill it.

You looked at the ground, taking in his words. “Sakusa.. I-” A few seconds passed by. “I was not expecting that.” you said with a nervous chuckle. He let out a quiet groan of shame, looking away from you. He was adorable. You took a moment to put your next sentence together, processing every word of his apology. With a shaky sigh, your eyes met his again. He prepared himself to face your anger, bracing himself to hear the insults you would inevitably sling at him. He didn’t doubt for a second that he deserved it. But they never came. “Thanks for… all of that.” you laughed awkwardly, “I mean it. You have no idea how much I needed to hear those words from you. I don’t think it’s possible for me to keep being mad at you after hearing all of that.” you smiled at him again, tongue between your teeth. You swallowed, before continuing, “I’m sorry too. I should’ve let you explain yourself sooner. I was just so angry! I mean- you left out of fucking nowhere, y’know? I was so pissed off I couldn't stand to look at you, because I knew I'd forgive you immediately. It sounds stupid now that I’m saying it out loud…” you paused, looking into his eyes. “I’m so sorr-” he cut you off,

“Don’t say that. You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” His voice was low, truthful. Another beat of silence passed, before he started talking again. “Do you want to forgive me yet?” he asked, not doing anything to mask the pleading look on his face. His heart was racing, and he wasn’t sure whether it was nervousness or anticipation. Honestly, it was both. The thought of not forgiving him hadn’t crossed your mind once. You’ve waited way too long for this moment. With a smile, you pointed your finger to him.

“I forgive you. But, we won’t go right back to being friends. You have to earn that, okay?” your harsh words contradicted the happy expression on your face. He smiled wider than you’d seen in a while.

“Understood.”

Without saying another word, you pulled him into your arms; hugging him tightly. He stood there for a second, before wrapping his arms around you, resting his head on top of yours. He relished in the warmth of your embrace. God, he missed this.

“Thanks for giving me a chance.”

extra:

i have nothing to say except for how happy i am to get this chapter out god bless 🙏🙏THEY ARENT BEEFING ANYMORE!!!! HOORAY!!

TAGLIST: @gojoed @anianurst @itsdragonius @sleepy-writer84 @yuminako @wolffmaiden @tenjikusstuff4 @juie13 @ilyless @arachnoia @choizzn @3lectraheart @sugarrhiccupp @bbybibi @diorzs @le000xxgrd @aboveasphodel @petrus1989 @aria-in-wonderland @walllflowerrrsss @wave2mia @loveelylacey @marimisses @alpha-mommy69 @thepurpleempath @theauthorunicorn @v1oletfury @iluvmang @slashkxe @theycallmenanamisgirl @dailyakira @loverlunaire @iovetooru @ryukumi @soupofmushrooms

reply to be added ^__^

160 notes · View notes

sparkle-fiend · 2 years

Text

Eddie is six years old, the first time he hears the voice.

It wakes him with a jolt – sends him tearing through the house, searching under every bed and behind every door for the boy he hears calling his name.

Mama finally stops him. “Sweetheart, what did you lose this time?” (Eddie is always losing things.) She looks impatient, standing with a laundry basket balanced on one cocked hip, curly hair spilling out of the messy bun on top of her head.

“I heard somebody saying my name! I gotta find him, I think he’s hiding.”

Mama’s whole attitude changes, all at once. She sets the laundry aside and drops to her knees in front of him, squeezing his little hands between her own. “Oh baby. That voice means you’ve got a soulmate!”

She smiles bright as the suncatcher hanging in the window, and presses sloppy kisses all over his face until he screams with laughter, squirming to get away.

“My lucky, special boy!”

Eddie’s never been lucky before. It’s exciting.

———

In school, they learn all about soulmates. About how rare they are. Uncle Wayne is the only other person Eddie knows that has one.

When he found out about Uncle Wayne’s soulmate, Eddie was so excited – bubbling full of questions, like a bottle of fizzy pop. But whenever he tried to talk about it, his dad got real mad.

“You keep your mouth shut about soulmates,” he said. “Don’t talk about that shit in front of your uncle.”

It’s hard. Eddie starts staying over at Uncle Wayne’s trailer more and more when Mama gets sick. And Eddie’s never been good at following rules; especially when he’s curious about something.

“Uncle Wayne?” Eddie finally asks one day. “Where’s your soulmate? How come I’ve never seen her?” You have met her right? is what Eddie’s really asking. He can’t imagine waiting until he’s as old as Uncle Wayne to find his soulmate.

His uncle goes sort of brittle, tensing up like every joint is made of glass. His lips press together behind his beard, and his denim blue eyes go shiny and wet – like he’s trying not to cry.

If Eddie could take the question back, he would. Suck it right back into his mouth, like the smoke from his uncle’s cigarettes. This is why you gotta listen better baby – that’s what his Mama would probably say.

“My Lorretta died a few years ago. Before you were born.”

Eddie never considered that. In all the movies, soulmates die together. The thought of it leaves a queasy feeling squirming through his stomach.

“I still hear her though,” Uncle Wayne says, with a terribly soft look in his eyes. “Still hear her singing our song.”

“Like a memory?” Eddie whispers.

His uncle shakes his head. “Time don’t matter for soulmates – no more than distance. I can hear her still, across the years.”

Like a ghost, his uncle doesn’t say. A ghost that will haunt him forever. None of the dry textbooks in school ever mentioned that part.

It starts to worry Eddie. As he gets older, his soulmate’s voice starts to get clearer. He always hears the same thing – a desperate, grown-up voice screaming at him to “Run Eddie! RUN!!!”

It must be from the future. But his soulmate sounds so scared. What could possibly happen, to make his soulmate sound like that?

Eddie starts to listen to music more. Loud, heavy stuff to drown out the frightened voice.

Late at night, he curls up under the covers and softly sings his Mama’s favorite song – hoping that somewhere, somewhen, his soulmate will hear him.

That it might help, the way it helps Eddie when Mama sings him to sleep.

———

Eddie is twelve years old, the first time he really listens to the voice.

Mama's been dead two years, and his dad keeps pulling riskier and riskier jobs. Tonight, he's decided to try and break into the pawn shop on Fifth street.

Eddie is the lookout, stationed on the opposite corner with a pistol weighing heavy in the pocket of his coat (just in case, Ed).

He doesn't want to be here. He tried to argue with his dad. Said, "I've got a test tomorrow. I've got homework and..." and I hate this life. (He doesn't say that part.) I don't want to steal cars or break into buildings or mug people. I don't want to be like you.

His dad just gripped him by the arm hard enough to bruise, and said, "You like to eat, dont'cha? Well, lookouts get to eat. Lazy little shits don't."

So Eddie is standing on a street corner in the middle of the night, watching his dad furtively attempt to pick the lock on the front door of the pawn shop, when a cop car slows down at the end of the street.

Fear floods his bloodstream so fast it leaves him dizzy. The cop has clearly noticed something. Eddie can see the shadowed figure inside the car reach for his radio.

Eddie has two choices.

He could pull the pistol out of his pocket and fire a few shots down the street, forcing the cop to take cover long enough for his dad to get away (which is what his dad would expect him to do). Or he could...

"Run!"

The sudden loud voice, echoing between his ears and behind his eyes and inside his heart, startles him into flinching.

"Run Eddie, RUN!!!" His body obeys before his brain has a chance to process the words. He's halfway down the street when the siren shrieks to life.

Later, as he sits in the backseat of the social worker's car on the way to his Uncle Wayne, he can't quite believe he did it. He bailed on his dad - left him to get arrested and go to prison. This is Frank Munson's third strike; he'll go away for life this time.

I'm such a coward, Eddie thinks numbly. Such a chicken piece of shit. He digs his ragged nails into the soft flesh of his palms, squeezing hard enough to draw blood.

As if he'd spoken aloud, a soft voice responds, "You're not a coward. You're one of the bravest people I've ever known. Running isn't always a bad thing, okay? Sometimes it's just the smart thing to do."

His soulmate sounds so fierce, so certain. Eddie blinks hard against the hot burn of tears. The smart thing to do.

———

Eddie holds onto those words, like magic talismans. They provide comfort, not just in the immediate days after his dad's arrest, but other times too. Every time he runs away from a bully or a cop or a deal gone bad, Eddie thinks to himself - I'm not a coward. I'm just smart.

It works... until the night he stumbles out of his uncle's trailer, leaving Chrissy Cunningham's broken body on the living room floor. He's so terrified he doesn't have time to think, not until after he's ditched his van and taken shelter in Rick's boathouse. As he leans against the splintered wall and catches his breath, it hits him.

I left her there. What if she was still alive? (She wasn't. She couldn't have been. Not after... not after that.) He grabs fistfuls of hair and tugs until his scalp aches. Wracks his brain trying to figure out what happened, what he could have done to stop it.

He's never felt so ashamed before, not even when his dad was cursing and screaming and calling him a coward through the thick glass of the visitation window.

His soulmate's words whisper in his ears, "...sometimes it's just the smart thing to do," and Eddie pounds on his skull with his fists to drown the voice out. "Not this time," he snarls. I should have done something. I should have tried to save her.

He doesn’t feel smart this time. He feels like a cowardly piece of shit.

His soulmate’s voice falls silent.

Through all the craziness to follow – finding out that monsters are real, running for his life from an angry mob, fighting alongside Steve Harrington in an evil Upside Down version of Hawkins – Eddie doesn’t hear his soulmate again.

Not until he’s staring up at Dustin Henderson, realizing that he can’t run away again. As he hesitates at the bottom of the rope, Dustin calls out nervously, “Eddie, what are you doing?”

“I’m buying more time,” he says. He ignores Dustin’s screams as he cuts the rope and slides the mattress out of the way – making sure the kid can’t follow him.

And then he hears his soulmate say, “Wait, wait a second. Eddie?! Is that you?”

Eddie is twenty years old, the first time he recognizes his soulmates voice.

He pauses at the door of the trailer and squeezes his eyes shut tight. “Hey Stevie.”

“Holy shit, it’s you,” Steve whispers in awe.

It’s the first time they’ve been able to speak to each other like this, responding in real-time. Eddie wishes it could have happened in different circumstances.

“I’m so sorry Steve.”

“Eddie? What are you doing?” Steve sounds alarmed.

Eddie doesn’t answer. He slams his way out of the barricaded trailer and grabs one of the discarded bikes, hoping to lead the swarm of bats away as far as possible.

He makes it halfway across the trailer park before one of the bats knocks him off the bike. He grunts and rolls, gaining his feet quickly. Chest heaving, charged with adrenalin – Eddie hesitates. He could keep running… or he could stand his ground and fight.

Maybe Steve can hear the hitch in his breath in that moment, because the other boy seems to have worked out what’s going on, even from miles away. Steve screams, “No!!! Run Eddie, RUN!!!!”

It’s like the night his dad got arrested. Eddie doesn’t even have time to think - his body reacts to that voice and he runs, worn Reeboks slapping the pavement.

(In another world, Eddie would have turned to face the swarm. In another world, Eddie would have died.)

He’s fast. He’s always been fast. He buys himself a few precious moments, before the bats drag him to the ground. They start to rip through his clothes, through his flesh, and he tries to hold back his screams – he doesn’t want Steve to hear this…

Those extra seconds save his life. It’s bad - but not as bad as it could have been. The bats start to drop from the sky, writhing and shrieking; they’re dying, although Eddie has no idea why. Hopefully, it means Steve and the girls were successful.

He struggles to sit up just as Dustin reaches him, crying and frantic. “Eddie!! Oh my god, are you okay? Jesus, there’s so much blood…” the kid moans.

“Yeah, yep. I’m good,” Eddie pants through gritted teeth. “Help me up okay?”

Dustin insists on binding the worst of his wounds first, using strips of fabric torn from the ghillie suit. The pain makes Eddie want to scream all over again, but he allows it. It is an awful lot of blood.

They lean against each other and limp back to the trailer, where Dustin knots t-shirts and jeans and flannel shirts into the remnants of their rope until it’s long enough to reach the other side again.

Eddie manages to haul himself up the rope and through the gate – and that’s where his strength runs out. The pain of landing on the thin mattress knocks him right out.

———

When Eddie wakes up, he’s in a hospital bed.

Holy shit I’m alive, he thinks. He honestly wasn’t sure he would make it.

He moves gingerly, testing each limb, turning his head against the stinging pull of a bandage along the edge of his jaw.

The room isn’t empty; Eddie apparently has a roommate. He clears his throat and the person in the other bed stirs, turning to look at him.

It’s Steve.

His soulmate.

Eddie feels a funny little swoop of exhilaration in his stomach. “Hey Stevie.”

Steve’s face goes soft at first, like he’s experiencing the same fizzy warmth that Eddie is feeling. Then he blinks, and his brows draw down into a scowl. “What the hell was that, huh? What happened to ‘I’m no hero’?”

Oops.

Eddie tries to make light of the situation. “Maybe I wanted to try it out,” he says flippantly. “Not too sure it suits me though. Think I might stick to being a coward from now on – it’s a lot less painful.”

Steve doesn’t smile. He fixes Eddie with a serious look, hazel eyes blazing in the sallow light of the hospital room. “You listen to me Eddie Munson. You're not a coward. You're one of the bravest people I've ever known. Running isn't always a bad thing, okay? Sometimes it's just the smart thing to do."

Eddie’s breath catches in his throat. Those words – once a gift from the future, now an echo of the past. He never should have ignored them. “Maybe you’re right.”

Steve’s mouth is already open to continue the argument. “I…” he stops, clearly caught off-guard, face scrunched in adorable confusion. “Yeah. Yeah, I am right.”

Steve runs a faintly trembling hand through his hair. The angry expression melts into something gentler, almost unbearably soft. “I’m glad you listened to me in the end, at least.”

Eddie shifts his weight, pressing his cheek into the scratchy hospital pillow so he can keep his eyes on Steve.

He’s so beautiful. Even bloody and bruised, with dirt still smudged along his hairline and dark circles under his eyes – he’s the most beautiful boy Eddie has ever seen. And Eddie almost gave this up – if he’d died in the Upside Down, he would have left Steve alone, with only the echo of Eddie’s voice left to haunt him.

“Yeah,” Eddie says hoarsely, “me too.”

He still feels guilty over Chrissy’s death - he probably always will. But he’s coming to realize that proving himself a hero wouldn’t have been worth the pain his death would have caused.

Eddie’s got a second chance… and he plans to make the most of it.

#steddie #soulmate au #steddie fic #my writing #steve harrington/eddie munson #this is…#I don’t know what this is #a mess maybe #trying to get back into the writing groove

2K notes · View notes

abowlofsourcream · 7 months

Text

⏳💫Congrats, Everyone! You got Memory of Rotting!💫⏳

You will never forget this…

…

You should come to the Favor tree after you’re done, Adventurers…

…

TW: PANIC ATTACKS, WARNING! SHARP!(DAGGER) MENTION, RESTRAINING, AND THEMES OF DISSOCIATION! Please be mindful before reading!

v Afterwards v

*Everyone is acting strange around you, like they know something you don’t…

*They probably do…

*You feel a bit off today, it would be okay if they were annoyed.

*Real sleepy too, which is weird because you definitely remember sleeping a lot the night before!

*And your stomach is killing you, but you don’t want to ask Bonnie for more snacks. That would be selfish of you.

*But that doesn’t matter anymore!

*You beat the king and now you are walking to meet The Head HouseMaiden!

*You’ll be home free!

*You reach the last room, where the Head HouseMaiden greets you…

*She tells all of you how grateful she was to them.

*Man this is great!

*…

*Why is everyone so quiet?

*She gives you time to talk to the others before she blesses you to move on!

*To go back your separate ways!

*To go back… Home…

*…

*… Huh.

*You talk with the other’s, and…

*Yep, they are totally acting weird…

*Isabeau was being extra weird, more than he usually was…

“You Okay, Isa? You’re sweating a lot…”

*Isabeau stammers at your question.

“O-oh! Y-yea! I’m all fine and good, Sif!”

*…

*You would usually find it kinda funny, but it was different.

“Okay… I guess I should talk to the Head HouseMaiden now…”

*You turn away, but.

“W-wait! Before you do that! I, uh-, need to tell you something!”

*Oh… That makes you feel weird for some reason!

“Um, Sif. Siffarooni. Siffrin! This may sound weird. It’s not bad, not anything bad! But you know now it’s the most perfect time to time!”

*You can see he is looking behind you as he says that…

*Why is he doing that?

“Um, Isa? Is this about that thing you said?”

*He looks at you confused.

“You know, the thing that you told me you would tell me after we beat the king”

*He blinks.

“I… What?” Did I tell you that?!”

*Oh? He didn’t say that? Has your daydreaming gotten that bad in the past two days?

*Stars, you’re so stupid!

“Siffrin?”

“I’m fine! I should just talk to the-”

*Isa grabs your shoulders.

*Woah!

“Isa?! What-?”

*Isabeau immediately lets go of you.

*He hasn’t touched you like that before, has he?

“Oh Change, I am so sorry! It’s just that you can’t talk to the Head HouseMaiden just… yet.”

*What in the Blinding Stars is going on?

*Why is everyone acting so weird.

“Isabeau, what is going on?! Why are you being so weird?!”

*…

*He isn’t even looking at you…

*What is he looking at?!

*You turn around to see Mirabelle and Bonnie and-

*And…

*The… Head HouseMaiden…

*…

*The things she is saying…

*You heard this before…

*About something going wrong.

*Something being broken.

*Rotting-

*…

*You start to remember things…

“Siffrin?”

*Odile walks up to the two of you.

*She tried to tell you once, didn’t she?

“Sif, what’s wrong?”

*Isabeau voice sounds so gentle… Just like that wonderful night under the stars…

*Your head feels like it’s splitting in two…

*You start to remember a lot.

*You’ve beat the King before!

*You won before, so why are you still all here?

“What is happening? Why are we here, again?”

*You remember your wish- Oh Stars!

*You remember your wish!

*Odile kneeled down to you.

“Siffrin, I am going to need you to breathe for a moment…”

*No! This can’t be it!

*Your…

*Your wish couldn’t have done this!

*You must be still asleep! Yea, that must be it!

*You just need to wake up!

*You.

*Just.

*Need.

*To.

*Wake.

*Up…

“Siffrin, are you listening to me? What is wrong?”

*…

*You feel through your pockets…

*You just need something quick, something shocking enough to make you wake up!

*You just need to find-

*Odile grabs both of your hands.

“Madame?!”

*Isabeau looks confused, not sure what you were looking for.

“Isabeau! Hold him in place while I look for his dagger!”

*No, no, no ,no!

*Isabeau quickly traps you in his arms…

*Odile searches for your dagger.

*SHE CAN’T DO THAT!

*You try your best to keep her away.

*Isabeau is keeping you in place.

“Frin?”

*Bonnie turns to the rest of them, terrified.

*The same way they looked when they were-

*You remember a sickly crunch.

*NO NO NO!

*YOU DIDN’T WANT THIS!

*THIS WASN’T YOUR WISH!

“ODILE, PLEASE! I NEED TO WAKE UP!”

*Odile grabs your dagger and throws to the side of the room!

*You try to squirm your way out of Isabeau’s arms.

*Odile grabs your face.

“SIFFRIN, YOU ARE NOT DREAMING!”

*No!

*No, you have to be!

*Your body feels like it’s trying to kill you…

“PLEASE, I CAN’T DO THIS AGAIN! I CAN’T TALK LISTEN TO HER AGAIN!”

*You never felt so helpless before…

“SIFFRIN-!”

“THIS IS WORSE THAN BEING ALONE! THIS IS WORSE THAN FORGETTING! THIS IS WORSE! THIS IS WORSE!!!”

*You see the Head HouseMaiden cradles Mirabelle’s face, crying!

*no!

*she can’t!

*Mirabelle turns to look at you.

*YOU FEEL A TUG.

*ON.

*YOUR.

*STOMACH!

<<<

*…

*You open your eyes.

*Your head is pounding…

*Your stomach hurts…

*Your whole body aches…

*You look around you.

*…

*Your… Allies are sitting around you…

*They’re watching you, worried…

*Mirabelle scooches close to you, carefully…

*Like you were dangerous…

*She is probably right.

“Siffrin… Do you… Remember what happened?”

*…

“I…”

*…

*You…

*Odile pressed her hand against your head.

“Jem’s, Siffrin you are boiling!”

*Oh…

*Isabeau stands up.

“Siffrin, let me take you to the Clock Tower… Can you walk?”

*You try to stand up…

*… You don’t get very far.

*He catches you and picks you up…

*You don’t deserve that…

“Bon Bon, take their hat for them?”

*Bonnie’s nods their head, gently picking up!

“Okay! Let’s go!”

*They all go there way to the clock tower…

*…

“M-mira?”

“…Yes, Siffrin?”

*…

“I’m sorry I screwed everything up…”

“… It’s okay, Siffrin. We’ll figure it out together…”

*…

*Together?

*…

*You hope so…

*But…

*…

*You’re not so sure how much longer you can go…

#in stars and time #isat #isat spoilers #isat au #switch a loop au #isat fanart #isat siffrin #creamie's art

353 notes · View notes

nsharks · 2 years

Text

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part five —other parts

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader words: 3.5k tags: death. blood. zombies of course. lowkey cannibalism implication. reader menstruates. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn't here yet. slow burn. enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I’m really going for the slow burn sorry

The days are difficult to keep track of.

You don’t have a calendar. Instead, you begin making mental markers of events in your head. 29 days since you left your old camp. 22 days since Ghost nearly killed you. 10 days since your face became the potential meal for another human.

10 days since Blue disobeyed her skull-faced father.

He hasn’t sent you away yet. You figure the two of you are in the clear. Still, you have found yourself avoiding his dark stare even more than before.

“Don’t worry,” Blue had told you the second night she came to gently anoint your arm. “I was careful about it. I memorized the way the tube was in the kit, and I’m putting it back exaaaactly the same. I used to sneak some extra Nutella from our storage and Ghost only caught me in the beginning. I’ve gotten better at sneaking past him, okay?”

All you could do was cling to the little piece of trust you shared with her. Ten days later, the memory of it has now congealed into a thick, baby-pink scar, just like the one beneath your ribs. The pain has softened to tenderness. You used your knife to clip off the stitches.

This morning, the usual soft-tailed alarm wakes you up. A bright grin hovers above your head.

“Special day today,” Blue announces. Lazily, you rub your eyes. Yesterday was the first day you managed to kill a deer. You hung the meat up over a fire to smoke it for preservation. For once, the feeling of a stuffed stomach sang you into a deep sleep.

“What?” you ask, blinking away your slumber as you touch a hand over your abdomen. You can still feel where last night’s dinner is nestled.

“It’s my birthday,” she says. Grim flutters over your arm as she sits down beside you. Naturally, your legs move over to allow just the right amount of space for her. You’ve grown used to this guest in your shed.

“Your birthday?” You sit up. “What day is it today?”

“February 19th,” she recites. Of course. Ghost probably keeps track.

Then, her hand slips something into your palm. Something small, hard, and wrapped in plastic. You flicker your gaze to the smuggled good— a little sweet. When you look back at her, she sheepishly reveals to you the other three she has in her pocket.

“I’m only allowed to have four on my birthday,” she explains. “Thought you would want one to celebrate.”

“Thanks.” Your lips etch up at the corner. “Happy birthday.”

Even tiny offerings like this can make you nervous. They aren’t nearly as lucrative or important as antiseptic. In the hall where their bedroom doors and the bathroom are, you’ve spotted a fourth door at the end where they dip in and out for stored food. They have nonperishables. Their rabbits will always breed. Ghost can always hunt. But pharmacies won’t restock their shelves.

Still, you instinctively crane your head forward to peek out the door of your shed, searching for her father’s shadow.

Blue notices.

“He’s making breakfast. Don’t worry.” Then, under her breath, she adds: “Besides... it is mine to give if I want to."

You pop it in your mouth.

“Fuck— wow,” you sputter, and Blue giggles. The sugary taste is even stranger than the fullness in your gut. You can’t remember the last time you ate anything that wasn’t stale, foraged, or killed.

Here in the small shed, the two of you suck on your candies for a quiet moment before breakfast. The pretty snow outside has melted, but the Northern air remains cold and bleak. Bare soil and scattered twigs lay under your boots when you finally head to the cabin.

Despite your fat dinner from the night before, you indulge in an equally heavy breakfast of smoked venison. Your body still has some catching up to do. Ghost and Blue’s breakfast consists of Grim’s sister, apparently. She gives at least three apologies to him for it.

You’re not sure what Ghost manages for Blue’s birthday. You can’t recall how you celebrated that last birthday of yours - the one before the world ended. You never bothered celebrating anymore of them after that even though Paul used to keep his own calendar going. It seemed pointless. When your nephew was still alive, you tried putting effort into his. You’d find a twig for each of his years and stick them in the ground for him to blow the flames off of. You would make a little crown for him out of flowers. It was enough to make his eyes light up, even if only for a day.

But he died at age seven. Then, there were no more birthdays celebrated.

To your surprise, Ghost fishes something out of his pocket after breakfast. Metal that clanks and sings. Car keys.

So it really is a vehicle back there?

“C’mon, kid. Get your coat.”

“She’s coming, too, right?” Blue’s eyes flicker to you as she stands from the table.

Come where?

The masked joints of Ghost’s jaw clench with a spark of irritation. Avoiding him has been easy. He usually doesn’t talk to you, anyway. Your interactions have been kept to asking him for rags and soap to bathe with and him watching you braid Blue’s hair.

But now he gives you a brief stare and mumbles plainly, “Thought we might just put her in the trench while we’re gone.”

An audible, sharp breath floods your ribs.

“He doesn’t mean that,” Blue is quick to assure you with an uneasy smile before she gives him a pointed look. “It is my birthday and I am inviting her, okay?”

This is one where Ghost doesn’t put up a fight.

So it is today that you see what resides under the tarp behind their cabin. Ghost lifts it back to reveal a faded-black pickup truck. Your irritation from the sight only swells when you see that there is a kayak in the truck bed. Another part of his emergency plan, maybe? What doesn't he have?

Ghost opens the door, lowers the front seat, and sends you to the back. Blue gets the passenger side.

As her father wraps around the hood to get in, Blue looks over the seat and chimes, “Cool, huh?” You nod. “It’s only for emergencies, you know. But we go for little drives sometimes so it doesn’t stop working. Right, Ghost?”

He hums a low response as he sits in front of the wheel.

You touch your hands over the cracked leather seat beneath you. The inside smells like faded bourbon and ash. You notice an old cigarette tray in the front. This feels like a snapshot of Ghost’s old life, perhaps the one outside of the military. Maybe whatever version of him used to drive this car actually used his real name and wore an exposed face. Maybe he used to put an infant-version of Blue in a carseat in the back. For the first time, a small wonder of who else could have sat in here with the two of them - the parent that is missing - touches your brain, but you are quick to swallow it. That history isn’t worth the risk that could come from asking about it.

The engine awakens with a few coughs and you notice that the reader on the dash indicates that the fuel is just below full. What you are finally willing to pry about forms as a question under your breath.

“How did you get all this?”

Dark eyes flick to meet your gaze in the rear-view mirror. Swallowing, you hold his stare for only a moment before Blue is the one to answer you.

“Ghost knew about everything before the rest of the world,” she explains, furrowing her brows. “I thought I told you that already.”

“What?”

“You know,” she waves a hand around, “Military? Special Air Service? He knew.”

You didn’t even think of that. The rest of you knew nothing and suffered. Ghost knew ahead of time and could prepare.

He stops her from continuing by giving a gentle nudge to her shoulder. “Gonna pick out the music or am I doing it?”

You shake away the thoughts. Your ears perk up. Music?

“No.” Blue instantly flies her hands to the glove compartment where a small stash of CDs slips out. “I’m picking! It’s my birthday.”

It is almost dizzying, how unfamiliar this is to you. Adrenaline, hunger, grief— you understand these well. Listening to the CD that Blue pops in the tray as Ghost starts driving? This is weird. You don’t know what it is you feel. Loud drums and sharp guitars fill your ears along with the hum of the truck. The tires slowly snap over twigs on the ground. Blue merrily sings - screams, even - along to the song. Can you remember it? You search through the crevices of your brain. Of course. Nirvana.

It is a short drive.

Ghost’s gloved hand lazily steers the wheel through a routine path in the trees. He must follow the same one every time they do this. Blue rolls down the window and sticks her head out so the light wind can dance with her hair.

She feels safer to look at. She always does. She is the one who wants you here; he probably brought you only because he doesn’t trust you alone at their camp. So your eyes settle on Blue. Your fingers thoughtlessly slip under the sleeve of your shirt and pick at the healed scar on your arm. You watch her beam and act like the child she is. You listen to the music. You don’t know when you will ever get the chance to again.

The drive only lasts two songs. Ghost may have to get the car going a bit, but he is not willing to waste precious fuel. He goes in a few circles before driving to the pond. He helps Blue out. He almost forgets to lower the seat for you. Blue has to remind him with a hissed "Dad" and a tug on his hand.

The pond is quiet and all liquid now. There hasn’t been another growling visitor here since the one Ghost killed. You’re not sure what he did with the corpse of the man, but it was gone shortly after that day.

Ghost lifts Blue up into the truck bed, right next to the kayak. You find a tree stump to sit on a few paces away. He slips out two cans from his pockets— you squint and make out tuna and peaches. They must be favorites of hers saved for her birthday because she eats them all by herself.

“Eleven, huh?” Ghost leans against the side of the truck as she snacks. He pretends you aren’t there. He ruffles her hair. “Big year, kid. Feel different?”

“Not yet,” she says with her mouth full. Her porcelain cheeks flush as she looks at him. “Did you feel different at eleven?”

“Can’t remember,” Ghost mutters lowly, but you can hear him. You try not to look. “Long time ago.”

"Soooo long ago, huh?" she smirks. "Old man."

"Come off it," he says, but amusement hides under the gravel of his voice. "Don't call me that."

"Why?" she pokes further. There is room for it here. He is not scolding. Her voice turns hushed. "Do I have to respect my elders?"

"Bloody fuckin' hell," he groans.

He makes a move to take away her canned peaches. Blue holds it up and scoots away. Ghost could still get it if he wanted. He's not really trying.

You decide to look at the dirt before either of them catches your staring, but when their bickering ceases, Blue points a question in your direction.

“Hey... Do you remember being eleven?”

You lift your head up, suddenly thrown off. You feel two sets of eyes on you now as your brain searches for some answer, knowing well that it is one Ghost will hear.

You can barely remember what Nirvana sounds like. Age eleven? The memories are stored in fragments under all the mud. Your old school. Your sister. Your friends. That house in Norbury. The yard where you stopped playing in the dirt because you suddenly grew interested in boys, instead. You try to fit all the pieces together, but it doesn't feel like you who lived through it all.

“I remember…” you rub one hand over the dry knuckles of the other and fight the brief moisture that threatens your eyes. You are not willing for Ghost to see a tear slip.

“I do remember feeling different.”

That is all you say.

After some more of their banter and the quick drive back to camp, Blue stands up against the tree she likes to play in. You never noticed until now, but there are little knife marks in the bark— five of them. Ghost adds another. It is quite a bit higher than the previous year’s.

Along with her dinner that night, she sucks on the last two of her candies. You try to be present as she talks about the memories from her past five birthdays— all basically the same as today. She doesn’t mention any of the ones from her previous life.

But your mind drifts as you listen.

You keep thinking about Ghost’s truck. You think of all he has— their medicine, changes of clothes, guns and ammo. You don’t have these things. At your old camp, you had the bare necessities. Paul managed to get the most commonly-used antibiotics and some alcohol to clean wounds. But you didn’t have time to grab any of it during your escape.

You don’t know how long you will be here and you don’t know what the future looks like for you, but you know you can’t risk Blue sneaking you more medicine. Ghost might not notice a little ointment missing from a tube, but too much and he will. God forbid you ever need antibiotics. Taking pills from a bottle? He definitely has the exact numbers memorized.

It is not until his cockney accent rumbles low that you are grounded back in the present.

“Want your gift now?”

When Blue eagerly nods, he stands from the table and leaves, only to return with something in his hand covered in a scrap of cloth. Another bout of curiosity finds you. What could he possibly gift her? You watch Blue lift up the cloth to reveal a handmade, wooden figurine.

She exhales a smile. She doesn’t seem too surprised by it but is still elated, taking the gift in her hands and smoothing her finger over the whittled shape.

It’s a squirrel. You can see it better as she looks over it. A squirrel with two circles carved around the eyes. A pair of glasses?

“He’s perfect,” she tells her behemoth of a father, who bends down to her level and strokes her hair.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Just how I imagined him.”

This is the final tradition you learn about today. The wooden squirrel is part of a collection, she explains. You’ve never been inside Blue’s bedroom. You are not allowed, of course. But she shyly admits that she has her own village going on in there and that more wooden residents are added on each birthday and holiday. She seems hesitant to tell you too much about them in the same way she was hesitant for you to hear Ghost call her Baby Blue.

The eleven-year-old brave enough to rebel nibbles her lip as she speaks, clutching her gift.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you find yourself quietly saying, looking between her and Ghost. “We all have things we like to keep to ourselves. You don't have to tell me, you know."

You feel his thick presence, the way he seems to stifle the room even in the lull of these moments where the reality of your stay here can be ignored. You give a small smile, just for her, anyway.

“It sounds cool, though," you add.

She blushes and slips away to put the squirrel in her room.

And then the last piece of Blue’s birthday is not a tradition. Instead, it is all you have to offer to this girl who has your back.

You do her hair.

You try for something a little different this time.

Half-up with two smaller braids that join together.

As usual, dark eyes watch from the couch.

That whole deer feeds you for more than just a week.

Despite this, you decide to go out into the forest and practice your aim. You recall how your failed shot at that man’s head resulted in snarling teeth snapping at your flesh - you want to get better. Each day, a new tree stands victim to your practicing arrows. You have to carve some more of them with the knife Ghost gave you to replace the ones that break from penetrating the tough bark.

You feel like you own more strength now.

A pillow to sleep on, bountiful protein, and properly healed wounds have offered some back to you. You don’t feel so fatigued. Your thoughts seem easier to find. You have a new marker to make the days feel less blurred together— Blue's birthday.

It must be March 1st today, then.

When you decide your practice is done for the afternoon, you make it back to camp. You ask Ghost for a wash rag to clear your skin of the cold sweat that has collected. He is preoccupied with a game of Monopoly with Blue but begrudgingly retrieves one for you. Though, it is thoughtlessly tossed to your face. Blue apologizes on his behalf.

You don’t have it in you to care.

Because today is the first day your gaze doesn't pry away when it finds your reflection in the mirror. The face that stares back at you - the one he threw the rag at - is one you think you can recognize. The cheekbones do not stand as angular and lean. Your lips have some color and fat to them. Not as much as Blue’s rosy pink ones, but some.

It is also the first day that an old friend returns to you. When you glide the damp rag between your thighs, blood collects. Except for this time, it is not incited by a caltrop or knife. You don’t panic with the thought of how it will be patched up and stitched and kept clean. Rather, you almost groan with the realization of what you need to ask of Ghost.

The hunger and stress of fleeing led you to almost forget about it. Your period is definitely weeks late, but now it is here again. Perhaps, another piece of health your body has been given back.

With wet hair and your dirty clothes shucked back on, you find the two of them still on the rug. They have moved on to Battleship.

“Ghost.”

Both of them look at you. Shifting your weight from foot to foot, you dig your nails into your palms.

“I need another rag.”

“What for?” His voice arrives in an edged drawl. “Just bathed, didn’t you?”

“Are you okay?” chimes Blue, frowning. She sits up.

“I’m fine,” you say slowly. “I just need another one.” You meet the clouded eyes you prefer to renounce, set behind the more frightening skull this time. “A dry one.”

Although Blue’s nose remains scrunched in confusion, he seems to understand.

Wordlessly, Ghost finds you another. This rag is not offered to your face. Instead, he murmurs a “here” under his breath and gives it to your hands. In this brief exchange, you detect the familiar heat that is emitted from his brawny form. It is so different from the bucket of cold water you just bathed with.

Despite the enigma and tension, there is some of Ghost you understand. He is willing to give you small things. A rag for your period. A little bit of thread for your stitches. An outdoor shed to sleep in. A pillow and blanket they don’t even use.

What he is not willing to give is anything that he deems too valuable, and anything he decides poses a risk. His trust included.

This is why you must find a way to take care of yourself. So it is today, with your body showing you signs of its regained health, that you decide you finally need to figure out the journey to get supplies of your own.

taglist: @savagemistresss @morganvoorhees @dinsverdika @cated18 @lolszass @jeswiii @all-good-things-have-an-ending @alternatealt @uvoiid @underatreedrinkingtea @ramadiiiisme @crissteetee67 @lexi-zsy09 @spikespiegell @littlezarp @rebel-soldat @4headkissess @mckenzieriley69 @moxxiestar @palomaxaxaxa @msjaeger @galacticstxrdust @anubiseqq @l-0-v-3-r-z @kakashiislut @a-queen-blr @random0lover @hehatesmati @ghost-with-a-teacup @konigbabe

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #fanfiction #zombies

1K notes · View notes