#we can wait another month and i might be on the up but ill be down again so 🤷��♀️

[pilonciillo]

on another note

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[hyprfixate]

a genetic disposition (to loving you) :: [BC x Reader]

read on AO3

summary: seeing chan at the genetic clinic when he told you he was too busy to hang out was one thing. noticing he was now significantly taller than he was a couple weeks ago was another.

learning he's been diagnosed with the werewolf disorder is something different entirely.

pairing: bang chan x reader

tropes: childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, modern werewolf au, no transformations tho, chronically ill reader, reader has EDS (ehlers danlos syndrome), some angst, slight miscommunication trope

smut warning: masturbation (m), handjobs, blink-and-you-miss-it subby chan, voyeurism, pussy eating (x2), no actual ABO dynamics but that's not stopping Chan from calling himself Alpha, dirty talk, lots of begging, standing/wall sex, cumming inside AND cumming outside.

content warning: talks about being in pain, self deprecating talk, anxiety spirals, very brief internalized ableism, panic attack

word count: 21.6k

author's note: if you saw the three different attempts to post this, no you didn't. enjoy! <3

Chan was acting weird.

To be fair, he always acts weird. Weird might actually be his default. But this was a different type of weird– a weird that involved canceling plans last minute and making up flimsy excuses about why. 

Today, he was supposed to accompany you to your doctor's appointment. A simple, low stakes kind of hangout. You looked at your phone with a sigh.

Channie: sorry, can we do a raincheck for our hangout? not to sound like a fuckboy but something came up

Channie: i really am sorry babygirl. i'll make it up to you i promise. please tell me how it goes okay?

You let out a small huff of air. You would love to be annoyed, mad even, but at the end of the day, this is Chan, your best friend since elementary school. The guy who held you through heartbreaks and stressful semesters. The guy who memorized your ridiculously complicated Dunkin order. The guy who dropped everything to stay with you at the hospital a few months ago when things got really bad.

The guy you're secretly in love with.

Okay, maybe that was a minor and insignificant detail in the grand scheme of things. Either way, you can't be mad at Chan. 

You: don't worry channie. i'll be okay. I hope your stuff goes well ok? 

Channie: love u, good luck with your appointment, it's gonna be ok

Right. Your appointment.

You'd been having some increasingly bothersome and worrying symptoms for the better part of 2 years now. It started with a noticeable dull ache in your knees that wouldn't go away, reaching a peak now where there's not a single day you wake up pain free. The doctors were just as stumped as you were, and as sort of a last ditch effort, they sent you to a geneticist in the expensive part of the city. Thank goodness for adequate health insurance.

You were a bit nervous, which is why you asked Chan to come with you, but it wasn't that big of a deal. You've been to specialists before. 

Still, disappointment rises in your chest as you finish pulling your hair away from your face and securing it with a scrunchie before grabbing your essentials and heading out the door. You're more disappointed about the fact that he's not coming instead of what he's not coming to. You're getting a little weary and tired of the excuses and him bailing on plans. 

But then you think about the way his voice sounds when he calls you babygirl, and everything seems right again.

The trip to the geneticist office is long, and by the time you arrive, you feel the exhaustion in every joint. For such a high caliber place, it's decorated just as sterile and modern as you were expecting, with white walls and white furniture. When you go to check in, the receptionist hands you a tablet with various forms pulled up and points you to the waiting room.

You settle into one of the white waiting room chairs, balancing the iPad on your lap as you begin working through the forms. The questions start simple enough - name, date of birth, insurance information. Then they get more involved, diving into your medical history.

Have you experienced any of the following symptoms in the last six months?

The list that follows is daunting - joint pain (obviously), muscle weakness (sometimes), unexplained fatigue (who doesn't have that?), difficulty concentrating (depends on the day). You find yourself checking more boxes than you'd like.

Your mind drifts to Chan again. You wonder what was so important that he had to cancel. Usually, he at least gives you a concrete excuse, even if it's something silly like having to wash his hair or visit his parents. Today's vague "something came up" feels different. Worrying.

Before you can stop yourself, you pull out your phone.

You: this intake paperwork feels like the ending of a medication commercial

You: i’m surprised they haven't asked me if i or a loved one has been diagnosed with mesothelioma

The message stays on delivered for a while, longer than you expect. You give up on staring at your phone and turn your attention back to the paperwork.

After a ridiculous amount of questions and an even more ridiculous amount of signatures, you finish the preliminary stuff, heading back to the receptionist desk to hand her the iPad. She gives you a polite nod and smile and lets you know the nurse will be out in a second, so you can wait in the small chair by the double doors.

You're lost in thought, mindlessly scrolling through your phone when you hear the gentle sound of your name called. The sound makes you look up, tucking your phone away and grabbing your bag. A nurse stands by the double doors, clipboard in hand, wearing deep purple scrubs and a smile that somehow makes the sterile environment feel a little more human.

You push yourself up from the chair, joints starting their songs of protest after sitting still for so long. The nurse offers pleasantries that you respond to with your usual politeness. As you're walking towards the open door, you hear a beep and the whirr of an electronic lock unlocking. The closed side of the door swings open and–

There's Chan.

You both freeze mid-step, eyes wide and locked on each other like this is the first time you're seeing each other in years. It feels like it, but you did just see him last weekend at a mutual friend's birthday party. It was a fun night, but he was acting strange and dodgy then, too.

something came up.

You squint at him, not sure whether confusion or anger is winning the war in you right now. He opens his mouth once, twice– words are failing. The most he can do is let out a shaky, “Babygirl…”

You take that moment to really look at him. His hair is in its natural curly state, but significantly more messy than usual, wisps falling over and around themselves. His eyes are red and bagged heavily, and his shoulders seem like they're scrunching in on themselves. He hasn't looked like this since that night in the hospital with you.

Something is definitely wrong. 

The nurse clears her throat, and you remember you're being waited on. You motion wordlessly towards the nurse and he gives you a shaky nod.  

“I'll, um. I'll text you,” he mumbles weakly, holding the door open for you as you walk past. When you do, you can't help but look up at him, like way, way up. More than you usually do. You almost pause again– are your bone problems making you shrink, or is he somehow taller? Why does he look like that?

It's you who nods shakily this time, forcing yourself to tear your eyes away so you don't bump into a wall. It takes concentrated effort not to look back at him while you walk down the hallway, but somehow you manage.

The nurse brings you to an exam room and tells you to sit tight while she gets the vitals cart. You obey, still dazed and confused and maybe even a little hurt if you allow yourself to really feel it. Your phone buzzes less than a minute later, and you don't even have to guess who it is.

Channie: i'm so sorry.

Channie: i can explain. i promise.

Channie: i just.. i need some time before i can

Channie: im such a fucking idiot. i'm so sorry babygirl. please. 

There are a million and one responses in your head, each with varying levels of confusion or annoyance. But, among the haze, the image of his exhaustion floats back to you, and you find yourself folding.

As usual.

You: breathe, Chan. it's ok. 

You: whatever it is, we'll figure it out, yeah?

You: i do wish you told me but. it's okay. I can wait for an explanation.

Channie: you're so amazing. i don't deserve you. 

Channie: i'll call you when you get out ok? i love u

The nurse comes back with the vitals cart and begins prepping materials before you can respond properly, so you send back a heart and slip your phone into your pocket. When the blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm, you wonder if the nurse will notice how fast your heart is beating – though you're not sure if it's from anxiety or the way Chan's voice cracked when he called you babygirl.

Maybe both.

To his credit, Chan truly does make it up to you, in the form of an extended weekend away at his parents’ cabin upstate. The invitation, or request rather, comes a couple days after the geneticist incident while you're in bed feeling anxious over your test results.

Channie: picking u up thursday night, we're going to my parents’ cabin till monday

Channie: had plans?

If anyone else were to text you like that, you'd balk at their audacity. But because it's Chan, there's a growing heat in your face when you simply reply:

You: no plans. promise you won't bail?

He sends you a picture of his already packed duffel bag and backpack sitting by his door, then another picture of him and his laptop that's clearly pulled up to Google Maps. His eyebrow is raised, sinfully plump lips pulled into a smirk as he points at the screen.

Channie: give me some creditt

Channie: im already packed and the route is already planned

You giggle, feeling the perpetual knot of nerves in your chest loosen. A weekend away with Chan sounds like the perfect thing. It'll be a way to get your mind off the maybes and anxieties from your appointment, and a way to spend time with your best friend. 

A win-win.

You spend the next few days packing and gathering supplies for a weekend at the cabin, which isn't as simple a task as it sounds. Chan is adamant that you worry about nothing except getting your stuff together, so he won't tell you what he has planned or what to pack. After losing many back and forth arguments, you toss a little bit of everything in your small suitcase, leaving your backpack for entertainment and snack purposes.

Thursday creeps up slowly, then all at once. Unfortunately, you wake up to deep pain in almost all of your joints– even your fingers seem to be screaming with every movement. Getting ready takes longer than you want, but you push through, and it isn't long before you're sitting on your living room couch, waiting for Chan to let you know to come out. It was a wonder what large amounts of Ibuprofen could do.

You hear the familiar puttering of his engine before his text even comes through, the soft ding of your phone cutting through your apartment.

Channie: i'm here babygirl

Channie: coming up to help w ur bags 

A warm flutter runs through your chest at his thoughtfulness. You're not sure you'll ever really get used to it. 

You push yourself up from the couch, breath hitching when the movement causes a dull ache to radiate down the length of your legs. You pause, gripping the arm of the couch and squeezing your eyes shut for a moment.

It's fine, you reason with yourself. It's not that bad. You're fine.

You're thankful that you had the foresight to pack a suitcase instead of a duffle, at least this way you'll have something to bear your weight on while you walk.

Your jacket is slipped over one shoulder when you hear the buzz from your doorbell. Chan's smiling face greets you when you open the door, looking both insanely handsome and–

“Am I shrinking, or are you growing?”

He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest, which is somewhat concealed by the oversized sweater he's wearing. You want to scold him for such a light outer layer in the bitter late autumn, but your words get stuck in your throat as you find yourself tilting your head up further than usual to look at him.

And then you give yourself the pleasure of really looking at him.

His hair is its usual wispy, beautiful mess. He cards his fingers through it as he looks at you, smiling as though about to say something, when suddenly his smile drops, his eyebrows furrowed as he stands up straight.

“You're in pain.”

It’s not a question.  He's providing the information to you as fact. You blink in surprise.

“Yes, I am, but how did you–”

"I can–” He cuts himself off, looking uncertain for a moment before shaking his head. "I just know you, babygirl. You're not putting much weight on your left leg, anyway."

Hm. He caught you there.

“How bad is it?”

You finish shrugging on your jacket. “Um, maybe six out of ten. But I took medicine, I should be– Are you sweating?”

It's a stupid question, because he is, and you don't need a verbal response to confirm it. Sweat is beating at his temples and dampening his hair. Something flickers across his face, but then his expression is back to normal again. 

You watch him flip through a million different responses in his mind, but before he settles on one, he spots your bags next to the door and goes to grab them, slinging your backpack over his shoulder with profound ease. He's moving so fast and he's so jittery that you barely get a second to process everything.

“Chan,” you finally say when he whizzes past you again to put your remote back in the organizer. He pauses, back stiffening like he's a little kid again about to be scolded. He turns to you slowly. “Are you okay?”

You watch him take a deep, shuddering breath, his entire body seeming to expand and contract. The unnatural stiffness in his body seems like he's forcing himself to stay still, and you see his finger drumming patterns on his thigh.

You repeat his name, softer this time. “What's wrong?”

He shakes his head a bit too fast. “No, nothing, I–” He runs his fingers through his hair, pausing to grip the roots to ground himself to this moment. It works for a second. “I'm… okay. I can explain everything later babygirl, I just… I really just want to focus on spending time with you.”

There's a raw edge to his voice that makes your chest tighten. You study his face, taking in the exhaustion, the sheen from sweat, the way his eyes won't meet yours. Every instinct screams that something is wrong, but…

“Okay,” you relent with a sigh. It should be embarrassing how easily you fold for him. It should maybe even be studied. “But you promise that you'll explain?”

He deflates, eyes brightening with relief. “I promise. Chris-Cross my heart.” He punctuates his sentence by putting his hand over his chest.

You can't help the smile that takes over your face at that– the reference to the silly rhyme you'd made up when you were kids based on his English name. A bit of the anxiety in your chest loosens. “Now let's go before the traffic gets unbearable.”

You grab your keys and headphones, giving your apartment one last glance over before following Chan out of the door. By the time you finish locking up, he's already halfway to the elevator, his abnormally long legs quickening his pace. As you try to catch up with him, you can't help but notice his stature– how his shoulders seem broad under his sweater, how he just seems… more.

The elevator ride to the parking garage under your apartment building is quiet, but not uncomfortably. Chan is humming something under his breath, his increasingly restless fingers tapping out the rhythm on his leg. Despite all of it, you feel relaxed. No matter what's going on, this is still your Chan, your person. 

He tosses your bags into his trunk with an ease that perks your entire body to attention. When you go to pull open the passenger door, he beats you to it, adding a dramatic flourish as he holds it open for you.

Your heart almost jumps out of your chest.

In the passenger's seat is a small pink box with a label from your favorite bakery, alongside a nice variety of drinks in the cupholder. He's got a pair of fluffy slippers on the mat by your feet, too, and you can see on the dashboard he's turned the seat warmers on.

“Chan,” you breathe. Your heart is doing strange things in your chest, and you're either feeling extremely touched or about to pass out. “You didn't have to–”

“I wanted to.” You turn to look at him, and he's looking away, scratching the hair at the base of his neck. “Felt like an ass, you know, being so distant and weird. Needed to make it up to you.”

It's entirely unfair that he can just… say those things to you. He's your best friend, so of course he's affectionate– that's just how he's been since you met in third grade. What started with bringing extra GoGurts and tying your shoes when you broke your wrist has just now turned into spoiling you with cabin vacations and things you mention offhandedly that you like. 

No biggie.

He nudges you in the car playfully, making some lighthearted joke about him getting too soft on you. You can barely hear him over the thrumming of your heartbeat in your ears, choosing instead to follow his movements in the rear view mirror. You watch as he pauses by the trunk, carding a hand through his hair and taking a big breath, before eventually making his way over to the driver's seat. He tosses his phone to you, effectively putting you on music duty, and then you're on the road in a matter of minutes.

Time with Chan is always easy. You talk about any and everything for the first hour of the drive, including his job, your lack thereof, and your appointment, and he listens to every detail carefully. 

“So, they think it's a collagen issue?”

You nod, wiggling your feet in your new slippers as you shift your position. “They aren't entirely sure, but they're looking at collagen based connective tissue disorders, like Ehlers Danlos and Lupus. They think that could explain the other issues too.”

He looks contemplative as he peers around you to the mirror by your door, trying to merge into the next lane. “Are you scared?”

You shrug, body moving with the car. “Its.. complicated. On the one hand, it would be scary to receive a life changing diagnosis. On the other hand–”

“You're just happy to have answers.”

You nod again, taking a sip of the caramel latte he bought for you and wincing as you shift again. Long drives are always hard, but paired with the changes in the pressure as the two of you drive further into the mountains, your joints feel like they might disintegrate.

“Scale of one to ten?”

You blink. Chan hadn't taken his eyes off the road, so how could he have seen you shifting? You open your mouth, prepared to lie, but he glances at you with a single eyebrow raised. You sigh.

“Maybe a six,” you breathe.

“So the Ibuprofen didn't help?”

“It did, it's just wearing off.”

You put the latte back in the cup holder, using your hands to bear your weight as you try to find a comfy position to sit in. 

“What do you need, babygirl?”

You fight the shiver his voice sends down your spine. “Nothing. Well– I don't know. Maybe a nap? Is that okay?”

“‘Course it is. Here.”

With sinfully dexterous fingers, he reaches across your lap to recline your seat for you. You let him, body going still as his strong forearm helps ease you back with the chair. When you're comfortable, he reaches behind him to the floor of the backseat, fishing around until he produces–

“Is that your couch blanket?”

His answering grin is soft. “The one you've been threatening to steal? Yeah. Maybe.”

He drapes it over you skillfully, with you having to do very minimal adjusting. The familiar, homey smell of his apartment– warmth and something else very distinctly Chan – floods your senses and wraps you in the warmest hug. It feels like coming home.

You adjust yourself again, sleep wanting to come now that you're cozy, but the dull ache in your legs doesn't want to let go. Without warning, Chan's free hand slips under the blanket and finds the knee of the leg that hurts with amazing accuracy. His hand feels blazing hot through the fabric of your sweats as he rubs his thumb in soothing circles. 

“This okay, yeah?” he asks, his low voice a soothing sound to your ears. Words are caught in your throat, so you can only nod, but you don't miss how the pain starts to dissolve by his touch. You also try very hard not to think about how big his hand is on your knee.

“Get some rest, babygirl. I got you.”

The combination of his gentle touch, the music, and the smell of his blanket is making your eyelids heavy. As you finally drift off, a contented smile pulls at your mouth because no matter what, this is where you're meant to be. 

This is home.

Chan wakes you up about half an hour before you're expected to arrive. However, paired with delays, the pitch blackness of the mountains, and the general unrestrainedness of Murphy's Law, you were only now getting to the cabin at just past 1am. 

The cabin is beautiful, as always. It's nestled amidst a thick grove of evergreen trees, and its tall, warm wood exterior seems inviting even at the ungodly hour you two arrive. As he swings the car onto the gravel driveway, the headlights illuminate it, like it’s a secret just for the two of you.

“Cabin sweet cabin,” he murmurs as he kills the engine. He picks his phone up from the cup holder and gives it a few flicks, then suddenly the porch lights come on. You give a little stretch in your seat, your joints feeling pleasantly loose and mostly pain free– the nap worked wonders. 

The two of you pile out of the car, the fresh mountain air filling your nostrils. It smells like pine needles and freshwater, with an undercurrent of something wild and electric, like the air before a storm.

“Is it supposed to rain?”

Chan barely hears you, his antsyness now back full force. He's got both of your backpacks and his duffle bag slung over his shoulders, and he goes to grab your suitcase, but you appear by his side and pull it away from him. He blinks down at you, seeming surprised to see you there.

You tilt your head to the side. He still looks sweaty, and from where you're standing, it still seems like he's radiating an insane amount of heat. His breaths are labored, and you find yourself reaching over to rub your thumb over his hand. However, once your hands connect, he jumps and pulls away like you've shocked him.

At your hurt face, he tries to backtrack. “Static,” he supplies weakly. You say nothing, and the tips of his ears turn bright red. “Come on, let's get you out of the cold.”

You try not to jump to conclusions. At the end of the day, if something is really bothering him, if something is really wrong, Chan will tell you. He has always been the brooding type, but there is but so long he can keep things from you.

Still, no matter how much you try to take things at his pace, you keep seeing his face at the clinic: the deep bags under his eyes, the messy hair. The last time you looked into those eyes and saw that same pain, you were in a hospital bed hooked up to more monitors than you could count.

Chan had been brooding then too, refusing to leave your side, asking the doctors all the right questions, keeping your parents up to date when they had to go back home. You remember one night in particular, when you were chalk full of pain meds and falling asleep under the whirr of an oxygen mask, he'd stood at your bedside and rubbed his thumb over your forehead to soothe you. You couldn't speak, too exhausted and in pain to move in any capacity, but you didn't need to. He spoke to you the entire time about everything and nothing, switching his  murmuring to quiet comforts when you started to cry. Just before sleep took you under, you met his eyes– his exhausted, red rimmed eyes– and he gave you the softest, most tender look.

“We'll get through it, babygirl,” he had murmured. “You're gonna be okay. You'll come home.”

You did come home, of course, but that's when things became different. Chan was distant, constantly canceling plans, avoiding you.

You shake the memory from your head as you watch him fiddle with his keys in the lock. This weekend was meant to be about the two of you having fun. You could worry about everything else later.

Chan flicks on the overhead light in the living room area and the room floods with warmth. Everything looks just as familiar and homey as you recall.

Before you can take a good breath, he's got your bags and suitcase and is bounding up the stairs with them like they weigh nothing. You choose to busy yourself with getting comfortable, peeling off your coat and hanging it on the nearby hook.

You're tugging your hair back into a ponytail when he comes back down, and when you look up and spot him the scrunchie flies across the room.

He's taken off his hoodie, leaving him in a fitted white tee that does nothing to hide just how different his body looks. It's no secret that Chan works out, but he fills out this shirt like it was painted on him. You quickly pull your spare scrunchie from the other wrist to tie up your hair, trying not to dwell.

"Do you want me to put these in the kitchen?" you call out, holding up the bag of road trip leftovers.

"Yeah, just–" his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "Just throw them on the counter. I'll organize everything later."

You pad into the kitchen, bare feet silent on the wooden floors. Everything is exactly as you remember it – the mismatched mugs in the cabinet, the worn wooden spoons in the ceramic holder, the string lights Chan installed last summer that give everything a soft glow. If you close your eyes, you could almost pretend nothing has changed.

Almost.

You find, unsurprisingly, that the cabinets and fridge are stocked full. Chan's parents likely came out to pack up some groceries when he told them you'd be coming. You find yourself leaning against an open cabinet, staring into space, your mind a million miles away.

"You okay, babygirl?”

You jump slightly – you hadn't heard him come up behind you. He's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, running his hands through his hair again, that restless energy still evident in every movement.

"Yeah, just..." you gesture vaguely around you. "Memories, you know?"

His expression softens, and for a moment he looks exactly like your Chan again. "Yeah, I know."

The moment stretches between you, comfortable and familiar, until your stomach decides to break it with an embarrassingly loud growl. Chan's laugh is startled but genuine.

"I don't remember that.” He jokes. “Hungry?"

You feel your cheeks heat. "Yeah, I think so.”

He starts rolling his sleeves up. “I could probably make some eggs and toast, if–.”

“It's one in the morning,” you scold him gently. “Nobody is cooking.”

He gives you a pout, which is comical considering his current stature, but you still feel a tug in your chest. “But–”

You shake your head, turning away from him so you don't relent. “No buts. We have tons of snacks. Help me find something.”

At your request, the two of you rummage through the drawers and cupboards. Everything either requires too much effort or won't agree with your stomach at this ridiculous hour. You're ready to call it quits and sleep for dinner when a lightbulb goes off in your head.

“Oh, can I have one of your protein bars? You always buy the good kind.”

His smile is soft, dimples catching the light in a way that makes his entire face seem like a dream. “Of course. They're in my backpack, next to the couch.”

You slide your way to his bag with an excited pep in your step. Chan, being who he is, always buys the amazingly expensive protein bars that manage not to taste like chalky disappointment. They're surprisingly filling, and you know they'll settle your stomach without causing a stomach ache.

You find his bag quickly in the low light of the room, squatting down to rifle through it. With your hand in the front pocket, you dig around until your fingers find something that feels like the protein bar box. In your hungry haze, you yank it out without thinking.

It is not the protein bar box.

Instead, it's a thick packet of paper. You go to put it back when the letter head of the genetic clinic you visited catches your eye, along with the words “After-Visit Summary”.

Maybe if your heart wasn't thrumming in your ears, you would've heard his panicked footsteps coming after you. But the only thing in your ears is the erratic beating of your heart, one that only gets worse when you turn the packet over and read the small words on the margin:

You were seen today for: Hormonal Changes. The following issues were addressed: Genetic Lycanthrope Syndrome (Werewolf Gene).

You hear your name through the roaring in your ears. It's a soft, tentative sound that cracks around the edges. You turn, slowly, to see Chan almost right behind you, his face drained of all color and his eyes blown wide.

“Chan,” you breathe. You turn a bit more towards him, the packet still gripped in your hand. “What–”

"I can explain," he says quickly, desperately. His hands are shaking. "I was going to tell you, I swear, I just– I needed time to–”

He trails off, looking around the room as though looking for someone to help him.

Genetic Lycanthrope Syndrome.

You came across this condition when you were researching the clinic, as they mentioned that they were the only place in the area that had the facilities to test for it. It was, as the paper put it, the werewolf gene. People with the condition experienced heightened senses of smell, increased strength, sensory sensitivities– they were werewolves, just without the whole full moon transformation thing.

To say the condition was rare was an understatement. Both parents had to be carriers for the trait, and even then it only occurred in 25% of those births.

And Chan happened to be one of them.

Everything clicks into place now. The sudden growth spurt, the feverishly hot skin, how he knows when you're in pain without you saying a word.

“This is why you were at the clinic,” you say softly. It's not a question.

He nods jerkily, still looking like he might bolt at any second. You stand up to take a step toward him and he actually backs away.

“Don't,” he breathes. “I'm… I don't want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” You almost laugh. “Chan, you're not going to hurt me. How could you think that?”

“No, you don't understand,” he cards his hands through his hair, pausing to tug on the roots. “I can't… I don't know how to control myself yet. I'm different now, I'm–”

“Still Chan.”

The sound he makes is painful. “You can't say that,” he breathes. His hands drop to his sides again. “You don't know what it's like.”

“So tell me," you urge. You move as though you're about to take another step towards him, and your heart drops at how his entire body flinches. “Chan. Chris. Christopher. Look at me please.”

The use of his full name does something to him, and you watch as he settles, eyes drifting over to you slowly. His gaze is intense, and in the dim light of the living room, you feel akin to a deer staring down a wolf, no pun intended. 

It does not frighten you the way it should.

“Talk to me, please,” you beg. “You're my best friend. I'm here for you, always.”

“I can smell when you're in pain,” he grits out. It's not what you're expecting to hear. He clenches a hand into a fist, then lets it go. “You usually smell sweet, like caramel and linen. But then your scent gets an undercurrent of something harsh, like burnt sugar and metal, and I… I feel like–”

He lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes as he cuts himself off. “I can't control my strength. I've broken so much shit around the apartment. Don't wanna touch you. Don't wanna break you.”

“You won't hurt me.” You take the opportunity to get closer, but he must smell the closing distance because his eyes fly open. You're in front of him before he can move. “Do you know why?”

Chan's breaths are ragged and labored. “Why?”

“Because you're still my Chan. Still the guy who's been taking care of me since elementary school. Still the person I trust most in the world."

His breath hitches. "How can you say that? How can you just... accept this?"

You can't help the small laugh that escapes. "Chan, I'm literally at the same genetic clinic getting tested for a collagen disorder. Did you think I wouldn't understand what it's like to have your body change in ways you can't control?"

That seems to catch him off guard. He turns away, a frown tugging at his lips. "That's... that's different.”

“Is it though?” You pretend to be thoughtful. “Last I checked, it's like both of our bodies are changing in ways we don't understand. Like we both have to navigate a new normal.”

"That's exactly why I–" he cuts himself off, running both hands through his hair. "I can't risk hurting you. Not when you're already..."

"Already what?" You challenge, taking one final step. You're close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly. "Already broken?”

His face twists up like you've punched him in the stomach. “No! God, no. When you're already going through so much.”

“A lot of what I'm going through is a waiting game, Chan– waiting for test results, waiting for appointments at specialists. You don't have to keep things from me because of that.”

You poke him in his side, trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, this? Finding out you're a werewolf–”

“The correct term is Lycanthropy Syndrome–”

“-- This is the kind of stuff that keeps me grounded. Having other things to think about. Having you around.”

You watch the tension slowly bleed from his shoulders, almost as though he's deflating. There's obviously more he isn't telling you– you can see it in the way his eyes still can't seem to meet yours– but you don't push it. He's already said so much.

“So,” you start. You rock back and forth on your feet. “Can I make werewolf puns now?”

He rolls his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Are you pawsitive?”

He groans at that, a smile pulling at his lips despite himself. “You're the worst. I'm gonna leave you here and go home.”

But he's laughing anyway, his usual giggle that makes everything seem like it'll be alright. You beam at him. and your body lights aflame when he smiles back down at you softly. The two of you hold eye contact for a second, and you watch something untraceable flash in his eyes. Before you can even process it, he's looking away again and clearing his throat.

Another silence falls between you, but this one is different. Chan is fidgeting again, his fingers drumming against his thigh in that restless way you've noticed all evening. He's looking everywhere but at you, and you can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"What is it?" you ask softly.

He opens his mouth once. Twice. Three times– words seem to be failing him again. You raise an eyebrow and he sighs, a sheepish smile on his big stupidly handsome face.

"Can we..." he starts, then stops. Starts again. "Would it be okay if we... like we used to..."

You wait patiently as he struggles with the words. His ears are turning red again.

"Can we share my bed?" he finally gets out in a rush. "Like– like when we were kids? Just for tonight. I just... I haven't been sleeping well since everything started and I… um…”

Your brain short circuits as the request processes.

Share… a bed. With Chan. Taller, wider, more muscular Chan. Chan whose body heat seeps through every layer of clothing. Chan whose one hand can cover your knee easily. 

From the way your body reacts, your knee jerk reaction is to say no. He's already going through enough, and Lord knows what types of degenerate scent you'd be giving off if you spent an entire night with him.

But when you open your mouth to decline, you notice how he's standing, with his shoulders curved inward, trying to make himself smaller. His big brown eyes are pleading, almost desperate, and you think about how scared he was earlier, how convinced he was that you'd reject him once you knew the truth.

Fuck it.

“Of course, Channie.”

The smile on his face is nervous, like he expects you to change your mind any second. “Yeah?”

You nod, ignoring the way your brain tries to supply you with images of everything you want to have happen. "Yeah. Just... let me get changed first?"

He nods quickly, that restless energy back but different now – excited rather than anxious. "Yeah! Yes. Your stuff is in your room, yeah? I'll be in mine when you're ready."

He's bounding up the stairs before you can say anything. You take the moment alone to take a deep breath. You can do this. It's just Chan. Just your best friend.

When you reach your room, you duck into the attached bathroom to change quickly, opting for the full top and bottom PJ set rather than the oversized hoodie you were originally going to wear. You stare at your reflection, willing yourself to calm down and look normal.

Sharing a bed with Chan is not a new concept. When you'd first gotten close in grade school, the two of you tended to hop from house to house, sleeping wherever without a care in the world. The habit continued as you grew up– in college during study sessions, during movie marathons on school breaks, that one time a few months ago when you'd gotten terribly drunk at your friend Jeongin's birthday party. It had never been anything more than two friends seeking each other's comfort.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror again, face flushed and breathing ragged. You force yourself to calm down– if Chan could smell when you were in pain, he could probably smell the indecency coming off of you in waves. 

Everything is fine.

When you reach the doorway of the master bedroom, Chan is already in bed scrolling on his phone. You watch his nostrils flare for a second, eyes fluttering shut as he puts his phone on the night stand.

The king sized bed looks both too big and too small.

When he opens his eyes, he looks surprised to see you. and you watch red start to tint his neck. “Um. Hey,” he breathes.

You hover in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between you. "Hey."

Chan shifts, pulling back the covers on what has always been 'your' side of the bed “Um. Do you want... I mean, we usually..." He trails off, looking everywhere but directly at you.

You take the initiative and move towards the bed, sliding down under the covers until they reach just under your chin. Chan shuffles next to you, scooting this way and that, flipping like a hot dog on a stick. You both settle on your back eventually, staring up at the ceiling.

“This is weird,” he says after a few minutes of strained silence.

“Not weird,” you supply. “Just�� different.”

“Different…,” he murmurs. “Different because I'm different?”

You almost laugh. “Chan, what? No–”

He's sliding out from under the covers before you can finish. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have– this was dumb to ask.” You ignore the way your heart drops. “I'll go sleep in the other room. Or on the couch. Or–”

You grab at his wrist before he can go anywhere. He doesn't jerk away this time, but his entire body goes rigid. You rub your thumb along the pulse point on his wrist.

“You don't have to leave,” you say slowly. “It’s not weird because you're different. It's weird because we're both over thinking it.”

He lets out a little breath. “We are, aren't we?”

"Yeah." You squeeze his wrist once before letting go. He settles back down into the bed, still looking a bit uncomfortable, but not ready to run anymore. 

You smile at him before holding open the cocoon you made in the blanket. "Come here, you big baby."

"I resent that," he grumbles, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.

It takes some maneuvering to find a comfortable position. Chan is hesitant at first, careful not to crowd you, but eventually you manage to guide him until his head is tucked under your chin, his arm draped carefully over your middle. His body curls around yours despite the size difference, like he's trying to make himself smaller again. When he finally settles, it feels like every part of him is contoured to fit you perfectly.

You ignore the heat in your stomach.

The silence that settles around you is comfortable now, broken only by your breathing beginning to sync up. His body weight is grounding, and the heat he's radiating feels like the world's best heating pad. 

You're just beginning to doze off when Chan makes a low, displeased grunt in the back of his throat. You can feel his eyebrows scrunch together where he's pressed against your collarbone.

“Your hip,” he murmurs.

“Hm?”

He shifts in your hold, maneuvering you until his other hand can slide under your body to wrap around you. “Your hip hurts. Or it's about to start.”

Sleepiness has made you a pliant, barely conscious little thing. You're about to ask how he can tell when his big, warm hand presses against your hip, heat radiating through the fabric until it settles deep into your bones. You can't help but let out a little whimper from the immediate relief it gives you.

Chan makes another sound in his throat, grip increasing on you almost infinitesimally. 

“This good, babygirl?”

“Mmf.”

The warmth and relaxation is muddling your brain. “S'good, Channie.”

He makes a more pleased sound and nuzzles closer. Sleep takes you quickly after that, and all you can think about as you finally succumb is how lucky you are to have him here with you. You'd love to say as much, but you're too tired to open your mouth, so you give him the tiniest of squeezes, hoping he understands.

From the way his arm tightens around you, you think he does.

Things seem less charged in the morning.

You wake up to sunlight glittering through the curtains and the other side of the bed empty. The sheets are still warm, but given what you've come to learn about Chan and his temperature, he could've left the bed anywhere from three seconds to four hours ago.

You stretch a little bit as you try to wake up fully, heading to the other bedroom to freshen up for the day. It seems like an okay day pain-wise. You're at a steady three out of ten everywhere except your hands, but you brush it off. With the way you sleep, your hands take longer to catch up to the lower pain levels in the rest of your body. It's just a matter of time. 

Still, you run them under warm water in the bathroom, hoping to loosen them up.

When you finally emerge, you follow the mouthwatering scent of cooking down the stairs and into the kitchen. After a nonexistent dinner, you're starved, and you could really go for some food right now.

You pause in the archway of the kitchen.

Food is… an understatement.

Chan stands at the stove, spatula in hand and preparing to flip what looks like an omelette. All around him on the counters are various other breakfast foods: scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, hashbrowns, fruit–

“When did you have time to make a sourdough starter?”

He startles slightly, turning to face you with a sheepish smile. “Ah… good morning, babygirl. I may have.. gone a bit overboard.”

“A bit?” You slide into a seat at the edge of the kitchen island in the one spot where there's no food. “If you were planning to invite the woodland creatures you could've given me a heads up, I'd be decent.”

The responding huff makes you smile. “I cannot communicate with animals. Weirdo.” Chan grins. He folds the omelette in half and flips it over. “I just… I got hungry.”

You sneak a piece of bacon off of a nearby plate and snort. “‘Hungry’ seems like a gross understatement. Is this a side effect?”

Chan's ears turn pink as he plates the omelette. "Yeah, actually. My metabolism is... different now. Food tastes different too– more intense." He starts moving dishes to the kitchen island, careful not to overcrowd your space. "Everything is more intense, really."

"Like what?"

He hums thoughtfully as he settles into the chair next to you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him. "Smells are the biggest thing. Like, I can smell everything. The coffee brewing, the bacon grease in the air, the rain that's coming later–"

"It's going to rain?"

"Yeah, probably this afternoon." He passes you a fork and a plate you never noticed him constructing. "I can smell it in the air. What’s the word? Petrichor, but... before the rain actually falls? If that makes sense.”

You hum around a fork full of eggs, cracking the fingers on your free hand. “That sounds like it can get miserable. Is everything just… enhanced all the time?”

He takes a bite out of a chunk of toast, making a so-so motion with his hand. “It's enhanced all the time, but the way it is right now, the intensity, that’s only sometimes. Only during–”

He cuts himself off, swallowing his bite of toast with more power than necessary. 

“During the full moon?” You supply.

He nods quickly. “Yeah.”

There's a lull in the conversation that you try not to read into. It doesn't take much effort anyway, because you notice that eating is taking more effort than it was a few minutes ago. Your grip on the fork is weird, and you can't seem to close your fingers all the way around it.

That's fine, you think to yourself. You switch hands. Everything is fine.

You try not to let the revelation sour your mood. Chan mentioned it was going to rain, and while your doctors didn't know why you were in pain, they knew what kinds of things made it worse, and the air pressure changes from rain was one of them. This was just something you had to learn to deal with now.

Resentment for your condition rises in your chest with the little bit you've eaten, and you take a sip of apple juice to swallow it down. It's not fair. People your age were doing things like mountain climbing, running marathons, just living. And here you were, struggling to feed yourself and hold a fork.

It's fine.

A hand on your shoulder pierces through the dense clouds shrouding your mind, and you feel yourself startle a little. Chan is facing you, leaning his impossibly tall torso down to look you right in your eyes. His gaze is intense, gold flecks in his eyes swimming around as he stares.

“What hurts,” he breathes. The sound of his voice is light as a feather, floating through the air before coming to rest gently on your lips. 

“My hands.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

You think about saying your number, but upon remembering how nice and easy conversation was this morning, you decide to lie. “Four.”

The look in Chan’s eyes grows more intense, and you swallow around nothing. He levels you with a very unimpressed look, eyebrows creasing and his plushy, pink lips frowning. He only says two words, but they send a ripple through your body anyway:

“Try again.”

Fuck. You're giving yourself whiplash. Jumping from frustration to stark arousal was an Olympics level move your brain wasn't prepared for. There's a different kind of haze clouding your mind now.

“It's a seven,” you breathe. 

He's up on his feet before you can fully compose yourself, long legs taking him up the stairs and bringing him back down in a matter of seconds. When he sits down again, he's holding your decorative medication pouch and a mini water bottle from your backpack.

You gulp at the way the veins in his arm bulge.

“Which bottle is it?”

You come back to yourself, licking your incredibly dry lips before you respond. It takes a blink or two before you can orient yourself in the present. “Um, red bottle. The tall one.”

He places the bottle and water in front of you in a gentle way that contrasts the energy in the room. You fumble with the child proofing for a second before he plucks the bottle from you, undoing the lid with one hand.

Wow. Fuck.

"Thanks," you mumble, accepting the pills he tips into your palm. His hand moves from your shoulder to the back of your neck as you swallow them, and you try not to shiver at the contact.

“Do you need a nap while the pills work?”

You pout, finally coming back to your good senses. “We're supposed to have a movie marathon today.”

“I didn't realize the TV had a flight to catch?”

You glare at him, albeit thankful for the teasing sarcasm to loosen the tension. “You're not funny.”

Chan's lips pull into a smirk and he gives a little shrug. “I think I am.”

You roll your eyes at him as he stands, coming over to you and easing you out of your seat. He gives a little ‘tsk’ at your faux attitude, but his hands are back on your shoulders, guiding you towards the couch. When you finally do lay down, he's already throwing his signature couch blanket over you, tucking it around you securely.

“Comfy?”

You are, but you've also realized he's tricked you into a nap, so you do the adult thing and mock him before sticking your tongue out at him.

“Wow,” he murmurs. He slides down the couch and onto the floor. “I haven't seen that routine since 4th grade.”

You watch as he adjusts his legs a few times, his head resting against the armrest right by your fingers. It’s unspoken, but you know that he'll stay until he's sure you're asleep. 

"You don't have to sit on the floor," you murmur. "There's plenty of room up here."

He shakes his head. "Nah. I'm good here.”

You watch his side profile for a minute, basking in all of his Chan-ness. He settles in a bit more and lets his eyes flutter closed. When he does, he leans his head back a little more, and you watch the delicate bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. 

“Chan?” Your mouth is moving before you know it. 

“Hm?”

“Were you scared? When you… got the diagnosis?”

His eyes open at that, and he turns his head so he can look at you. The intensity from earlier is gone, replaced by that familiar warmth that only he has.

There's a beat of silence where all Chan does is stare, almost as if seeing you for the first time. It passes, though, and then he goes back to his previous position, eyes closed again as he speaks. “No,” he says finally. “I wasn't scared. The only thing I thought about was you.”

“Me?”

He nods against the couch. “They kept talking about what it meant and all of that, and all I could think about was how on earth I was going to tell you.”

You reach a hand over and start rubbing at his scalp in the familiar way you've always done. “And yet,” you tease gently. “I had to accidentally find the papers.”

He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, leaning into your hand. “That wasn't the plan,” he murmurs. “Was supposed to tell you properly.”

You stay quiet, continuing to play with his hair. The quiet domesticity is comforting, and you find your eyes fluttering closed too. 

You move your fingers through his hair in nonsensical patterns and shapes, occasionally letting your nails graze his scalp. His breathing evens out eventually--he's not sleeping, no, just content and peaceful. You're a different story, though, and medication induced drowsiness starts flowing its way through your body.

Your movements grow slower and uncoordinated, hand drifting lower, and lower, until eventually your fingers trail to the nape of his neck. When you drag your nails across the sensitive skin there, Chan makes a sound that shoots straight through you and straight to your core– something between a pleased hum and a growl that vibrates through his entire body.

Both of you freeze. Your heart starts doing gymnastics in your chest while the sound echoes in your ears, making your body grow hot. Beneath you, Chan is rigid, like every muscle has been pulled taut.

The room is entirely still for a second. Then, he clears his throat a little, shifting himself so you have better access. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Keep going. Feels nice.”

You force your fingers to move again, continuing their exploration and tracing the curls on Chan's head. 

You repeat your mantra in your mind:

Everything is fine.

The moment passes like a summer storm– intense and fleeting– and soon Chan is relaxed again, practically melting under your touch. You're actively fighting sleep now but you're realizing it's a losing battle. Your movements become slower, less deliberate, until your hand is simply resting in his hair.

"Sleep, babygirl," he murmurs, voice thick and honeyed. "I got you.”

So you do.

When you wake up a bit later, you find yourself, sadly, alone.

In place of Chan's thick curls is the cold rectangular slab that is your cell phone. You squint at it sleepily, not remembering bringing it down with you for breakfast or having it on the couch. You flick through the unlock process, and when your phone opens, it's on the notes app.

Hi babygirl. If you're reading this, I went to the store. We don't have any vegetables. I'll try to be quick. - Channie

You wipe sleep from your eyes as you sit up, trying to orient yourself in your surroundings. You hear the steady whooshing of the rain outside and carefully flex all of your joints. You're content to find that you're at a steady three out of ten everywhere.

You settle back into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket around you tighter. It's not scary to be by yourself, especially not in the cabin,  but Chan's presence is definitely missed. You decide to fill the silence with television, something low stakes and stupid that you can listen to while you scroll on your phone.

However, the microscopic roku remote has decided to go missing, and after digging through the couch cushions twice, you sit back with a huff. You suppose your phone will do for now.

You open YouTube with the intent to watch one of your favorite Let's Play videos, but as you scroll through your homepage, something catches your eye. The title makes you pause:

Q&A: Genetic Lycanthropy Syndrome (aka The Werewolf Gene)

The algorithm strikes again, you suppose.

The video was posted a little over a month ago and has a substantial amount of views and comments. The creator themselves has well over 100k subscribers. It looks perfectly legit. Before you can overcomplicate it and talk yourself out of it, you press play.

“Hi everyone!” The guy on the video has a soft, smiling face, accented by round, thin-rimmed glasses. “Welcome or welcome back to my channel. If you're new here, I'm Seungmin, and I have GLS, which stands for Genetic Lycanthropy Syndrome. Or, to put it simply, I have the werewolf gene.”

You are immediately invested.

“I set up a question box on Instagram a couple days ago, and you guys really went to town.” Seungmin chuckles. “So I'll answer a few of those in this video.”

The first few questions are simple enough– what made him suspect he had it, the diagnostic process, how his family reacted. He answers every question thoughtfully and thoroughly in a way that makes you learn more than you thought you needed to.

You're writing down the fact that people with GLS tend to need more red meat than dark meat in their diet when he starts reading out the next question. 

“@jutdae asks, ‘how does the enhanced sense thing not drive you crazy?’” Seungmin lets out a little laugh. “So, the sense thing is kind of tricky for non-GLS people to understand. On a regular day, it might be enhanced, but maybe only 50% better than most people. The real issue is when rut or heat cycles start.”

You drop your phone, cursing when it slips right into the couch cushions.

“During a rut–” Seungmin's muffled voice continues as you fish around for your phone. “-- it's probably around 150% better. And our body temperature will skyrocket, like a constant fever type. The extra sensory input can cause a lot of restless energy too, so we're always feeling like we want to crawl out of our skin. Thankfully ruts, or heats for AFAB people, only happen once every three months, for about a week.”

You finally find your phone, heart pounding as you fumble to hold it still. The boy on your screen adjusts his glasses before continuing, entirely unaware how he's just flipped your life on its head.

“Well, that's for people who've presented for a while. When you first present with symptoms, you can get your rut every month. And that's… an entirely different type of intense. I surely don't miss that.”

Your brain might be oozing out of your ears.

You don't need to Google what a rut cycle is. You already know. It's the one aspect of GLS everyone is familiar with.

You scan through the events of the last 36 hours with unfathomable speed. It's all there. Every single symptom mentioned in this video. 

Extremely heightened senses. Restless energy. Fever-hot skin. 

Chan.

Chan hasn't been able to sit still. Chan's skin is hot to the touch. Chan keeps telling you when your pain is about to start because he can smell it. Chan brought you to an isolated cabin in the mountains.

Chan is in rut. Chan's diagnosis was only finalized less than a week ago. Ergo, this is his first rut.

The sound of a car door slamming makes you jump so hard that your phone flies away from the couch and skitters onto the floor.

Shit.

You scramble to grab it, swiping out of the video before Seungmin finishes answering what you're certain are other life changing questions. You can't hear anything he's saying, laser focused on the sound of Chan's impending footsteps and the sound of rustling grocery bags.

“Babygirl,” Chan's voice vibrates from the entryway. “I'm back. You awake?”

“Yeah,” you call, forcing yourself to sound steady. You clear your throat. “Yes, I'm up.”

You hear him put the bags down and toe off his sneakers, socked feet padding into the room where you are, undoubtedly, staring like a ghost came through the door and robbed you of your possessions. You fight to fix your expression into something normal, but all of that goes out the window when he steps into the threshold.

He's soaked. The rain has soaked through his shirt, making it cling to his chest and highlight every cut of his muscle. His curls are wild, some of them plastered to his forehead while others seem to be competing for the best pose. There's water dripping down his neck an–

You find a spot on the wall to look at instead. 

“Sorry I took so long.” He brushes his hair off of his face. “The store closest was closed, had to run way into town.”

“It's fine,” you squeak. He looks at you, eyebrows furred. “I was fine, just watched some YouTube. I wasn't up for long.”

He tilts his head, studying you with his nearly impossibly dark eyes. His lips push up, almost like he's pouting, but you watch as confusion takes over his gaze. He squints, and you burrow yourself further into the couch. If his smell is heightened, then he probably–

“You okay?”

You nod too enthusiastically. “Yes, of course. Why?”

He opens his mouth to say something, moves his body as though he'll take a step towards you, but he stops. You hold eye contact for a second, feeling small and exposed among his gaze. But then he nods almost imperceptibly, turning to grab his wet sweater from the entrance. 

“I'm gonna get changed and make us some lunch. Sandwiches?”

You nod.

“Good. Find us something to watch, yeah?”

As soon as he's gone up the stairs, you collapse back onto the couch, pressing your hands against your burning cheeks.

Okay. Okay.

You're probably– definitely – making this weird. Maybe you've read too many werewolf romance novels. Chan is going through something a lot more tangible than turning into a wolf and scampering off into the moonlight, and here you are, being a degenerate as usual. He brought you here because you're his best friend. Because he needs support.

The rut thing… is just a coincidence. Or maybe not even a big deal, or something he wants you to worry about. Yes. That's it. 

Distantly, you hear the shower turn on, and everything from your neck to the crown of your head lights aflame.

The remote chooses that moment to reappear, launching itself from the couch blanket and onto the floor. You snatch it up quickly, flicking on the TV and navigating to Netflix. You need something light. Something stupid. Something to fizzle out the charged energy in the atmosphere.

He'll handle himself… however that may be. You repeat this to yourself as you scroll through the comedy section, eyes blurring at the words in front of you. It's none of your business, anyway. You have one job right now, and that's finding something to watch.

You settle on a cooking show when you hear him coming down the stairs again. You focus on the TV, your mantra echoing around your skull as though you have no brain.

Everything is fine. You're fine. He's fine. 

“Worst Cooks in America?”

You nearly jump out of your skin. He's standing behind the couch, now wearing dry clothes– a zip up sweatshirt and loose sweats. You notice, entirely by accident, that there's no shirt under the sweater. Just plain, exposed skin.

Great. 

You hum out a noncommittal answer, just as he turns and heads to the kitchen, mentioning as he goes that he's using roast beef.  You listen to the sound of the fridge opening and the hum of the toaster as he plugs it in, no doubt solely to put your bread to toast, the same way you've eaten a sandwich since you were eight years old.

You can do this. You can act normal. You're an adult, and you have been for a few years. Things don’t have to be weird just because you now know that your best friend is a delicate, walking bundle of hormones. Chan clearly trusts you enough to have you here, and you're not going to mess that up by being a disaster about it.

You hear him humming in the kitchen, puttering about through the cabinets, the clink of plates on the counter. It's so normal, so Chan, that it almost makes you forget about everything else.

You shake your head, hoping to physically dislodge the memories of the noise he made when you were scratching his neck– the deep, rumbling groan that ran through your sleep-riddled body until stopping to wake you up where you're most sensitive. It was just a noise, you make noises all the time.

When he appears in the doorway with the two plates, all smiles and soft around the edges, you take a deep breath before returning the smile. 

You can do this. You can sit down next to Chan and watch the show and be normal. Everything is fine.

Probably.

… Maybe.

Everything is not fine.

The realization comes later in the night when the darkness from the storm bleeds into the darkness of late evening. It's nearing 10pm, and you and Chan are still seated on the couch together, now on opposing sides, still watching the same cooking show.

Or pretending to.

Chan seemed to be getting worse as the evening progressed. When he first came in from outside, he seemed calmer, less tense, but now he was sitting rigid, wound up like a toy no one would release. He was sweating an almost ridiculous amount, and the zip from his hoodie was pulled down to the middle of his stomach, exposing all the skin underneath.

His breaths were coming in short pants now. He had a steady grip on the fabric of his sweats, and you were almost certain that he'd tear a hole in them with the way he was grabbing them.

You weren't sure what to do.

You had tried nudging him with your foot gently a while ago, but when your skin made contact, he made another low sound in his throat that shot right up your leg and into your core. You pulled your foot away quickly, apologizing, making sure to press your knees together so the scent of arousal wouldn't reach him. 

And that was before he had started panting like… well, a dog. Now you weren't sure you'd be able to reach him through the fog of his own mind even if you screamed right in his face.

You're about to try saying something, anything as the episode that was playing ends, but he shoots up off the couch before you can think of words to say. He's pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes, visibly shaking with the effort of breathing normally.

“Chan,” you start.

He holds up a hand. “I'm– I'm okay,” he breathes. 

He's not. 

“The rain, I think,” he grits out. “Too loud. Too much. You're okay, though?”

Of course Chan would find the time to check on you while going through his own crisis. You sit up a little on the couch, staring at him even though he has his eyes covered. The words are coming out of your mouth before you can even think about what you're saying: “Do I smell okay?”

He grunts. You suddenly understand why cavepeople had so many kids. 

“Smell fine,” he breathes. He slides his hands down his face, fixing his gaze away from you. “You do, I mean. You smell good.”

It dawns on you then that maybe the newly awakened wolf-like part of his consciousness is reacting to your smell because you're a girl, and he's in a rut. Maybe you should leave the room, give him some space?

You're trying to find a way to ask if that's what he needs without giving away what you know, but he fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie again, wanting to tug it down some more. He stops, takes a deep breath, and then drops his hand.

“I think I need a second,” he says. His hands are twitching at his side. “Need my room. Need the quiet, yeah?”

You nod. That's fine. It's for the best anyway, right?  “That's okay. You can come back when you're ready.”

He nods, still not looking at you. There's a moment where he seems to hesitate, but whatever internal war he's having ends quickly, and he basically runs up the stairs. Just before you hear his door close, you hear the sound of his hoodie zipping down all the way.

Heat floods your face as you turn back to the show.

After a while of still failing to really pay attention, you pull your phone out from under the blanket. Despite the pure, unfiltered desire thrumming through your veins, you still want to help Chan. It's bothering you how bothered he is, how helpless he seems. There has to be something you can do for him.

You type, How to help a werewolf in a rut into your search bar, and after realizing very quickly that that's actually the title of an erotica series, you change your search to something more medical sounding.

It takes trial and error, but GLS and Rut Cycles Help seems to give you the best results.

You find a forum on a website dedicated to rare genetic disorders. It’s the one link that seems to have real information, ironically nestled between a fanfiction website and Twitter. 

You stop on a thread that catches your attention:

Non-GLS Roommate Here: Any way I can help with heats?

Not in that way, they write. But my roommate just presented with this disorder and she's absolutely miserable, and I feel so bad. I'm not trying to fuck her, but is there anything I can do to help?? Meds? Chocolate?? Leaving her alone??

There are only a handful of responses, mostly people lol-ing about how non-lycanthropes always think a heat cycle is like a period. One answer sticks out to you:

if it's her first heat, she's probably running a pretty high temp. make her some cold drinks to bring the temperature down and the hormones may follow. that used to work for me. ideally, try to convince her to take a cold shower, but her instincts might be telling her not to. it's a delicate game lol. don't press the shower thing if you don't want her to bite. like, literally. AFAB lycanthropes have a thing for biting idk

It makes sense now why Chan looked better when he came in from the rain. It was, essentially, the cold shower that he needed. You wonder briefly if you could convince him to go back out, but you decide against it. It's dark now, and you don't need him getting hurt.

So, instead, you peel yourself away from the couch and head into the kitchen. There's tons of juice cartons already in the fridge, but you bypass them, instead grabbing the bag of lemons and the carton of blueberries. 

The first time you made lemonade for Chan, the two of you were in fifth grade. You wanted to save money for the new and extremely expensive ride-on jeep that you saw in the store, and the only thing you could think to do was sell lemonade. You forced Chan (who had no interest in the car but wanted to help anyway) to sit down and taste batch after batch of your lemonade.

After he threatened to tell your parents you were trying to poison him, you made one last batch of the lemonade, and on a whim, dumped some blueberry syrup into it. He grumbled as he took the cup, but he couldn't hide his satisfied smile.

“That's the one,” he grinned. 

You never did save the money for the car, but you kept the lemonade recipe anyway. There was nothing your blueberry lemonade couldn't fix.

And you were prepared to add rut fevers to that list.

You dump a ton of ice in Chan's reusable water bottle before pouring the lemonade over it, putting the top on and swirling it around. You take a sip first, nodding in contentment when it nearly freezes the back of your throat.

With your phone in your back pocket and the lemonade in hand, you make your way up the stairs, pausing in front of Chan's bedroom door. A feeling of nervousness washes over you, but you beat it down with a stick. You're just delivering some lemonade. You'll be fine.

“Channie,” your voice is tentative as you knock. “You okay? I brought you a surprise.”

You listen carefully. You can't hear anything on the other side of the door. You don't wanna bang or yell, knowing his ears are probably sensitive already. You knock gently again, really straining your ears to hear.

He must be asleep, you think. You'll just leave the cup on the nightstand for him to find when he wakes up. You turn the doorknob and push open the door and–

Subsequently drop the cup on the floor.

Chan is not asleep.

Chan is very much awake.

He can't see you, no, because his eyes are closed and his head is tipped back against the headboard of his bed. His face and ears are red, and his lips are extra plump. You wonder why until he bites down on his bottom lip, hard.

You let your eyes trail down. He's touching himself.

Oh.

One of his hands is wrapped around his cock, pumping furiously like it's just not enough. The other hand is white knuckling the pillow you slept on last night, bringing it up to his face so he can no doubt inhale whatever leftover scent is on it. 

He has no idea that you're in the room. The pillow is already carrying your scent, so there's no intrusion to his senses. You should look away. You should go, you should…

You can't look away.

His hips are thrusting upwards to meet his hand now, his entire body writhing on the bed like he's trying to find the perfect spot. With his sweater open, you can see the contraction of his ab muscles as he moves, all the hard contours of his body chasing his pleasure. You watch as he twists his wrist, thumb sliding across the slit of his cock and smearing precum down the shaft. 

You hear him make a sound, almost like he's grunting, and then he's mumbling something under his breath. It's low, too low for you to really hear it, but when he speaks again, you definitely understand.

"Babygirl," he groans. He squeezes his cock at the base before stroking it again. "F-fuck, babygirl."

It's then that you squeak, slamming a hand over your mouth almost immediately. His eyes fly open and he shoots up, face panicked, but he doesn't stop moving his hand.

"I'm-- I'm sorry," you manage. "I came to-- I just-- Oh my God."

Chan's eyes are wild as he looks at you. His chest is heaving and his curls are sticking up all over the place. He looks pained and conflicted, likely warring within himself about whether he should stop or not. From the way his ears turn a deep shade of red, you can tell he thinks that he should.

He doesn't, though. He's still jacking himself off, faster and faster, even as he gives you a devastatingly desperate look.

"Fuck," he grunts. "I'm sorry. I can't-- you just smell so fucking good and I–” He pants, looking at you with eyes that can barely stay open. “I can't stop. Babygirl, make me stop."

Your brain is malfunctioning, but the part of it that can still process information has taken notice of what he's saying. You were right earlier. It's your smell. Your smell is driving him crazy because you're a fertile, childbearing aged female. It's not poorly contained last or a bad decision on his part.

It's biology. It's what that primal part of his brain needs.

Your body goes hot as you think of your next words.

"You..." you swallow around nothing. You're wearing socks, but the cold from the floor seems to seep into your feet. "You don't– um. Do you… need help?”

His pupils blow.

"I don't… I don't want to hurt you," he whines, chest heaving as his fist pumps faster. "You shouldn't."

"But I want to help," you breathe. You take a step closer to the bed, legs shaking from the sheer intensity of how fast your arousal hits. "What if I want to help?"

He stops then, staring at you with the same intensity he had last night. You feel stripped, exposed, but you don't feel unsafe.

You take another step closer.

"Chan," you whisper. You're at the foot of the bed now. "What if I want to?"

He makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat.

"I won't… touch you if you don't want me to." You take another step to the side of the bed, feeling somewhat bold under his gaze. "But I'll... I'll let you touch me, if you need. Whatever you want. Just... just tell me what to do."

You're only a couple steps away now. Chan is practically shaking with the effort it takes not to move, to wait for your permission. It's then that you realize he's waiting for you to make the first move, and all of the power shifts to you.

You're standing right next to him now, the two of you locked in an intensely heated gaze. He reaches for you silently with the hand not fisted around his cock, moving slowly like you'll dissolve if he's too eager. When you nod, his hand slides down the length of your arm, fingers interlacing.

Then–

"Please," he whispers. His voice cracks on the lone syllable. "Please, babygirl. I need you.”

He brings the hand he's holding over to his already throbbing cock, dragging your fingertips over the sensitive skin on his tip. His head rolls back again and his hips buck up. You try not to shiver.

"I just... I just need this," he breathes. "Please. I won't touch you, I'll be good."

Maybe it's the desperation in his voice. Maybe it's the way his eyes look so innocent, absolutely contrasting what he's begging you to do. Whatever it is, you let your tongue dart out to wet your lips, throat feeling incredibly dry as you stare down at him.

You wrap your fingers around his cock tentatively, not missing the way his body seems to come alive at your touch, and start moving up and down. He's already so hard, his entire shaft coated in his precum so you can slide up and down with ease. The sounds he's making are going straight to your core, and you can feel the way your underwear is sticking to you.

"Tight," he grunts. "Tighter, please."

You tighten your grip, speeding up a little bit. You feel him thrusting upwards to meet your hand, his hand squeezing yours like he needs the support to ground himself. You let your thumb brush over his tip, using his precum as lube to give him even more friction.

He cries out, back arching. "Yes," he chokes out. "Fuck, babygirl, do that again.”

You do, swiping your thumb across the slit and spreading more precum over him. It makes everything slicker and wetter, and the way you're able to move faster now has him moaning nonsensical little things.

His hips are bucking up harder now, and you watch as his abs tense and release, the hand not holding yours going up to tug on his hair. Your body feels like a loaded stick of dynamite, and you're so careful to keep your hips still, knowing how badly you want friction.

"M’close," he breathes. "Fuck, babygirl. You feel so good."

You pump faster, giving him the extra tightness and friction that he needs. You watch as the hand in his hair drops to his stomach, nails digging into his abs.

You wonder how long he was in here like this, pained and desperate. You try not to think about him moaning your name in the empty room, fucking up into his fist as he thinks about you, chasing your scent on his pillow.

Just because of the rut, your brain supplies. Because it would be absurd to think otherwise.

You glance up at his face. His eyes are screwed shut, lips parted as he pants and grunts and makes other sounds in the air. The look on his face is enough to make you clench around nothing. You've only been hot and bothered for the last 5 minutes and you already feel desperate to cum, so you can't imagine what he's going through.

You let your other hand reach up to cup his face.

"Chan," you murmur. "Look at me.”

He opens his eyes slowly, pupils completely blown as he meets your gaze. You see sweat sliding down the side of his face, and you wonder if it's from his fever or his pleasure.

"You're okay, babyboy," you whisper. His cock jumps in your hand at that. "You can cum, you know. You don't have to hold back."

"Wanna--wanna be good," he grunts. You feel him start to thrust faster. "Don't wanna hurt you."

"You're doing so good, Channie. You're not hurting me."

The two of you stare at each other for a moment before you drop your hand from his cheek and slide it down the column of his throat, letting your nails scratch across his skin. His reaction is immediate, body spasming as he groans.

"Shit," he cries. "Yes, right– right there, Oh my God."

"Yeah?" You scrape your nails across the base of his throat again, making sure to be a bit rougher this time.

He nods quickly, the grip on your hand tightening. You take your other hand off of him, drinking up the sound of his whine before you slide it underneath his hoodie, feeling his chest up. You scrape your nails over his pecs, making him jolt a little.

"C'mon, Channie," you coo. "You're okay. I want you to cum for me."

He lets out a strangled sound, hips bucking up into your fist even faster now. His head falls back again and you see the muscles in his neck strain.

"Please," he chokes out. "I need-- I need--"

You slide your hand from his chest back up to his neck, finding the spot from earlier that made him make that deliciously memorable noise. When you drag your nails across it, his hips stutter in their rhythm, and that's the only warning you have before his entire body is convulsing with pleasure.

"Oh, fuck," he grunts. "Babygirl, fuck–”

His cock pulses in your hand as he cums, releasing all over himself and your fingers. You stroke him through it, gently moving your hand up and down until he's spent.

Then, there's silence.

You're not sure what you expect. Maybe for him to turn over and go to sleep, or for him to act bashful and apologetic, letting you know it won't happen again.

You certainly aren't expecting for him to grip your hips and lift you up onto the bed. Or for him to gently push you down on your back. Or for the desperation in his face to be replaced with something harder, something more in control and dominating as he says, “Please let me eat your pussy, babygirl.”

You almost choke.

You feel like you should protest. Tell him he doesn't have to, that this is already more than you thought you would ever get. But then he's sliding his hands up under your shirt, and the only thing your mouth can form is a moan.

He's never seen you naked, always a respectable gentleman, but there's no hesitation or uncertainty in the way his hands move around your body. He's not tentative and gentle like you expected; he's touching and pinching and running his nails along your skin like he's done this before, like he knows all your spots. He reaches your chest, where you have no bra, and rubs his thumb across your already hardened nipple. Your back arches and your legs fall open for him with a groan, letting him slot himself in the now empty spot.

He pulls his hand away, moving up to your face and cupping your jaw so you can look at him. He's looking down at you with dark eyes.

"Please?”

He's asking, you know, but there's nothing gentle in the way he's looking at you. You nod as best as you can, and he brings his hand down from your jaw to your chin, fingers sliding over your lips. You feel him nudge his thumb against your bottom lip, and you take the hint.

You open your mouth for him, letting him slide his thumb inside and rub it across your tongue. He's looking down at you intensely as you swirl your tongue around his finger, and when you suck on it a little, he lets out a grunt.

"Fuck," he breathes. He pulls his thumb away, watching as a string of saliva connects it to your lips. "You're gonna let me make you feel good, yeah?”

You nod again, but he gives a little humorless chuckle, head tilting at you.

"Use your words babygirl."

"Yes." Your voice is quiet. "Yes, I want you to.”

He stares at you for another moment. You watch his eyes dart across your face, your body, before settling on your lips again. He leans down then, hovering just above you as he licks his own lips.

"Gonna kiss you now," he murmurs. "That okay?"

You fear you look stupid, the way you're just staring up at him, jaw slacked and eyes going in and out of focus. You nod anyway, trying to act normal.

Or as normal as you can, under the circumstances.

He doesn't waste any more time after that. He leans down the rest of the way, pressing his lips against yours. It's slow at first, a sweet little thing that makes you feel warm and safe. You sigh into it, eyes fluttering closed.

But then he licks a stripe across your bottom lip, and you let out a pathetic little whimper, lips falling open just enough for him to slot his tongue in your mouth. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. It's desperate, burning, hot and filthy. He's licking into your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lips. You try to press your thighs together again, but his strong, muscular slab of body is between them, forcing them open.

His hands slide down your sides and settle on your hips. Your shorts do nothing as a barrier, and you feel every modicum of heat in his hands. He slips those warm hands into the waistband of both your shorts and panties, sliding them down your body antagonizingly slowly.

He sits back on his knees then, pulling them both all the way off before tossing them to the side. Then he leans forward again, pressing wet kisses to the skin right below your belly button.

"Chan," you breathe.

"S'okay baby," he mumbles against your skin. You feel a new wave of wetness flow through you. How could your usual nickname be even hotter with half of it missing?

Then he's moving his mouth down, down, down, and you feel him pressing his nose to your slit.

"Oh god," you whine.

"I know," he murmurs. You feel his tongue press against your clit, and your entire body spasms. He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your legs and squeezing your thighs to hold them open. "I know babygirl.”

He licks you again, making you groan out loud. You can't help but bring one hand up to his curls, weaving your fingers through them and tugging on them like you've always wanted to. He responds by moaning, the vibrations shooting straight to your core.

You feel his tongue dip lower, spreading your wetness around. He dips it into your entrance, tongue fucking you at such a languid pace you feel like you'll fall apart. You hear him groan against your cunt again, and his hands tighten on your thighs.

"So wet, baby," he murmurs. "Taste so good.”

He presses his tongue to your clit again, and you pull on his hair harder. He grunts, and you feel him rutting up against the bed, his cock hard again, chasing some form of relief. 

"Please baby," he mumbles against you. "Want you to cum for me. Please."

You know yourself, know what gets you going and what really makes you cum, so you want to tell him that it's going to take more than this, that you're not there yet, but you don't get a chance to before he's sliding a finger inside of you, curling it up and finding your spot with such accuracy your vision goes white.

You feel him suck on your clit then, swirling his tongue around it as he slides another finger inside of you. You tug on his hair again, not even realizing that you're grinding up against his face.

You feel yourself getting closer, chasing the release you've been desperate for since he pulled you onto the bed. His fingers curl inside of you again, pressing that spot and making you scream out his name.

"Yeah?" Chan groans against you, voice hoarse and desperate. "Like that? S'okay baby, let go."

"Chan," you choke. You're so, so close. "Chris. Chris.”

He moans at that, speeding up his fingers and moving his tongue even faster.  He's rocking himself up against the mattress with more urgency now, panting and moaning with his mouth pressed to your cunt.

"C'mon babygirl," he mumbles. "Need you to cum. C'mon, please. Need it."

He presses his fingers into that spot again, and you're gone. You arch up off of the bed as you cum, his name ripping itself from your throat as he fucks you through it. You feel your cunt pulsing around his fingers as you ride out your orgasm. He keeps licking, his moans sending vibrations straight up your spine until you're over sensitive, tugging on his hair for him to back away. He does, but not before pressing wet kisses to the inside of your thigh.

He sits up then, his hair sticking up all over the place from where you've been pulling on it. He's sweaty and breathing hard, his lips swollen and red from where you were kissing him. You feel his eyes roam over your body, and you know that if you look down, you'll see how your skin is flushed from your ears down to your chest.

He's still sporting a semi, but his focus isn't on that anymore. He gathers you up in his hands, pulling you with him to the top of the bed and settling you with him on the pillows. He presses a kiss to your forehead, pulling you to rest your head on his chest.

"Sleep," he says into your hair. You notice how his body temperature has dropped-- he doesn't feel like an inferno anymore.

You're too tired to do anything but whine gently at the way he's holding you, too relaxed and spent to say anything. You feel sleep pulling at your eyes as he fixes your shirt over you carefully.

"Ah, shit," he murmurs. "Gotta clean you up. Then I'll come right back, yeah?”

You nod, trying to fight off sleep just a little longer. He presses a kiss to your hair before sliding out of the bed, going to the bathroom and coming back with a warm washcloth. You feel him wipe you down gently, and you mumble out something that might've been a thank you.

He takes the washcloth back to the bathroom, coming back to join you in bed. He pulls you back on top of him, settling the blankets over the two of you.

You're asleep before he can even kiss your forehead again.

When you wake up in the morning, you do your usual pause to see what does and doesn't hurt. You're mostly pain free, you realize sleepily, except for a dull ache in your hips and knees and a pleasant soreness in your–

Oh shit.

Everything slams back into you at once. The lemonade, Chan, him begging for you in more ways than one. It feels like you've been doused in cold water and tossed off of a bridge.

You go to sit up, but when you make an attempt to move, you feel an impossibly heavy weight around your midsection. Said weight snores a bit, and you realize that it's Chan's arm draped across you.

He's sleeping soundly next to you, hair still ruffled and unruly from where you were pulling it, lips still slightly swollen and red. The blankets are pulled up to his chin, hiding his body from view.

Your face burns as you try to really remember everything that happened last night, either to orient yourself through the brain fog or torture yourself. You're not entirely sure. Chan was... he was in rut, you knew that much. And you offered to help. Then he ate you out and gave you what was probably the most intense orgasm of your life, and then you fell asleep.

Typical stuff. Of course.

The memories are still there, but the reality of the situation has you panicking. His eyes are still closed, so you don't have to deal with the embarrassment of him catching you staring, but you're frozen anyway.

You're immediately hit with the overwhelming realization that you just made a mistake. There's no way you can possibly continue to keep your feelings for Chan a secret after this, no way that you can pretend you don't know what his amazingly deft fingers feel like inside of you. How would you ever be able to look him in the face again?

A vibrating sound pulls you from your spiral. For a second, you wonder if it's coming from Chan, but you recognize that, no matter what genetic issue he has, a person cannot vibrate. 

The sound is actually coming from just off the side of the bed, where your shorts and panties lay discarded. You reach over and pluck your phone from the back pocket, turning it over to see an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.

You're about to send it to voicemail when your heart sinks like lead along with recognition in your chest. It's the genetic clinic.

You're untangling yourself from Chan's arms in record speed, shirking your shorts on and stepping into the hallway. He doesn't stir, thankfully, but you still close the door gently behind you anyway.

"Hello?" You breathe.

The nurse on the other side of the line greets you enthusiastically, and after confirming you are the intended recipient of the phone call, she asks you to hold while she transfers you to the doctor. You wait anxiously for a minute or two, pacing your way to the kitchen island and picking at the skin around your fingers while you listen to the generic hold music.

"Good morning," the doctor says as she comes on the line. She, too, sounds far too chipper. "I apologize for the wait, I was in the middle of rounds when your nurse flagged me down."

"That's okay," you say. Pleasantries feel superficial right now.

"Right, so. We did get some of your preliminary genetic results back," she says. You can hear pages being turned on the other side of the line. "I wanted to let you know that, unfortunately--"

The floor falls from under your feet.

"-- You did test positive for Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. Classical type."

You can't really hear anything else she's saying. Something about coming back in, maybe. About starting physical therapy. Taking care of yourself. You feel sick, like you might pass out. Or throw up. 

You manage to push through the rest of the conversation, your voice sounding far away even to your own ears. She lets you know that she's sending follow-up information to your email, says that it's important to have support at such a time like this, and you make a very non committal grunt of acknowledgement before ending the phone call. Your phone chatters on the island, the sound echoing in the empty space.

You can't even form a concept of a thought before your chest feels tight, like there's a rubber band stretching across your ribs and pulling taut. You skin suddenly feels like there are a million and one tiny sets of feet thrumming underneath it. It's too hot. Your shirt is choking you. It's all suddenly too much at once: last night with Chan, the diagnosis, the way you're feeling an ache building in your back.

You need to move. You need to get out.

You're up the stairs before you can really process it, standing in front of your suitcase and rifling through it with speed. You find a pair of sweats and what you’re almost certain is Chan's old hoodie, but you toss them on quickly anyway.

The air is crisp when it hits your face a few moments later. It's exactly what you need. The path around the cabin is familiar– you've walked it countless times during family trips and weekend getaways. You know exactly where to step to avoid the mud, which trees mark the loop back to the house.

You walk until your legs burn, until the tears on your face dry in the cold air. Your mind races with everything and nothing at once.

Classical EDS. Your PCP was right about it being a connective tissue disorder. EDS explains the tummy aches, the racing heart, the migraines, and most obviously, the joint pain. There's no cure. Just management. Just a lifetime of being careful, of physical therapy, of putting in insane amounts of effort to make sure your joints don't fucking disintegrate.

You find this to be the most manageable of all the issues at the moment. 

But Chan…

God, Chan. What were you thinking? He was in rut, vulnerable and needing comfort, and you just... what? Offered yourself up like some kind of heathen? Let him touch you in ways you've only dreamed about, knowing full well it would change everything?

This feels like the biggest issue to you, you realize when you pause on a tree stump. Because if you lose Chan, from something you initiated, you will lose everything else. He is the center of your universe, and everything revolves around him. You can't lose him, especially not over your own stupidity.

You think about going back. Talking to him. Maybe trying to convince him that you're fine, that he doesn't have to worry about you. That you don't like him like that, and you were just being a good friend and helping.

But then you remember his face when he came, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he moaned out your name. The way his fingers felt inside of you. How good he smelled.

You'll never be able to forget any of it now, you realize. And it will tear you apart if you lose him because of it.

You realize you've been walking much longer than intended when you catch a glimpse of the position of the sun. The morning chill has given way to a warmer temperature, though your face still feels numb from the wind. Your joints are definitely making themselves known now.

You suppose you may as well head back, even if you don't have any idea what you’re going to do when you have to face Chan. You can't stay out and freeze.

As you round the final bend that leads back to the cabin, you see him.

Chan is standing on the front porch, shirtless despite the cold, his hands visibly shaking at his sides. He's looking in the opposite direction, but you see when your scent hits him, because he whips around and his eyes lock onto you immediately. There's a look on his face that makes your chest ache– he looks terrified, like he's been coming apart at the seams.

You both freeze in your spots, an echo of that moment at the clinic. The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You notice then that his eyes are red, not the same red tint you now recognize from his rut, no. This is the red tint from that day he had to drive you to the hospital.

He's been crying.

“Where–” his voice is labored. “Babygirl. Where have you been?”

"I just..." you gesture vaguely at the path behind you. "I needed some air."

He takes a step forward, then seems to think better of it, stopping himself in his tracks. "You weren't... you were gone when I woke up. Your phone was on the counter, I couldn't... I didn't know where…”

He makes a pained noise in his chest, and then you see his entire face crumble. He pulls one of his arms up to his face, covering his eyes as you hear him start to cry.

Your heart breaks in two.

You rush to him as quickly as your protesting legs will allow, taking the stairs two at a time until you're in front of him. You reach up to gently pull his arm down, but he jerks away, a wounded noise escaping from his mouth.

"No," he cries. "You shouldn't–  don't touch me. I'm sorry.”

“Chris,” you breathe, hoping to cut through his emotional fog. “Chris, please, look at me.”

“Tell me what I did.”

You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

“What did I do wrong?” His voice cracks around the words. “Last night, I couldn't… control myself. And you were so good to me and then– you were gone.”

"Chan, no." You reach for him again, and this time he lets you pull his arm down. His face is streaked with tears, those big brown eyes red and swollen. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He shakes his head violently, words tumbling out around hiccups. "Then why did you leave? Why didn't you wake me up? I woke up and you were gone and I couldn't– your scent was gone and I couldn't–"

A sob cuts him off. You grab his hand and tug him towards the door. "Let's go inside. Please? It's freezing out here.”

He lets you tug him inside, at least just until you can close the door. You try to bring him over to the couch, but he's stubborn, keeping his feet planted where they are. He won't look at you, keeping his gaze downcast no matter how much you tug on his arm. You let go after a tense moment, sighing and wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Chan. The clinic called,” you say softly. “Thats why I left. My results came back.”

His head snaps up at that, understanding settling over his face. “You… did you test positive for–”

“Classical Ehlers Danlos,” you supply.

He looks like he'll cry all over again, reaching his hand out to you before pulling it back to his side. He squeezes his hands in and out of fists a few times before he shakes his head, tilting his head back until he's staring up at the ceiling.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. “Last night… I shouldn't have–”

“Stop, please,” you cut him off, voice hoarse in the quiet. You've run out of energy. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“No, I did everything wrong. I thought I could handle it, thought it wouldn't be too much. Everyone told me it was a bad idea but I didn't want to listen, thought I could control myself.”

You feel bile rising in your throat. “What?”

He shakes his head again. “I shouldn't have said yes.”

He murmurs it, but the cabin is dead silent, so there's no way you don't hear it. There's no way you can misinterpret what he means either. Last night. He shouldn't have said yes when you asked if he needed help.

You take a step back, and you watch his face crumble a bit more. “Right.” Your voice sounds hollow. “It's fine. It was a mistake anyway."

"A mistake?" Now he looks confused through his tears. "No, that's not–"

"It's okay, Chan." You force a smile that feels like it might crack your face in half. You need to end this conversation now so you can go cry in your bed. "We can just forget it happened. You were in rut, I was... available. It's fine."

"Available." He deadpans. His gaze loses some of the previous softness. "Is that what you think? That I just... used you because you were there?”

You find yourself backing away towards the stairs, already mentally checked out. “Isn't it? You said it yourself last night, it was just my scent.”

His face flashes through so many emotions, you're not sure how you would begin parsing through them. He settles on something that looks like a mix of thinly veiled disgust and anger. He fixes his posture until he's back up to his full height now, brown eyes ablaze.

You decide to turn away from him fully at that moment. Whatever this is, this half argument you're having, it can wait until you've taken a good nap. You prepare to climb the stairs, keeping one hand on the railing and one foot on a stair.

That's about as far as you make it before you feel the unmistakable heat of Chan behind you. You stifle back the gasp that threatens to spill when he presses himself right up against your back, head dipped down so he's right by your ear.

“Ask me why,” he breathes. 

You shiver at the feeling of his breath on your ear, and your entire body lights up in record time. You've forgotten how to speak, maybe.

So, you eloquently stutter out a simple, "What?"

He slides a hand around you, reaching from the base of your back all the way to your stomach, pulling you closer to him. “Babygirl. I said, ask me why.”

You swallow thickly. His voice is still hoarse and low from the crying, and it sends a shiver up your spine that rocks your body so hard, you think you would fall if not for the strong arm around you.

"Why," you breathe. The word has no conviction in it. You're getting dizzy.

He leans even closer to you, lips brushing the shell of your outer ear. "Because," he murmurs. "Yes, your scent smells so fucking good. So sweet and warm. But I don't want you because you smell good, baby. I want you because you smell like you're mine.”

You whimper involuntarily at that, and you feel him inhale sharply. His other hand reaches up to hold your chin, tilting your head up towards him. You're looking at each other now, his eyes blown wide and his pupils blown so black, there's barely any brown left.

"Do you understand me, babygirl?" He's breathing hard against you. "Even under the harsh scent of your pain, or the saccharine scent of when you're happy, something in you always smells like you belong to me. Do you know why?"

Your knees feel weak. Not from pain, but because of whatever is happening right now. You let out a pathetic mewl in Chan's hold and watch his nostrils flare. 

"Because you are mine. My mate. You hear me, baby? Mine.”

Then he's tilting your head to the side and kissing down the column of your throat, nipping just hard enough to send electricity through your body. You whine, unable to stop the way your body arches into his touch. 

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest, pulling away just long enough to look you in your eyes again. "Wasn't using you," he huffs, saying the word use like it leaves a nasty flavor in his mouth. "I needed you, needed your scent around me to make it better. I couldn't control myself, baby."

He spins you around so that you're facing him now, hands still wrapped around your waist. You think he's about to kiss you, but you see a wave of clarity and seriousness push everything else to the side.

“They asked me at the clinic,” he starts, shuffling with you in his arms until you're back in the living room with him. “If something happened to a family member, or if I had a girlfriend who was hurt.”

You're hanging on to every word, unable to look away from his eyes.

“I told them no to both, but I told them about the hospital, about how you called me crying cause you were in so much pain, and you just kept passing out on me. I told them about how scared I was that if I left the hospital, I would come back and you wouldn't be there. You'd be gone. It was ripping me apart.”

You reach up to touch his face without thinking, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He leans into the touch like he can't help himself.

“I presented because I wanted to protect you down to my very DNA. I was going so crazy about you that my body needed a way to protect me– protect you.”

“Chan,” you breathe.

“They said my inner wolf, that primal part of me, recognized it as my mate being in pain, and I was powerless to stop it. It's you, babygirl. It's always been you.”

The hopeless romantic in your heart is giddy. 

You think about how you'd tried to touch him during the drive up, how he'd pulled his hands away like he was in pain. You supposed maybe he was. Going through his first rut, stuck in an enclosed space with his mate, unable to do anything about it.

You can't imagine the amount of restraint it probably took him to remain normal. The sheer thought of it alone has you blinking back up at him, looking right in his eyes.

With the eye contact, you feel his body swell microscopically, like he's flaxing every muscle so he can look bigger, more threatening, but he is neither of those things to you.

To you he is just Chan.

You're rising up on your toes before you even know what's happening, hand sliding up Chan's neck to pull him down towards you and catching his lips in a hot, burning kiss. 

The hand around your waist tighten's its grip, slotting you even further against his body.

It feels like home. It feels like safety.

You feel his growing bulge press against you, and you hum into the kiss. 

It feels like perfection.

"M'Sorry," he slurs against your mouth. He makes no effort to pull away. "Still in rut. Sensitive."

You say nothing, sliding your free hand down his chest, over his stomach until you reach what you're looking for. You rest your hand over it softly, not grabbing or pressing, but he responds like you do, grunting and rutting up against your hand as he starts panting.

"Babygirl," he groans. "Baby, please."

You start moving your hand in earnest now, cupping his bulge through his sweats as he grinds up against you. His eyes flutter closed and he pulls away from the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours.

"God, I wanna fuck you so bad," he grunts. "Wanna be inside. Wanna cum inside you so deep you'll never forget who you belong to. Make myself your alpha."

It's insane how your body reacts to that. You feel your clit jump in your underwear. The Alpha/Omega thing wasn't real-- or at least wasn't based on any science with the condition, but the way Chan speaks, the way his grunts sound so close to your ear, you believe it could be.

"You're gonna let me, right?" He whines. "Please? I'll make you feel so good. Been so good for me already baby. Just wanna make you cum on my cock."

Your moan gets caught in your throat when he slides a hand down your body to grip the swell of your ass. Between that and feeling him, rock solid against you, your entire body comes back to life with desperate, almost delirious need.

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, Channie, please. Want you. Please."

His chest vibrates with a growl and he wastes no time pushing you back until you're laying against the couch. He kneels over you, large hand reaching down and palming himself through his sweats.

He notices what you're wearing at that moment. He reaches his free hand down, gripping the material of your– his – hoodie. It's entirely too big for you, even when you're standing, but laying back like this, the material absolutely dwarfs you. 

He must like the sight of it, because you watch him grip himself tight.

"Fuck, babygirl. You don't know what you do to me. Wearing my clothes? Are you even wearing anything under that?"

Feeling bold, you reach down and pull the hem of the sweater up, just enough so that he can see the expanse of skin right under it. When he looks back at your face, you give him an innocent expression, eyes wide and blinking.

He doesn't even bother taking anything off, just pulls his cock out of his sweats and starts stroking himself again. You feel your mouth go dry just from the sight of it– hard and flushed red, precum dripping from the tip. You grip the material of his sweater tighter.

“Gonna be good, baby?" he breathes. "Wanna get off like this."

You nod, unable to form a coherent sentence. He looks fucking delicious above you, cock in hand as he strokes himself faster now, moaning at the way you look underneath him.

"Gonna make myself cum on your stomach," he grunts. "Mark you. Then I'll fuck you until you're screaming, so everyone knows who you belong to.”

You feel your cunt throbbing in your underwear. You cant help the way you whine out his name, the way you squeeze your thighs together to try to get some relief. He looks like he's going to explode just from hearing you say his name like that.

He leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch by your head, effectively caging you in. You can feel how his muscles flex under your hands as you touch him, sliding your palms up and down his chest. You find your eyes locked onto his hand, watching the way he moves up and down.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he breathes. "Fucked my fist so many times wishing it was you.”

You wrap your arms around him, one hand going up to that special spot at the base of his neck. As you graze your nails against it, he turns his face, pressing his nose into the pulse point on your wrist, inhaling you and your smell.

He starts moaning louder, breath fanning across your arm as he gets closer and closer to the edge. You're so turned on from it, you feel like you might actually cum without a hand to your body.

"Babygirl," he grunts. "Baby, fuck. I'm close."

You pull him down to you, pressing his face right into your neck. You can feel how his eyelids flutter as his eyes roll back, the arm by your head straining with how tightly he's gripping the couch.

"Gonna let your alpha cum on your stomach, baby? Mark you?”

You nod quickly. You feel him lean in even more, brushing his lips against the soft part of your throat where he no doubt can feel your erratic pulse. You right into his ear, and then he's groaning out your name and nipping at your throat hard, all teeth and tongue and need as he spills all over you.

He makes sure to press his body flush against you while he rides out his orgasm, so that his cum splatters all over your stomach. He grinds up against you with his hips, making sure his cock slides along the fabric of his sweater. You watch him get lost in it, eyes screwed shut as he mouths at your throat, panting and moaning through his high.

Then he stills, just a bit. He pulls away from your neck, his pupils still completely blown as he looks down at you.

You're not sure what he sees when he does. You know sweat is starting to stick to your skin, plastering little bits of your hair to your face. Despite not being touched yet, you feel absolutely cock drunk if only on the sight of Chan alone.

You can't tell if that's what he sees, but whatever it is, it makes his still-hard cock jump against where it rests on your stomach. He's pushing himself up to sit on his knees before you even remember your own name.

He slides down the couch until his face is level with your hips. He pulls the waistband of your sweats down just enough for your cunt to be exposed, and then he's leaning forward, dragging his tongue along your slit.

"Fuck," you cry, body jolting. "Chan."

He doesn't respond verbally, just hums and pulls back enough to stare at your dripping cunt. You find your hips bucking up when he lets his mouth water just enough to drool right on you.

He dives back down to your cunt and pushes his tongue inside of you. You feel him moan against you as he licks you, slow and deliberate. You can hear how wet you are, and you feel yourself throb around his tongue when you hear it.

"I kept noticing your scent change," he says against your clit. He gives it a few kitten licks before diving down and flattening his tongue on you, licking and slurping you from end to end. "Sometimes, I would look at you, or touch you, and you smelled like citrus. Couldn't figure out why."

He takes those absurdly plump lips and suctions them around your clit, one strong arm coming to hold you down when you arch up off the bed.  "Thats just your scent when you're aroused," he continues, nudging his nose against your clit. "Smells so fucking good."

You're certain you might be delirious at this point. The way Chan eats you out feels so much better than anything else you've ever felt, and his tongue has you hurdling to the crest of your orgasm faster than you can believe.

"Oh. Ohh," you whimper. "Channie, m'so close."

"That's my good girl," he murmurs. His lips are still right against your clit. "You're so perfect baby. Let me make you feel good. Want you to cum for me."

He slides his tongue back inside of you, and you feel a hand come up to play with your clit. You're so dangling off the edge, so ready to jump with the right push. You just need a little more, but then you feel a finger slide inside of you and crook up.

You're gone. You cum with a shout of Chan's name, arching up off of the couch as your body shakes from the intensity of it all. He licks you through it, pulling away only when you start to whine and wiggle around from the sensitivity.

He sits back on his knees again, watching you pant on the couch as you try to collect yourself. You look over at him when you catch your breath, and you see him licking his fingers clean.

He leans over you again, and you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down. You don't bother asking first, just slot his lips to yours in a desperate kiss. It's absolutely wet and filthy, the flavor of yourself bursting over your tongue when he swipes into your mouth. You suck on his tongue, hard, and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up under the sweater to touch your bare skin.

"Gonna fuck you good now," he grunts against your lips. You whine and press your body into his. "Okay, baby? Do you think you're ready for me?"

"Yes, Chris," you sigh. He pulls away from the kiss gently to stare at you. Despite the haze of his rut, you can see a hesitancy in his eyes, like there's something he wants but he's not saying. It takes all of two seconds for you to connect the dots.

"Please, Alpha?" you whine.

That seems to be the magic word, because he's lifting you up into his arms and standing up from the couch immediately. In a split second, you're pressed up against the wall next to the TV. You're very thankful for the layer between your bare skin and the freezing cold wall.

He wraps your legs around his waist, and suddenly you can feel the heat of his erection right on you. He presses his cock between your folds, holding you tight while he ruts up into you. 

You're so wet that the head catches against your entrance every so often, making both of you moan into each others mouths.

"Thank you, baby," he murmurs, uncharacteristically soft at a moment like this. "'m so grateful. So--" He lets out a pant, eyes rolling back as he lets his head drop back too. "Fuck."

You know Chan well enough to know what he's trying to say. He's thanking you for accepting him, for coming back to him, for letting him be vulnerable.

How could you not? He was so distressed by your wellbeing that a distant part of his DNA woke up to protect you. He ignored his doctor's orders to take you on this trip because he knew you needed it. He was content to suffer through his first rut in silence if it meant just taking care of you.

How could you not love all that he is?

You learn forward and nip him right as his pulse point, and his whole body jerks. You know werewolf lore, know that a bite there means a forever. You don't have the same genetic syndrome, but God do you want to be in his arms forever. You don't even feel like you need to question it.

His eyes, heavily lidded, find their way to your face. "You know what that bite means, right baby?" His voice is hoarse, and even when he clears his throat at your responding nod, it doesn't get better. "You wanna mark me there, babygirl? Make me yours?”

You nod, sliding your mouth up his throat until your lips are pressed right against his ear. You slide your tongue over his lobe and tug on it. "Please alpha. Wanna show everyone who you belong to."

He snakes a hand up your back until he finds your hair, fingers tangling in the roots as he grips, pulling your head back. "I mark you first," he grits out. "Let alpha take care of you."

You can't help the way you go pliant, letting your head fall to one side just enough to expose your neck to him. You watch his eyes and make your expression as wanting as possible.

He groans at that, finally pulling you away from the wall just enough so that he can line himself up. He pushes his tip right into you, and you press your forehead against his, the mixed sounds of your breathing being the only thing filling the atmosphere.

"I love you," he sighs. Your heart squeezes in your chest. "Gonna take such good care of you always, yeah?"

"I love you more, Chan," is your breathy reply.

"I'll give you everything," he sighs. "Everything you want. I just need you to come on my cock first, yeah? The alpha's got you. I got you."

Then he's pushing in slowly, and you both sigh as he bottoms out. You cling to him, pressing your face into his neck as he fucks you slowly into the wall.

He keeps it slow, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your forehead and hair, telling you how good you feel, how perfect you are for him, how you were made just for him. You're already feeling the pressure building up in your stomach again, barely paying attention to what he's saying. 

"Gonna breed this tight little pussy," he murmurs at some point. You do hear that, and you clench hard around him, making him groan.

"Oh fuck," he gasps. "You want my seed, huh? Want me to fuck my seed in you, angel?"

Your walls around him again, swallowing him up. You know you can't get pregnant-- birth control and all of that-- but the idea of him filling you up has your body begging for more. You dig your nails into the skin of his back and you feel him throb inside of you. He makes a sound between a grunt and a moan, slamming his hips into yours, cock sliding into you deeper than before.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, m'so close already. Think you can you cum with me angel? Hm?"

You nod, clinging to his shoulders as you bounce up and down on his cock. It feels so good, too good, and you're already so close yourself.

"Chris," you whine. "I'm– fuck, I'm close."

"I know, babygirl," He sounds so wrecked. "I'm right behind you. You can cum for me baby. Cum for your alpha. Want you to cum on me, please."

He presses a kiss to your neck, right over your pulse point, and that's all it takes to send you tumbling over the edge. You cry out his name, letting him fuck you through it while your cunt pulsates around him. You feel him twitch in you, a deep guttural moan leaving his lips as he slams into you one last time, spilling all his cum inside of you.

He bites you then.

Its not painful, not really, because he doesn't break skin. His teeth aren't sharp enough for that. The bite is more performative than anything, but it sends a shockwave through your body.

 It's a strange feeling, almost like your blood is simmering under your skin, but you're so lost in the bliss of your orgasm that you don't even care. It feels right, anyhow. Like the final missing piece to a puzzle you've been spending a lifetime constructing.

He stays there for a second, sucking a bruise into your neck. His hands are shaking, but he's holding you tight enough that you don't even worry about falling.

Then, he licks the spot on your neck where he bit, soothing whatever pain he might've caused. He pulls away from you just enough to press a kiss to your lips, still holding you up with his cock in you.

"I love you," he whispers. "My mate. Mine."

You reach a hand up to touch his neck, and he tilts his head to the side, giving away to the instincts thrumming under his skin. You take your fingers and trace them along the column of his throat, stopping just under his Adam's apple. 

You don't say anything at first, just lean forward and press your lips against the same spot. Your bite is more restrained, more gentle. He hisses out a strangled sound, and you would assume it was pain if you didn't feel his cock pulse in you.

When you pull away, you look at him, a small smile on both of your incredibly fucked out faces. You lean forward and press a little kiss to his lips.

"I love you too," is your quiet reply. "My mate."

As promised, he's so gentle with you afterwards, cleaning you up and giving you your medication when he scents your hips are about to ache. The entire ordeal is so familiar, so cozy, you wonder how you could've ever let yourself believe that Chan didn't love you too.

Hours later, when you're cuddled together on the couch, dozing off in his lap, you hear him whispering something against your hair. Your mind is so muddled with sleep you can barely make out the words he's saying.

You string together something about mates, something about how he'll protect you, how you're his everything, how he loves you so much.

It doesn't really matter though. You know already, because he's yours, and you're his.

His everything.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

eventually

words: 700

warnings: established relationship, college student!reader, long distance relationship, cheating, not a happy ending, wheezie is a queen as per usual, mentions/implications of hooking up but the fic is pretty sfw

“it'll be… it'll be really hard and i understand if you want to break up.” just the words coming out of your mouth breaks your heart.

“is that what you want?”

“what?” you shake your head quickly, moving to sit even closer and taking rafes hands in yours, squeezing them tightly. “i love you. i don't want us to ever break up, but im going to college three hours away.”

“we will just have to go long distance.” rafe raises your joined hands and kisses the back of your hand to your fingers. “im not giving up on the only good thing in my life.”

“oh, rafe.” you pout, launching yourself forward into a tight embrace.

--six months later--

you smile at the email approving you to take your exam early. it's the last one you need and considering you already have a 4.0 in the glass, you don't see it dropping just because you get less time to study.

you quickly close outlook and open up your text messages. as much as you want to tell rafe that you'll be coming home two weeks early, you also really want to surprise him.

hey wheezie girl!! I need your help…

--

“where is he?” you whisper as wheezie let's you into the house.

“in his room.” wheezie also keeps her voice low. “he might be asleep though so i don't know if you want to wait.”

“no.” you shake your head quickly. you just got home and the first thing you did was drive to tanneyhill, you're not sure if you can wait even a minute longer. “i got it from here, thanks girl.” you give wheezie a big hug. “i missed you too, ya know.”

wheezie hugs you back before letting you tiptoe up the stairs, keeping your steps as light as to not wake rafe.

you take a deep breath when you see his door, excitement filling in you knowing he's just on the other side.

you grip the brass handle and turn it slowly, attempting to keep the door from creaking as you step into the dark room.

your eyes take a second to adjust to the darkness, the morning light blocked out by the heavy curtains. you recognize a figure in bed and take a few steps closer, but with every movement, your heart drops further.

the sob rips from your chest before you even realize you're crying, waking rafe instantly.

“baby?” he sits up quickly, his voice frantic. “what are you doing here?”

“baby?!” you squeal. “you don't get to call me baby when there's a girl in your fucking bed!”

the clearly naked girl, gripping the blanket to her chest is now awake and staring at the both of you in confusion, probably some touron who had no clue what she was getting involved with.

“p-please.” rafe stutters, standing quickly. “it doesn't mean anything, i don't even remember her name i just needed to-”

you hold your hand up. “i don't want to hear it. i can't believe you… this is over. we are over.”

you walk quickly out of the room and stumble down the stairs, feeling like the house is suffocating you.

you don't even realize that you bump directly into ward, practically crashing into him and forcing him back into rose.

“y/n, what's wrong?” ward asks just as rose asks you when you got home, the whole family knowing when to expect you.

“what's wrong is your son is a cheater.” you give rafe a glare as he stands at the top of his stairs in only his underwear.

“rafe-” ward growls out. he knows how good you are for his son, he's seen the shift in his behavior since you left.

“baby, i still love you, she means nothing to me! it was just casual-”

you leave the house as his pleas continue, not wanting to hear another word of his bullshit arguments, knowing two years has now gone down the drain.

“im sorry.” you look up to see wheezie standing by your car. “i didn't know for sure but… but i guessed. i know you needed to see it with your own eyes. he went to a party last night and-”

“oh, wheeze.” you quickly give her a hug. “it's okay. ill be okay.”

“you will?”

you don't know the answer to that question, not for certain as you look back at the house, rafe stood in the doorway but not following you as ward lectures him.

“not any time soon.” you admit honestly. “but i will be. eventually.”

sfw taglist: @winterrrnight @bejeweledreverie @ethanthequeefqueen @ladyinbl00d @drewsephrry

[starogeorgina]

𝐊𝐞𝐩𝐚

Paring: Daemon Targaryen × reader, Harwin Strong x reader, Criston Cole x reader

Warnings: Swearing, smut, child birth

1.03

You blink away unshed tears as you stare up at Ser Harwin; the look on his face was earth-shattering. No traces of anger or bitterness could be detected on his handsome face; the softness in his eyes made you feel nothing but guilt. You should never have believed the rumors, given into your husband's taunting or gone near Criston Cole.

You’re unaware that you’re crying until Harwin wipes them away with the pads of his thumb. “Prince Daemon told me your news; congratulations, princess.” He leans forward and kisses your forehead, and in a quiet voice, he says, “He also told me what he said to you. I wish I’d known sooner.”

Ser Harwin wasn’t a fool; he knew his beloved princess’s outburst of believing the rumors surrounding him and Princess Rhaenyra being true hadn’t come from thin air, but he had no idea Daemon was the one behind it. The Targaryen prince thrived in chaos, but after causing so much damage, the knight was grateful to be away from the keep for some time; otherwise, he might have done something to get himself executed.

“Do you forgive me?”

Harwin sighs, “There’s nothing to forgive. It was a misunderstanding.”

Pouting, you shake your head. “I should never have doubted you... henujagon īlva, valzȳrys.” (Leave us, husband.)

You wait until you hear Daemon leave; he didn’t need to be involved in your conversation, and you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist if he was within earshot. You take Harwin’s large hand in yours and say, “I love my husband; he’s the other half of me. Targaryens are made to burn together, but I love you too. I don’t know how to explain it; it’s a different kind of love. Since I was a girl, I always knew I’d marry Daemon, regardless of how I felt, but I chose to be with you. You make me feel safe and—”

“What is it you’re trying to tell me?” Harwin wipes away another fallen tear. “I’ve memorized each time you’ve confessed your love to me, which is how I know something is wrong. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I don’t know whose baby this is. I forgot to drink moon tea after the last time we lay together.”

His blue eyes fill with tears. “Prince Daemon will be the father.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your heart aches a little when Harwin hugs you; he was a good man. A far better person than you, Daemon, or Criston. He wasn’t selfish, violent, or entitled. You only wish you’d never questioned his loyalty to begin with.

“There’s something else I need to tell you.”

—

As the months passed, your body changed, and the gorgeous gowns you had made could no longer hide how large your bump had gotten. Rhaenyra often thought you were carrying more than one baby when your bump first started to swell, but now you were convinced she was right.

Daemon smooths his hand gently over the fabric of your dress, feeling the baby kick beneath. You were comfortable laying on your left side with multiple pillows fluffed around you to keep you in that position. Your husband lay behind you with his face nuzzling into the side of your neck.

“Have you spoken much with Ser Harwin?”

“No,” you say, feeling your lip tremble slightly. “Perhaps it is for the best; the less he is near during my pregnancy, the less people will talk.”

Daemon kisses your cheek. “The baby could look exactly like us, and the Greens would still gossip. I suspect the same will happen with Rhaenyra as soon as she has an heir.”

Your sister and her husband, Ser Laenor, had gone to visit various houses in the realm on behalf of your father, who was too ill to travel the distance himself. Although they had gone on dragonback, a large number of knights, including Ser Harwin, had been sent to protect them. When you confessed your antics with Cole to Ser Harwin, he was mad for a while but insisted he still wanted to be with you; he just needed some time.

“And what if the baby doesn’t look like us?” You knew no matter what, you’d love and protect your child fiercely, but you needed reassurance from Daemon. “I’ve been beyond foolish; I’ve given them the opportunity to make my child’s life miserable before they are even born.”

“I will cut out the tongues of anyone who dares question the legitimacy of our child. Any baby you have will be an extension of you; it would be impossible for me not to love them.” He rubs his hand along your stomach again. “This is my son or daughter growing inside you. Nothing anyone says will change that.”

—

“Princess, it’s time to push again.”

“I can’t! I can’t!” You sob, clutching onto the bed sheets tightly. The pain was overwhelming; you were convinced this is what dying felt like.

“Push!”

The midwives help guide you through the last few pushes until your daughter finally enters the room. She is placed on your chest, and you sob with happiness, “She’s perfect—oh fuck.”

Your daughter is quickly carried away to be cleaned up as the midwife pushes your legs open again. “Time to do this second time, princess.”

—

Daemon hums while gently rocking your daughter Daella to sleep, while your son Gaemon suckles at your breast. They were only a few hours old, but it already felt like you'd spent a lifetime loving them.

“Perhaps when you are feeling up to it, we can pick dragon eggs for the baby’s.”

You smile and say, “That would be nice.”

With Syrax having laid another clutch of dragon eggs, you were on your way to the dragon pit to pick one while being accompanied by your husband and sworn protector, but before you could leave the courtyard, your waters broke. Ser Harwin immediately picked you up and carried you back to your chambers, while Daemon sent for the maester and midwives.

“There, there,” Daemon says before gently placing your daughter into the crib next to your bed.

You smile down at her. Daella shares your pale complexion; her silver hair and the shade of her purple eyes were an exact match for yours. Gaemon got almost all his features from you, like his sister; his skin was pale and his hair silver, except his eyes were a dark brown.

“I think he’s had his feed,” you say when Gaemon stops feeding and his eyelids slowly start to close.

Daemon takes him from your arms so you can readjust your nightgown. He kisses the baby on the forehead. “They really are perfect.”

—

Sitting underneath the weirwood tree, you smile as Daella attempts to walk along one of the thick roots sticking out of the ground, with your loyal knight Ser Harwin right behind her, ready to catch her the second she slips. Gaemon lays back, his head resting against your legs, as you read a story about dragons out loud. Both eggs had hatched in the cradle, and your children were now getting to the age where they understood how powerful and magical dragons are.

“Careful, princess,” Harwin says softly. “Slow down before you fall.”

Daella grins up at the knight before jumping onto a different root. It wouldn’t be long before curiosity got the better of her, and she attempted to climb the tree.

When screeching comes from the distance, Gaemon points to the sky and says, “Mama, look! It’s kepa!”

You look up and see the Blood Wyrm flying in the direction of the dragonpit. Daemon always made a point of returning from dragon riding before supper time so he could dine with his family. When you lower your gaze from the sky, you are met with the cold gaze of Ser Criston Cole. You often notice the knight observing your son and daughter from a distance, but he makes no attempt to interact with them.

Although Cole would never admit it, you had a feeling he would risk his life for them just as Daemon and Harwin would.

—

Harwin takes one of the pebbled nipples into his mouth while you lean over him, your hands pressing against his chest. Daemon kisses the back of your neck, occasionally nipping at your sensitive skin with his teeth as he thrusts into you from behind. Over time, the three of you had come to an agreement that when the time came and you wished to have another baby, you and Harwin couldn’t fuck as you normally would, eliminating any chances of him getting you pregnant since you wouldn’t be drinking moon tea. But you still wanted to be intimate with Harwin, and your ever-devoted husband came up with an idea.

Daemon’s voice is cocky as he says, “So, Ser Harwin, how do you feel about our princess taking what she wants from us at the same time?”

Harwin grins. “Do you think you could take both of us?”

“Yes, I want you both.”

“Greedy girl!” Daemon smacks your ass.

Your heart races with anticipation at the thought of having both of them inside you at the same time. You're used to making love to them both, but this would feel different—more intimate, more primal. Harwin and Daemon had mutual respect for one another, but they mainly bonded over how much they loved your little family.

Your husband chuckles softly, his warm breath caressing your ear. “You’ll get what you desire, my love. I’ve bet you’ve thought about this plenty of times before, haven’t you?”

Feeling your cheeks heat up, you nod.

A princess desperate to feel her husband and lover fill her up at the same time.

Daemon slowly withdraws his shaft from your cunny, leaving you aching for more. He sits down on the bed beside Harwin, but before you have the chance to move over to his lap, the knight hooks his hands under your thighs and pulls you up until you are hovering over his face. Not wasting time, Harwin starts flicking at your sensitive clit with his tongue.

Daemon smirks as he listens to your whine. He had already ‘prepared’ both your holes before Harwin joined you in the bedchamber. After coming apart on Harwin’s lips, Daemon gently pulls the small cock-shaped object from your anus, then pulls you onto his lap so you are facing him, and slides his cock into your cunny again.

He leans back and pulls you down with him, gripping your shoulders and spreading them while Harwin readjusts himself behind you. The thought of having them both causes your clit to throb, “Please.”

Harwin guides his thick cock to where you’re aching for him. With a gentle nudge, he pushes past your resistance and enters your tight hole. You gasp as he fills you completely. The sensation of having them both inside you is foreign and exhilarating. Harwin begins to rock his hips gently, slowly pulling them out before pushing them back in again, while Daemon thrusts upwards at a harsher pace.

“How does it feel? Daemon asks, pinching your nipple between his fingers. “Good as you imagined?”

“So, so good.”

Your mind becomes hazy with pleasure when one of them starts rubbing fast circles on your clit. You come apart, squeezing both of them tightly. Harwin shoots his seed inside you, then Daemon follows shortly after, coating your cunny in his seed, which he will hopefully take.

The knight slowly pulls out, then brushes your sweaty hair out of your face and kisses you deeply. Daemon smirks, “Take your time catching your breath, my good knight, as we will be here all night.”

[valentinaagarcia]

twisted wonderland characters as things i've heard in the locker room... pt.3

(yall re probably like "what the hell val? another one🤨🤨 yes. another one. ans for my new readers- im on the boys team as a gril)

(yuu is what i responded)

----

floyd: sometimes i just feel like i wanna kill myself

ace: me too man

jamil: im actually gonna kill myself.

----

ace: sticking our your gyatt...

floyd: for the rizzler...

jamil: get out.

----

ruggie: i love you man have a good game

leona: yeah.

ruggie: your not gonna say i love you back?

leona: what if i killed myself

----

yuu: someone hook me up

kalim: i have a cousin i dated for three months before realizing she was my cousin, i could hook you up with her!

yuu: what th???

----

ace: yeah and the worker was like "dont open door i told you dont open door!" (filipino accent)

deuce: oh oh and then he was like "i scold you, you open door again i hit you!" (filipino accent.... not filipino)

ace: ohawh.. man uh.

deuce: what?

yuu: dude you cant say it like that since your not asian

deuce: what? but you talk like a hispanic person all the time?

yuu: i wonder why.

----

riddle: okay, lets just move on from the accent thing alright?

deuce: yep! ill stick to my accent and stop using others

trey: howdy y'all, good game mate

deuce: howdy mate! good gam..

riddle: ...

deuce: ill stop using other accents... starting now

----

cater: hispanics are so HOTT like you guys dont get it

jack: shut up were meditating before the game quit it with your hispanic fetish.... god

cater: you guys dont get it.

----

ace: personally, i listen to justin bieber

jamil: im more into lana del rey

jack: megan for me

floyd: i listen to cardi b! how about you, yuu?

yuu: laufey and alex g

malleus: i love you (listens to both)

----

malleus: mary or sarah?

yuu: sandy

----

ace: yo dude i think yuu might be buffer than jack

deuce: no way???

ace: YUU JACK

yuu:huh

jack: hm?

ace: can you both flex your muscles???

----

jack: you are not buffer than me.

yuu: shut up hoe, this is why i got a bigger dick than you

jack: you have a penis?...

yuu: for sure bigger than yours.

(i do in fact, not have a penis)

----

floyd: okay so listen guys, we need to get the shampoo and shove it upp our areolas and run around naked on basket field

azul: who.. wha??? oh my god are you high?

yuu: its the ace incident all over again...

----

epel: yuu genuine question, what does pussy taste like

yuu: ....? it tastes like pussy?

epel: i just ate a pussy.

yuu: man....good for you i guess? wait WHAT

----

(for context a bird flew into the glass and flew into the locker rooms)

deuce: OH MY GOD?!?

epel: KILL IT

kalim: no dont kill it!

ace: yuu do something!!!!

yuu: why are you asking me? your the man

floyd: JUST DO SOMETHING

yuu: ugh.... men only act proud and strong to flaunt.

----

floyd & kalim: THERES A SPIDER

kalim: JAMIL HELP... me?

jamil: *fucking hiding on top of the lockers*

----

yuu: why didnt i become a cheerleader.

[inkstainedheartbeats]

Part three of this

It’s three days after the negative pregnancy test. Three days of Steve practically tiptoeing around their apartment. And Eddie knows that it’s not personal. That Steve doesn’t even realize how soft and meek he’s gotten. Like a solid seventy-five percent of Hawkins his parents were both Betas. He knows that things weren’t shiny and happy in the Harrington household. That habits are hard to break. Look at him and his food hiding habits he still has even after living with the god amongst men that is his Uncle.

Robin knows. Robin knew the moment that Eddie called to tell her she needed to find another ride in to work. The Beta woman hasn’t left Steve’s side. Stuck to him like a limpet.

They’re sitting at the table. Steve across from Eddie, their feet touching, with Robin resting her head on Steve’s shoulder. Breakfast is growing cold in front of them.

“You said some of it was me,” Steve starts off before cutting himself off. He takes a big bite out of his eggs. Robin makes an encouraging sound from next to him.

“Look, I slept through most of health class. But when we got serious I went to Uncle Wayne.”

Admitting this gets him small smiles, Robin even reaches a hand over to place on his. He knows she’ll always take Steve’s side, that to love one means to love the other so this act of kindness is… it makes him brave.

“One of the reasons that Alphas don’t tend to bare children isn’t just society being fucking sexist. It’s because Alphas produce a hormone that neither of the other secondaries can. And like, normally it doesn’t matter. But it makes pregnancies harder on Alphas. Wayne gave me all sorts of pamphlets on Alpha health, got me in contact with an Alpha ex of his.”

He’s squeezing Robin’s hand.

“I can’t loose you, Steve. I know we’re waiting to Mark each other, I understand why we’re waiting but even without the physical evidence of it, you are my Mate. And if I lost you?”

It was the threat of losing Steve to Vecna that had him breaking the control the bastard had on him. It was the sight of Steve bleeding yet again, standing in front of El, head tilted back like Chrissy’s that had him snapping. Steve was it for him. His heart knew it before his head did and he knows Steve is much the same. He saw proof of it in how skinny Steve was. How rumpled and ill kept he was.

“I am open to children. I would love to see you round and waddling with my pups inside you, Steve, but I am a coward.”

“You’re not. You’re not a coward, Eds.”

Steve’s pushed back his chair from the table. Clambered up onto his lap. Wide hands are buried deep in his hair. They’re not kissing, not yet. Not with Robin in the room. Because kissing like this never stays kissing and while Steve tells her everything she doesn’t want a front row seat to it all.

Steve pours out his own fears. Of his father. Of his mother who tried but still failed in the grand scheme of things. His health.

“I’ve had so many concussions, Eds. Literal brain damage that will some day come and bite me in the ass.”

They’re honest with each other with Robin as their witness. It feels like confession. It feels like marriage. Like a divine oath.

“You make me feel brave, Eds. I’m not scared of this with you at my side.”

“Lady Buckley, might I advise you to flee this luxurious castle for… a couple of hours? I need to show my King just how brave he makes me feel.”

———/———/———/———/———/——

He’s still scared shitless when they test again. It’s been six months and Eddie has fucked Steve on nearly every available surface at every opportunity he can. His stomach rolls and breakfast threatens to make a reappearance. But Steve is in his lap while they sit in the tub.

He’s not quite sure why they have to be in here but something about bathrooms makes Steve feels safe so this is where he sits. He squeezes Steve tight against him as they wait for time to move on by. When the scent of joy fills the bathroom he laughs.

“Thank fuck,” he breathes out.

“Yeah, thank fuck,” Steve echos.

And if they fuck like rabbits in that tub no one has to know.

———/———/———/———/———/——

Hope you don’t mind me tagging you in the resolution @xxbottlecapx

[wisteria-blooms]

sunburns & dragons (charlie weasley & reader) (10/??)

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

TAGLIST AT THE BOTTOM! (Let me know if you'd like to be added or if I've missed you!) A/N: I might have a cold coming on, ugh. Thought I'd get this out if I'm afflicted by illness AGAIN. And apologies in advance if there are mistakes I missed while reading it over! Feel free to let me know about them + what you think about the story!

CHAPTER 10 : What goes up must come down. Your relationship with Charlie is no exception. (5.6k words)

CHAPTER 10: YOU DON'T OWN ME

“What happened?”

Your voice was pitchy and stricken with worry. Your eyes urgently implored Charlie to provide a reason for his concern as if it was more important for you to hear than it was to him. You’d never seen Charlie in this state, though you supposed you’d barely been around for two months of his life, and no important moments at that.

Charlie read: “Fleur’s in labour. Come when you can. Love, mum.”

“You got it, Charlie.” Stan obeyed by performing the sharpest u-turn known to mankind, on the narrowest road known to mankind. The force flung your body towards the windows this time but Charlie effortlessly caught you by the wrist. When you recovered from another near-death incident with the metal insides of Knight Bus, Charlie’s words sunk in. 

“Charlie!” you exclaimed.

“(Y/N)!” he returned with equal excitement, blue eyes widening. 

You got back on your knees, bone meeting the plush covers of the bed, found a stable moment in Stan’s driving, and clapped your hands together giddily. “You’re going to be an uncle!” 

The moment—half past midnight—you entered the obstetrics wing of St. Mungos was precisely the moment you asked yourself: why were you here? Why had you followed Charlie here? It felt natural to drunkly stumble out of Stan’s bus with Charlie to help him find his way to the right wing, but when Bill (who was standing by a water fountain) came into view, you felt like you had intruded on a personal moment. 

”Shit, Bill, I’m sorry,” Charlie apologized as he strode into the waiting area. Your nervous gait reflected in the windows, the colours of your long skirt spilling on the black skies outside, brightened only with a speckling of stars. You left a considerable amount of space between Charlie and yourself, not wanting Bill to perceive your being here as impolite. You hoped the green chairs would provide enough coverage if you stood behind them.

“This was precisely the reason I told you I couldn’t make the concert,” Bill explained, pulling Charlie into a hug. The hug was long. Bill made eye contact with you as he released Charlie. 

“How was the concert?” Bill asked, looking at you. 

“It was excellent,” you said. “We got—Charlie got Molly’s letter at the end of it.” You hoped this would absolve you of your uninvited presence. 

”Well, thank you for taking my place,” Bill said with a smile. “Charlie was never going to let me live it down.”

”(Y/N) was better company, anyway,” Charlie scoffed. “And easier on the eyes.”

“Of course she is,” Bill agreed, nudging Charlie with his elbow.

“You wound me, Bill,” Charlie protested, holding his side.

Bill smirked. “You know what wounds me? The fact you missed the birth of your niece and almost made me miss it, too.”

“What are you boys bickering about now?” Molly chided, stepping out of the room. Her hair was frazzled, the bulk of it pulled back into a bun. She appeared more stressed than the nurses walking out the room before her. Her expression softened immediately at the sight of her second eldest son. “Charlie! You’re here.”

“Of course, mum.” Charlie walked over to give his mother a hug, his body towering over hers.

“Come meet Victoire. The others will come tomorrow to give Fleur some breathing room.” Then, Molly noticed you. Your grasp on the green leather chair tightened and your chest strained anxiously at the same. “(Y/N),” she called out sweetly. “Would you like to come, too?”

“Oh, no, I can wait here,” you said, sliding over to sit on a chair. “Please, take as long as you need.”

“Alright, then,” Molly said. She placed a hand on both Charlie and Bill’s backs and guided them back into the delivery room. 

You exhaled heavily when they left. A pounding tension still lingered in your jaw; you were so embarrassed. You should’ve waited downstairs in the lobby instead of following Charlie upstairs. You were certain that as nice as Molly was, she was going to talk about your gaffe with her neighbours over tea: her perfect son’s only-remarkable-because-of-what-her-last-name-affords-her girlfriend invited herself to meet her first grandchild. And can you believe she might’ve been drinking prior to it? Ruined the occasion. You groaned, squeezing your eyes shut. Next time, you’d think things through. 

“Don’t drop her!” a shrill voice, muted by the door, rang out. 

You looked up. 

“I promise I won’t, mum! Now, calm down. Not even Fleur is worried,” came the response. Definitely Charlie. 

“He did a decent job holding onto the snitch back in school.” That was Bill.

Then, a delicate little laugh complemented by Bill’s deeper one.

“See, mum, nothing to fret over. She’s perfectly happy in her uncle’s arms.”

Your mind crafted an image of Charlie holding the newborn in his arms. There was a tender look in his blue eyes as he cradled something so delicate and precious. You felt the look of love through your vision and for a moment, the weight on your chest lifted. 

Every single detail of the night of the concert lingered in your mind for the next couple of days. You replayed each segment in your mind. Charlie taking you to pub and meeting Don. Charlie’s show of some emotion—jealousy?—and the touch of his hand on your hip in front of Alex. The moment in Stan’s bus, and had it not been for that owl, something might’ve happened. A confession, a kiss… you would’ve been pleased with either outcome. But you sung high praises for that aforementioned owl; it led to you being able to witness him being there for his niece’s first moments. You reckoned you handled it perfectly well, passing yourself off as a supportive partner rather than a nosy one.

Feelings of infatuation overwhelmed you as you tried to scrub them away at the dirt-speckled skin of a potato. It was Monday evening and you were running high on the fumes of adrenaline. You’d decided to expel that energy by trying your hand in the kitchen. A recipe for leek and potato soup caught your eye and it seemed easy enough. You figured Charlie might appreciate it too, given how he’d made fun of there not being a meal ready for him previously. He said he’d be back this evening, and you were going to be ready for it this time.  You even pulled down two wine glasses in anticipation.

You nearly nicked your finger with the peeler when you heard keys in the front door. You drew in a deep breath and extended your hands over the top of your head to smooth out any flyaways. But really, did the rugged, sun-kissed, outdoor-prone Charlie Weasley care about how your hair looked? Before you could answer, Charlie walked in with a small duffel bag slung over his shoulders. His hair was dishevelled, his cheeks rosy, and a thin sheen of sweat coated his skin.

Your heart nearly gave out at the sight. Heavens, he looked even more handsome like this. 

“Letter for you, (Y/N),” was Charlie’s greeting.

”Thank you,” you said. “Just set it down on the table there, if you don’t mind.” “Where’ve you been?” you asked, trying to keep your eagerness to a minimum. 

Charlie closed the door behind him. “I took up Mallory’s offer of Quidditch.”

Oh.

Your smile dropped but you prayed that Charlie didn’t see it.

Something more bitter and darker washed out the sweet taste in your mouth. “How was it?”

”Great!” Charlie replied cheerily. “Reminded me of old times.”

You didn’t dare ask what those old times consisted of. Treacherous images of post-celebratory locker room make-outs and late-night “practice” sessions came to mind. 

“I got around to chatting with her brother, Marcus,” Charlie added. “ When I wasn’t being tackled down to the ground or gasping for breath, at least. I forgot how well-connected he was to all the Ministry departments.”

More treacherous images flooded your mind. Charlie. Entangled with Mallory. On the field. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, stellar guy. I reckon I should keep in touch with him.” Charlie shedded his bag and his jacket. ”What are you making? It smells good.”

You beamed at his question. “I figured I’d take one out of Millicent’s book, seeing both you and I are such fans now.”

Charlie sucked some air through his teeth. “Bad night for me to grab dinner with old classmates, huh?”

“Oh, not at all,” you waved Charlie’s sentence off with a shake of your head. You shuffled slightly over to your left to conceal the second wine glass you’d pulled out. “There will be quite a bit left over, if you want it.”

“Thanks, (Y/N),” Charlie said. “I’m going to shower before I head out. Want to join?”

”No, I have dinner—” you stopped yourself, your peeler wedged in the crevice of a potato and refusing to budge. You swallowed a lump in your throat. Your chest felt strange, a strong ache casting shadows on where there was just so much joy. “I’ll see you afterwards.”

Charlie responded with a crooked smile and clamped his lips together like he was concealing a retort. You imagined it would’ve gone something like, ‘Ah, so you were thinking about joining me in the shower. How naughty of you, (Y/N).’

Well, no kidding. What sane person would refuse an elusive chance to see Charlie shirtless? The longer you thought about it, the more you could taste the hot beads of water coating his hair, running down the nape of his neck, down his chest and into the ridges of his abs. 

Your steam-ridden daydream was shot by you remembering of why he was in such desperate need of a shower. 

His mention of Mallory and his dinner plans made you want to dump the contents of the soup—that you’d made a second time over because you’d burned the first batch—into the sink. You feared how much more Mallory could get under his skin when you weren’t around him. Trying to quell your building insecurities, you had to rationalize it and break it down for your own sanity. ‘Friends’ was a plural word; Charlie and Mallory weren’t going to be alone at dinner. Charlie loved Quidditch. Mallory loved Quidditch. You didn’t love Quidditch. It was easy for the thought of inviting you to slip his mind. Charlie clearly talked to Mallory’s brother, Marcus as well. And most importantly, Charlie wasn’t your boyfriend or some committed lover or a lover of any sort. That prohibited you from asking anything of him.

Besides, he was going to come home after…right? 

You brushed off these thoughts as fanatical insinuations. Maybe you were going a little stir-crazy from Charlie’s flirting. When you heard the shower start, you slipped the extra wine glass back in its place and topped your own glass off. You needed it, because what else did Malfoys do when faced with trivial matters besides drinking them away? The dose was derived from observing your father: two glasses for a mild inconvenience, four for a moderate one, and the whole bottle for a considerable issue.

The situation at hand was pretty moderate, so four glasses it was.

In the reflection of the window, you saw your father’s eyes staring back at you. They held the same look of perturbance and wondering of why you should have to deal with any misfortune. You really were his daughter. 

The effect of the alcohol cushioned the pain of Charlie leaving through the door. He looked well-combed and delectable and ready to slip right into Mallory’s arms. Or into her mouth. No, you scolded yourself, none of that nonsense. After a lonesome dinner, your fork scraping your teeth in contemplation more than scraping the bowl, you sorted the leftovers into containers. You had your bath and went straight to bed.

Sleep that night was not only futile, it was wishful thinking. You tossed and turned. When you turned the light on again, both the hour and minute hand on your clock inched perilously close to two, meaning it was that late and Charlie still wasn’t back. He’d been gone for almost six hours.

You should’ve been asleep right now. You should’ve been fine right now. You shouldn’t be fretting over Charlie right now. So, why were you staring at the ceiling, a bruising feeling consuming your bones?

Before Charlie came into your life, you were trying to prove a point to your parents: you didn’t need a partner. And you’d always sworn you wouldn’t let the affections of a man change you; you preferred to operate independently.  Now, you were absolutely sick over Charlie. Sometime in the past couple weeks, you’d gone from not really caring where he was to your mood beating to the sound of his drums. Merlin, you were a raging hypocrite. 

The memories you had thought beautiful seemed so ugly now. His act of blowing off dinner in favour of hanging out with Mallory and her friends cheapened everything that happened over the weekend. And how was it fair that Charlie was free to spend his nights as he pleased, while the moment you engaged with Alex, he led you away? Wouldn’t it be preposterous if you showed up to the bar he was at right now and made a show by snatching him back in front of Mallory? If you did it, you’d look crazy. But when Charlie did it, it was chivalrous. 

As you fluffed your pillow just to lay down again, you thought about your friend, Alicia Spinnet. She used to complain about the men she dated and the ways they cycled hot and cold. They were indecipherable, affectionate one day and gone the next. In the end, they wanted nothing more than a fling which led to numerous late-night conversations with her asking you where she’d gone wrong or if those men were really interested in the first place. The pain she felt was only punctuated when she saw them out with a real partner months later. 

While you empathized with her by providing long hugs, ice-cream, and promises of getting petty revenge, you didn’t think yourself as so naive to find yourself in such a situation. You’d look for the signs, you’d know when to leave. But now, you felt so, so stupid. 

Charlie Weasley was not different; he was exactly the type of men Alicia complained about. At this point, you weren’t even sad. You were angry and you didn’t know who to be angry with.

“You look like shit.”

You eked out a smile. “Thank you, Fred.”

You stopped by Cauco and Weasley Wizard Wheezes the next morning just before work. Neither place brought you much peace after what had happened with Charlie there, but Fred and George were the cure-all to any sort of pain. And the last time you trekked from Cauco to the shop, you hadn’t met Charlie yet, so maybe this would serve as some sort of spiritual reset. 

You almost choked on your coffee order. You’d asked for the strongest drink as a feeble attempt to get through the day and you were served accurately. You peeled off the sleeve trying to ascertain how many shots of espresso were exactly in this concoction. Oh—was that a 3 or 8?

The delivery man finished stacking a boatload of parcels near the front and readied a slip in front of you. You counted the boxes and signed off on it for Fred and George who were busying themselves with opening duties. You thanked the worker as he left.

From there, you walked around the shop and gently rearranged some crooked products as a means to distract yourself. Charlie did get back last night, interrupting your very light sleep. You heard him brushing his teeth around 3 a.m. It was early enough to signify he didn’t spend the entire night in Mallory’s bed but late enough for the opportunity of an emotional and physical rekindling to occur. You slipped past him this morning as he slept in. You had no desire to ask him how last night went as your first conversation of the day.

You were confused. The burning desire to be by Charlie’s side flamed out so quickly after he’d mentioned Mallory. Was what you thought you felt even real, then?

“Want to do something this weekend?” you asked quickly.

“I always want to do something,” Fred was the first to respond. “But I figured your days were better spent on maintaining appearances with Charlie.”

“No,” you corrected quickly. “I think we’ve done well enough not to require anymore… appearances together.”

“It’s settled then,” Fred proclaimed. “Let’s hop a couple of bars and see where we end up.”

“(Y/N) will be on the floor,” George sang. “Just like before.”

You giggled at George’s lyricism as you propped up a Skiving Snackbox. “I will not!” 

Talking and making plans with Fred and George always took a weight off your shoulders. You went home that night feeling ready for whatever punches and hooks life was going to throw at you. You, however, stalled when you arrived back to an empty apartment again. You walked down the hallway and into the kitchen where you stopped in front of the fridge. Curiously, you peeked in to find your leftovers untouched, and you felt your resolve falter for a moment. Did it taste bad? Or did Charlie have no need for it because he was sustained by something else?

You took a deep breath to ground yourself. You had to stop thinking about this for your own sanity. Charlie and Mallory could move out to the countryside and have their perfect, beautiful academically-gifted, athletic, curly-haired, bright-eyed babies. You swore you’d wish him well when that day came. Maybe you’d even send him a gift basket. 

You were going to be fine.

You didn’t see Charlie until Friday evening after he’d arrived home from the train station. He intercepted you at the door just as you were about to leave for your night out. 

“Hold up, (Y/N). What are you doing next week?” Charlie asked, leaning against the doorframe. 

You felt as if you’d been punched in the gut. He looked so good. 

Composing yourself, you said: “You’re going to have to be more precise.”

“End of the workweek?” Charlie tried again. 

“I’ll be working.”

“Can’t take the time off?”

“I can’t afford to anymore.”

Charlie frowned. “That’s unfortunate.”

You put on a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I don’t have years worth of vacation banked up like you.”

“What about the weekend?”

“I’ll have plans.”

“They’re more important than me?”

“Maybe.”

“I like this new side of you, (Y/N),” Charlie remarked with a smirk. The same smirk that would’ve sent a heart-stopping shockwave through your body last week and left you dreaming the whole night. “I didn’t know you could tease like that.”

You now felt nothing but annoyance. Charlie obviously didn’t care enough to ask who your friends were or why you were blowing him off like this. 

“Thank you, Charlie,” you said amicably. “I’ll see you soon.” 

With that, you slipped out from the gap underneath his arm and hurried to the lift.  

Fred and George were more than ready to go when you joined them on the main floor of their shop. It was pitch-black outside and the shop was long closed, but they’d left a side door open for you. George already had a potent shot prepared for you which you happily accepted. 

“To another one of (Y/N)’s successful schemes!” proclaimed George as he clinked glasses with you and Fred. You threw back the shot with the boys. 

“What was the scheme again?” Fred set his glass down and exhaled in pleasure. “That’s some good stuff.”

”I think it was to throw her bloodhound parents off her scent,” George said. “By using Charlie.”

“Or to seduce our brother.”

George nodded. “We may never know (Y/N)’s true intentions.”

“Hey!” you protested. “That was not the reason.”

“I don’t know,” George tutted. “You seem to rather fancy living with him.”

“He’s not a terrible roommate. I like that he doesn’t talk incessantly like some people. You know, by trying to fill in any quiet gap.”

It was Fred’s turn to protest. “Hey!” 

“It’s true, though!” you laughed. “Charlie said you told him about our adventures in Care of Magical Creatures. Is that any detail you couldn’t have spared?”

“Oh, of course,” Fred stated. “There isn’t a soul in the world who doesn’t know about your failed adventures.”

You went quiet. The rush of bantering with Fred and George was washing out into a muted anger. So, Fred did tell Charlie you’d failed. Your voice was low when you asked: “Is that how you described it? My failed adventures?”

Fred stroked his chin. “Something like that. Maybe not those exact words. I said it was interesting he’d spend so much time around someone the complete opposite of him.”

“No, I reckon those were the exact words you used,” George said with a laugh. Neither men had picked up on the way your jaw tensed. “Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“How do you do reckon we’re the opposite?” you asked. You had to know.

Fred, still oblivious to the fact you were getting upset, answered honestly. “He’s a natural with beasts and creatures. You’ve no instinct for them—”

“And Quidditch, and the opposite sex,” George added. “Amongst other things.”

If this conversation had occurred on any other day, you would’ve belly-laughed yourself into the ground; you knew your faults. But today wasn’t any other day. You still had unresolved pain to contend with. Your mind instantly jumped back to Charlie and Mallory. Mallory was probably great at handling creatures and Quidditch, and if she had Charlie in the bag, then she was great with the opposite sex. 

“Is there anything you can’t keep to yourself?” you snapped. Fred finally picked up on your cues, your question slapping the grin off of his face. “Why do you have to hold the fact I failed that stupid elective over my head?”

“Whoa—what’s this about? You haven’t cared about this in 10 years.” Fred said in defence. 

“What makes you think I don’t care? I don’t go around telling people what you’ve failed!” 

“It’s just Charlie, (Y/N),” Fred rationalized. “He won’t hold it over your head.”

“I’m sorry, you mean the Charlie whom I’ve barely met until this September?” You inched closer to Fred. You wanted to hammer the point home, make him feel sorry for the first time in his life. “How about you give someone a chance to meet me before you give them an opinion of me?”

“Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“(Y/N), really,” George stepped in against your wishes, “He’s our brother, we know him. He really doesn’t care.” 

You wanted to scream. “Why do you think it’s just about Charlie?” But it was, it really was. “It’s about how you treat me in front of other people. Do you find it so humorous to take jabs at me?”

“Of course not!” Fred responded hastily, genuine worry in his eyes. “(Y/N), let me—”

You pounded the table with your palm. “Just forget it!” 

The shot glasses rattled. Fred took a step back.

George’s eyebrows furrowed. “(Y/N), let Fred—”

You threw your arms up in the air, exasperated. “Why don’t you talk to me when you’re ready to apologize?” 

You grabbed your coat and stomped out of the shop and out onto the cold, cobbled street. The door swung shut behind you and blocked out any last apologies if any were to be had. You waited for a couple seconds. Fred didn’t bother to follow you out. Of course he wouldn’t. And you weren’t going to look back to confirm it. 

Diagon Alley was afflicted with wintry darkness and a nippy front. It only got worse as you walked on, your face battered by headwinds. The cold winds stung your cheeks and froze the tears that had begun forming in your eyes. Not only was your friendship with Charlie deteriorating right in front of you, but you were letting how you felt about him dictate your feelings towards other people: Fred who unwaveringly had your back, and George who was just trying to help. You lost both of them in the span of one night and it was all your fault. 

As much as you tried to shake off your last name, you were a Malfoy through and through. Pleasant when people served your purpose, cold when you got what you wanted. You deserved to be standing here, shivering as you walked down the street with no one rushing up to put an arm or coat around you. 

Now where were you going to go? You couldn’t find refuge within your family. Hadn’t you worn down your relationship with them because of Charlie, too? You couldn’t go back to the shop with Fred and George—you were sure they resented you. You couldn’t go back to your apartment. But why even consider that? Charlie was probably taking advantage of your outing to escape under the covers with Mallory. 

And Charlie, oh, Charlie. If he wasn’t going to like you because of your poor handling of magical creatures, then he certainly wasn’t going to like you after the way you treated his brothers—his family. You kicked up a patch of dirt in anger and let the loose soil splay over your stockings. 

The thought of being alone and the pain shooting up your toe released the tears you’d been holding back. Once you started, you couldn’t stop. The salty stream trickled down your skin until they caught on the corners of your lips. You pulled your scarf upwards to mute the sob working its way up to your throat. And much like your tears, once the cries started, you couldn’t stop. 

You woke the next morning with a strong ache in your back and a pounding headache. Your lips were chapped, glued in certain spots from the lack of water. You pushed yourself off the scratchy pillowcase, your movement stirring a creak in the bed. The cloth that wrapped around the lamp beside you was mottled, and the gold paint scratched away to reveal the harsh grey base layer. 

Your sense of hearing came back when the pounding of your head retreated, but it was only to make way for the thudding of bodies and moans spilling out on the other side of the thin wall.  Your sense of smell came alive next, picking up on the smell of bacon grease wafting upwards through the floorboards. As if you couldn’t feel sicker.

How the mighty (Y/N) Malfoy had fallen, you thought as you scrunched up the starchy bedsheets. From her canopy bed in her mansion to a paper-thin mattress in a sketchy motel she checked herself into because she had nowhere else to go.

In the washroom, you did your best to comb out your hair with your fingers and wipe off the smudged makeup from under your eyes. You’d figure out the wrinkled clothing later on. At the very least, your topcoat would conceal the fact you slept in last night’s clothes. When you deemed yourself presentable, you walked onto the street and turned towards a different coffee shop.

A rush of blonde hair suddenly obfuscated your peripheral vision. You stumbled from the impact of two girls grazing your sides. You looked up in confusion at what had just happened.

“Girls, come back here,” a stern voice called out. 

The two girls turned back but caught your eyes first.

“(Y/N)?” the taller one called out.

Okay, now you were even more confused. “Clara?”

“That’s me!” she said. Clara ran over and threw herself in your arms. Still in a state of shock, you returned the hug. 

If this was Clara, then there was only one possibility as to who the other girl was. “Hello, Charlotte,” you greeted. Charlotte came sprinting over in a frenzy and enveloped you from the side. 

You never understood how Clara and Charlotte weren’t twins. They had a whole two years of genetic possibilities separating them, but they still maintained so much likeliness. It was as if Aunt Rosamund and your Uncle Leon copied and imprinted preset genes into their offspring. They both had Aunt Rosamund’s platinum blonde hair though wispier and wavier. They were both small and nimble, fairy-like in their stature. It was impossible to detach either girl from their love of reading fantasy and romance novels. You supposed childish wonder helped preserve their everlasting youth. 

Given that Clara and Charlotte were here, it could only mean one thing. The woman who’d called for them was none other than—

You turned around. “Hello, Aunt Rosamund.”

Aunt Rosamund quirked a pointed eyebrow at you, her inquisitive green eyes sweeping you up and down. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her silver hoop earrings perfectly complemented her white suit and cloak. She twisted her mouth which pulled her cheekbones—looking so much like her older brother, Lucius, in the process—meaning she was ready to pass judgement. You braced yourself. 

”Goodness, you look terrible, (Y/N). Did you sleep on the streets yesterday?”

Ouch. Well, at least it wasn’t your Uncle Theo. Things could be worse. 

“I had a long night. It’s been busy at work,” you responded. 

“You may benefit from a de-puffing potion,” Aunt Rosamund continued, now staring into your eyes. “I have a contact in Luxembourg who is the Chief of Operations at a cosmetic company that carries simply the best line of anti-aging products. I’ll set an appointment up for you.”

You touched your face, fingers grazing swells of your eyelids from all the crying you did last night. “Oh, this is temporary. It’ll fade.”

“Hm,” Aunt Rosamund said, half-believing you as she pressed her red lips together. 

“She doesn’t look like a vagabond, mother. I like it. It’s rather bohemian,” Charlotte commented sweetly as she smoothed out your topcoat for you. “And (Y/N) looks even more youthful with her puffy eyes.” Alright, bohemian and youthful—you’d take it. 

“So, what are you girls doing here?” you asked, trying to move the limelight away from your appearance. 

“We wanted to see Christmas in London!” Charlotte piped up.

Clara sighed wistfully. “There’s a certain sense of romance that lingers in the air here that you can’t find anywhere else.”

You were gobsmacked. These girls had the entirety of Europe in their little hands and they wanted to see Christmas here? “Really?“

“You should know, (Y/N)! You live here,” Charlotte harped. 

Even more puzzled, you stated: “It’s only November.”

Charlotte took your hand. “Sure, but we have to be back in Switzerland in December. And I can’t wait for you to visit us then.”

You squeezed her palm affectionately. “Me neither.”

”Come on, girls,” Aunt Rosamund called. “We have to be on our way to brunch. You can discuss your plans with (Y/N) when we arrive at your uncle Lucius’s at noon.”

“See you later, (Y/N)!” Charlotte said, giving you one last hug, before running off to her mother.

“Bye, (Y/N)!” Clara repeated. 

As the three ladies ambled on, you stood there motionless, wondering what the hell you had missed.

Charlie was on the couch when you ran into your apartment. You huffed as you shut the door, having sprinted here to make the best of the hour you were given before you had to be back at the Manor.

“Hey,” was the first thing out of Charlie’s mouth when he saw you. Were your eyes betraying you, or did he genuinely look concerned? “Where were you last night?”

“Uhm,” you stammered, his question really wedging you in between a rock and a hard place. Should you lie or lie? You didn’t feel like divulging about the night you spent crying in a dirt-cheap inn. “With Fred and George.”

Charlie’s shoulders released in relief. “That’s good. I was a little concerned when you didn’t come home.”

Well, didn’t that make two of you?

“I’m going to freshen up. I have family visiting today.”

Charlie perked up. Begrudgingly, you attempted to read him. Was he excited that you were going to be gone? Your absence would surely afford him more opportunities with Mallory. 

“Which side?” he asked. “Mum, dad?”

“My father’s.”

“Is it your Uncle Theo or Aunt Rosamund?”

You raised your eyebrows. “You remember?”

“I couldn’t forget your fantastic descriptions. So, who is it?”

“My Aunt Rosamund.”

“Do you need me to accompany you?”

Sharply, you said: “No.”

“Alright then,” Charlie said, falling back on the couch. “Don’t forget about me.”

“I’ll try my best, Charlie, no promises.”

You opened the door to your room and rummaged through the closet for an outfit that wouldn’t suffer the scrutiny of Aunt Rosamund. You heard the thud of footsteps drawing closer and stopped. 

“Before you go, (Y/N), can you think over one thing for me?” Charlie asked.

You almost laughed when you spun around. Charlie’s head looked like it was decapitated and hanging from the way he positioned himself at the door. “Depends on what it is.”

“Is there any Thursday and Friday you could take off?”

You frowned. 

Like how Alicia’s stories usually went, this was the part where the guy (Charlie) would try to win your affections back after realising you’d turned cold. Shower you with praise and compliments and his undivided attention. Charlie was about to feed and rescue you from the famine he started. And when you thought you were safe in his arms, he was sure to starve you for good. 

You weren’t going to let that happen. You weren’t going to be a crumpled mess on the floor again. 

“Sure,” you said coolly. “I’ll think about it.”

However deflated you sounded, it didn’t impact Charlie in the slightest. He looked as gleeful as the day he’d gotten his Hogwarts acceptance letter. “Aren’t you going to ask why?”

You placed a hand on your hip, willing to humour him one last time. “Alright, why, Charlie?”

When the response spilled from Charlie’s lips, you realised you had no playbook to navigate the question he’d just posed.  

>> NEXT CHAPTER

CHAPTER DIRECTORY

@badgerqueen07 @superduckmilkshake @k-k-merlin @kisskittenn @pluiesdefleurs@lilianelena39 @bathwater101 @evilunicorns4minions @noah-uhhh-what @earth-to-lottie @kissingyourgrl @sihtricswife @adalia-jaycee @anuttellaa @weasley-clan @morks-watermelon @nobodysbabydoll @annoyingbean630 @bathwater101 @ladylizzieofdarbyshire

[tvwebs]

CRIMSON SMOKE (one-shot)

Warnings: no smut, male reader, goth!reader, might be occ, can be any Deadpool media, smoking

notes;;

• he calls you 'spooky'

• no use of Y/n

• established relationship

• quite short ig

a/n: tried to do a new style

It's been a month since you and Wade became official. You like the guy, you think he's hilarious! And so far, everything is quite nice. Wade is incredibly sweet in his own way- yeah sure the 3AM texts with memes are annoying but you appreciate the thought.

Tonight you were sitting at your usual hang out place, the local cemetery, you know this looks bad but it's calming and to know that these people had hopes, dreams, a life. It's sad but..somehow it's nice to think about (somewhat cause that's just plain creepy) but of course Wade doesn't get it.

He disturbs your philosophy thinking with smoking time with his voice. "Y'know if I knew sooner that you were into these type of places I would've called you on a date for a movie night, the movie would be ghost busters." He teased as he breaks the silence, his tone was laced with affection and somewhat sarcasm. He strolls up to your signature spot and sits beside you under that tree you really like- you roll your eyes the comment he made.

You look at him to continue the sudden conversation he started. "Well, I guess it's just me that's a bit freaky huh?" Wait that came out wrong. Your expression now expressing that cringed confusion. Wade finds it funny though (someone please take internet slang away from him)

"don't worry, bae" we match each other's freak quite nicely." Somebody stop him. You cringe at that while holding your cigarette between your fingers, Wade chuckles. "You're quite weird Wade." And you respect that. Despite Wades childish, dirty minded, idiotic antics you find comfort in just being with him, talking to him. It was calming more than anything

"never thought I would've seen you right back here again Spooky." He said as he jokingly called you 'spooky' he says it's a replacement for 'pookie'

"of course I am, I thought you liked my whole goth style." You teased a bit before taking a huff on your cigarette, Wade might've just gained another bone right there and there.

He responds with "Oh I do babe, I think that it's funny that you're playing into it. Your practically an old 2010s cartoon goth!" He joked without any ill intend. 'huh, guess I am practically one huh?' you think to yourself. You think of a comeback to his comment.

"well- at least I'm not some edgy ninja oc." You said trying to act cool, not working and plus that comeback was WEAK. Wade laughs at you.

"you gotta try harder then that spooky~!" He teased. He pokes your cheek teasingly as you're embarrassed by it. You push him away, making him land on the floor.

"Ow, but how forward of you!" He said happily. "But in all seriousness babe, I find your goth aesthetic really hot. I've gotta hand it to ya, you really are committed to this goth thingy, I mean it's straight out of a tim Burton dream..but sexier." You raise your eye brow at him

"what?"

"you're hot."

You roll your eyes at him, AGAIN. He's ridiculous, an idiot even. He moves closer to you and puts his arm around you romantically. "This is such a cool concept fic.." he commented against the authors will. You look at him confused, he's always on something.

You pull out your cigarette box and get a cig. "You wanna..?" You asked patiently at Wade. He stares at you for a moment, before tugging a smirk in the corner.

"Trying to corrupt me emo prince?" Ugh you hate it when he calls you that. "Oh the shame, you are promoting smoking..don't do what they do guys." You look at him annoyed and confused.

"you could've just said, no." He chuckles at your comment. You ignore that chuckle and just start smoking a new cig, Wade just admires you, your expression, your makeup, your outfit, basically everything. You leaned your head onto his shoulder a little tired.

"tired, spooky?" He asked teasingly you respond with a 'uh-huh' causing him to smile a bit under that mask. He pulls you into his chest and he starts caressing your head "yeah..that's what happens when you're awake at 3am and go to the graveyard." He sarcastically says and you groan in annoyance and tiredness

"so where do you wanna sleep tonight? My place or your place?" He asked curiously, you just shrug as you rub your eyes.

"what's closer, I guess.." you respond.

"So my place then?" He said with a smug smirk under his stupid mask. He pulls away your cigarette, and just kisses your forehead under the mask.

[sunshinescribes]

Tomorrow

Pairing: Donquixote “Corazón” Rosinante x Fem!Reader (can be read as gender neutral!)

Rating: NONE

Summary: Rosinante is no fool, no matter what his brother or the family might think. He knows pain when he sees it, and he hates that he’s the cause of yours.

Warnings: ANGST, established relationship, fluff, comfort (I just wanted to write something bittersweet y’all), Pre-Rosinante and Law

You know you don’t have much time.

It slips by far too fast, precious hours reduced to what feels like mere minutes when Rosinante is with you.

You try to cherish them, to swallow the plea that wants to crawl up your throat in the silent hours when you’re wrapped in his arms. You try to find solace in the fact that he’s safe. For another hour, he’s safe from his brother—from the world that despises his celestial blood.

Here with you, he can let down his shield and smile as if tomorrow might not be his last. It’s a small comfort, but it’s enough to stop you from being selfish.

You want him to stay.

You always want him to stay.

It’s torture—months spent without him. Your world stands still, grows so quiet that all you hear is the beat of your heart ringing in your ears, ticking away like a timebomb. You wait for the explosion, for the day that Rosinante doesn’t come back, and you finally shatter.

But today isn’t that day, so you cling to him a little tighter. Speak to him a little softer.

You know that kindness is not something Rosinante finds in his brother nor the company that he keeps. He tends to his bleeding heart well and masks himself in silence so as not to draw their attention to his true motives. It’s a dangerous game, one you’re terrified he'll lose.

Rosinante had told you what Doflamingo did to their father—an ill-fated, tender-hearted man whom his oldest son could not forgive. The image of Rosinante at the end of his brother’s gun has haunted you ever since.

"You’re shaking."

Amber eyes stare down at you, concern clear in them as they take you in.

You hadn’t noticed your hands trembling against him or the subtle shake of your chest. You don’t even notice the tears turning your vision blurry until they fall.

"I’m fine," you lie, but it does nothing to assuage his worry. He cradles your jaw in his hand, tilting your head upward as he uses his other hand to wipe away your tears—he knows.

Rosinante is no fool, no matter what his brother or the family might think. He knows pain when he sees it, and he hates that he’s the cause of yours. Rosinante would stop coming back if he knew which was less cruel—letting you go or staying with you for as long as he’s able, even if he can’t promise you tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.

He can put on a good act, though, for your sake.

"Don’t worry about me sweetheart," Rosinante grins, sitting up in bed. His blonde curls are disheveled, making him look gentle and boyish and so different from the man he calls brother. "Those fools don’t suspect anything. It won’t be long now before we catch them."

You try to smile. You want to believe him. You know he’s doing everything right—everything he possibly can. It’s Doflamingo who worries you the most. He won’t spare his baby brother if he finds out, and you know Rosinante won’t fight him.

"My act has them completely foole—" Rosinante's voice trails off as he tips over the edge of the bed, falling to the ground with a soft thud.

You laugh lightly despite yourself, crawling over to the edge to glance down at him. Rosinante stares up at you with his lips caught in a soft grin.

"See? I fooled you too."

You snort and roll your eyes as he shifts to his knees. Even while on the floor, his height is imposing, forcing you to sit up just so he doesn’t dwarf you.

"There’s that smile," he sighs, leaning close enough that you feel his breath fan over your lips. "Still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen…"

Your heart flutters as his lips find yours. His kiss is tender, a soft declaration of love as he holds you close. Rosinante never rushes. Never takes more than he needs.

Your nature is different.

You thread your fingers through his golden tresses, pulling him closer. You tilt your head, kissing him with a kind of desperation that leaves you both breathless when you pull away.

"I…don’t want to lose you, Rosi."

You don’t look at Rosinante as the words pass your lips, barely above a whisper.

You hear the wind blowing outside your window and the crickets chirping to the pale moon. You are both so still, frozen in a moment that feels like eternity.

Rosinante stirs suddenly. He reaches for your trembling hands, bringing them close to his lips. Your eyes finally lift to his as he brushes his lips across your knuckles tenderly, trying to soothe the ache in your soul.

"Okay," he says. Then again, and again, and again.

Each kiss is an oath, a declaration that he has every intention of returning to you.

"Just a little while more," he promises.

You nod. You let the promise settle in your heart, allowing yourself to be hopeful.

Rosinante shuffles back into bed with little grace, drawing you close once more. You lean into his warmth and listen to the soft patter of his tender heart. You try to fight sleep—try to hold on to him for as long as you can. You know when you wake up in the morning, he will be gone, back to doing the bidding of his older brother.

Rosinante whispers something you can’t quite make out as fatigue finally finds you, and you sink further and further way.

At least you dream a pleasant, calm dream of a tomorrow where he stays.

[snowthedemonfox]

ive had a few people send me this tweet, and while it's entirely possible that this is a placeholder date, i do think some things are a bit interesting about it. this might take a bit, so i'm putting it all under a read more.

but first of all i want to say: i do not want glitch to rush out episodes. i do not want the team to force themselves to get this out asap, i do not care how long ep 4 and any future episodes take to get here!! we can wait :D

but moving on, first thing i noticed is that december 13th is a friday. glitch always drops episodes on fridays. maybe netflix does too, i dont pay attention to netflix, but that's one thing that i thought was interesting.

the second thing (and the main reason im making this post) might take a bit of context to fully explain:

when murder drones was being worked on, up until after episode 6, their release schedule was pretty consistent: a new episode every few months, from november 2022 to august 2023. after episode 6 dropped, glitch started to focus on TADC's pilot, which was one of the many reasons it took even longer than just a few months for episode 7 to release.

if you take the wait times between episodes from episode 2 to episode 6, the average amount of days was around 70-ish days. this number is important, ill mention it later on.

why do i bring this up? because im pretty sure that MD's final 2 episodes are the reason this release schedule didn't immediately apply to TADC. we knew from a post glitch made in early 2023 that MD ep 8 was going to be delayed.

i don't think it's that much of a stretch to say that while glitch had planned to release TADC episodes in the middle of working on MD, since MD caused delays, it of course meant that TADC's episodes also couldn't follow that 'new episode every few months' schedule that MD had in it's early days. this resulted in episode 2 taking half a year to release, and another 5 months for episode 3.

another thing to note is that while I have no idea how long production of a show takes when it comes to glitch, i do think that how they handled TADC was fairly different from how MD happened.

after MD's pilot dropped, there was a year of hiatus between episodes 1 and 2. i wouldnt be surprised if the reason this took so long is because production of further episodes only begun after MD's pilot started to gain attention, so glitch had the support needed to continue.

with TADC, we know that production of future episodes had started before the pilot even released. the scripts had been written, and voice lines had been recorded well in advance.

because of this, TADC didn't need a year of hiatus just so glitch could start production, so this 'new ep every 70ish days' timeline couldve still happened if MD didnt cause delays (not saying that's a bad thing, glitch should be taking all the time they need!). but now that MD is over, glitch now has the time to make TADC a priority.

not to say their focus will be completely on TADC, we still have the gaslight district's pilot that, if i had to guess, probably will release sometime between october-november 2025 (yes, this does mean TADC's later episodes will also have delays due to this. let's all remember to be nice to glitch even when this happens).

they've probably done the same thing with TGD, where production of future episodes started before the pilot. so glitch still will be working on that alongside TADC.

but back to the twitter post that prompted me to write this whole thing out: if you take the day that episode 3 released (october 4th, 2024), and add 70 days to it, you get:

december 13th! the date that netflix had listed! so either netflix got incredibly lucky with a random date, or they did their math homework and figured this would be a safe bet for a potential episode 4 release. so if i had to guess, if this date does turn out to be ep 4's actual release date, we could have a trailer by the 29th of november.

but hey, while we wait, glitchx is coming up soon! that's exciting, i cant wait to see what they reveal this time :D

[oneofthetorturedpoets]

She’s a maneater part 1/?

parings: melissa schemmenti x reader

warnings for this chapter: melissa is a bully

-

you woke up with a jolt as the blanket was ripped off of you for the fifth time that night.

"oh my god, melissa" you groan, turning over, expecting to see her sleeping but shes wide awake on her side, with her head resting on her hand.

"you kept letting go of me and im tired of it." you chuckle slightly, trying to ignore your irritation. you pull her into you quickly, she yelps out. you lean in close.

"a simple ask would do you just fine, my love." you whisper against her lips.

"well, you know me, stubborn as always" she smiles and connects your lips, the domestic nature causing your heart to stutter, she pulls away slowly, her hand coming to your cheek. "I love you."

you and melissa weren’t always this way, it took a lot to get where you are now.

-

you were late your first day, traffic was stressing you out and you struggled to find parking spot in such a busy street, you had to park 5 minutes away. you were rushing into the school doors, through the hallway when-

BAM.

you slam right into the red headed teacher. her papers went flying and so did your ego. the look she gave you might as well killed you.

“i am so sorry-” she immediately drops to the floor, grabbing her stuff. you follow, trying to compensate for your clumsiness.

“why are you running through the doors anyways? if your kid is late then sign the damn tardy slip” angry radiating from her words.

“oh no- i don’t have a kid. i work here. i actually just got hired” her head swings over to look at you. you wish the earth would swallow you whole.

“30 minutes late on your first day” she scoffs. “great first impression, you’ll definitely get along with ava” she storms off, leaving me confused and flustered.

I walk down the hallways to the principals office, Ava is already leaning on the door frame, ready to great me.

"you're late." she says, sternly.

"I know, I'm so sorry, I couldn't find a parking spot so I parked super-"

"it was a joke, I don't care" she walks into her office. "pshhh no one told me I hired another Janine." she laughs, looking at the camera. the guy zooms in on my confused face. "anyways, you're in room 12, just down the hall, where you came in. your kids are currently with ms. schemmenti's class, room 13, you're taking her third graders also. if you talk to Melissa, she'll sort out who's who's." Ava's already on tiktok, laughing about a video before I can respond.

its going to be a long day.

-

I look up at the sign on the door that says room 13, I take a deep breath before opening the door, knocking as I do so. All of the attention is on me as the room goes quite. I look around the room, only seeing the students.

"hey kids! I'm the new third grade teacher that's going to be next door." they all shout hi in return. "where's your teacher?" I ask as the door opens again.

"oh god, not you again." I spin around, seeing the same redhead from earlier.

"uh- hi, im y/n y/ln. the teacher next door" I say, holding my hand out waiting for hers. she looks down at my hand and then back up at me, before rolling her eyes.

"alright guys! this is ms. y/ln, she will be taking half of you's with her, so if you're in third grade, please line up at the door, single file!" the students jump up, lining up in an almost perfect line.

"thank you, ms. schemmenti, if you need anything, ill be just over there." I say as I point towards the wall. she doesn't even look at me so I take it as a hint to leave.

-

three months later

“i’m tired of the new kid, she waltzes in here, all miss clumsy but charming, takes over the kids hearts and everyone loves her” melissa vents to barbra

“remind me again, are you trying to offend or compliment her? she’s been doing everything right, she’s the teacher we’ve been wanting to work here, what do you hate so much about her?” melissa stands up, pacing the 2nd grade class.

“she’s a newbie, and newbies make mistakes that we can’t afford” barbra shakes her head, not believing melissa.

“that’s not the real reason” the bell rings “talk to me when you find out the reason, until then, be nice to the kid” melissa huffs as she sits back down, watching barbra walk out and her kids march in.

-

a/n: first chapter of my new series is done!! this is a short chapter just to get something out there, hope you guys like it!

taglist: @esposadejoyhuerta @dopenightmaretyphoon

to be added to my taglist, send in an ask!!

[tokyo-terror]

YOO IM IN LOVE WITH UR HCS THEY TASTE LIKE CHOCOLATE COVERED STRAWBERRIES AND FRUIT TEA :3

Request here 🙏🙏🙏

Could you possibly.. *leans on Bugatti with graves wrap on it + an inflatable eagle and American flag flying from the bonnet* write some hcs for 141 + König with a gn s/o that has had a really bad day and just needs some comfort? So eg, just being pampered and having their hair washed, being told they’ve done well, that people are proud of them and love them, etc?

Ive been having a really shitty past few months with my depression and anxiety and it’s really overwhelmed me so I’m kinda projecting.. 🧍🏼🧍🏼

If you can’t do it, that’s ok!!! No pressure <33

But if you can, may your skin be clear and may your crops flourish 🙏🙏🙏 (with america rizz) (im british)

i hate brits but ill make an exception for u 🫶 /lh i hope ur day gets a littol bit better for u pookie :< ik how hard it gets fr <3 we r in this together :)

cw: depression (not delved into !!)

simon "ghost" riley:

☆ this guy getss it !!! he doesn't open up much about his feelings directly but let's all be fr and agree he's not the most mentally stable

☆ your self care day is hiss self care day, thrives on cuddling and using you as weighted blanket while he rubs your back

☆ has himself a tea while you both cuddle, and trust me it's good tea. the night might turn into a cuddle and see how many teas simon can make before you run out

☆ before you fall asleep fully he kisses the crown of your head and says that he's proud of how far you've come

john "soap" mactavish:

☆ tries to be more lowkey w how he comforts you because he doesn't want to come off as overbearing

☆ has mastered the perfect balance of praise and touch, he holds your hand while you tell him about your day and he makes comments trying to sympathize w you

☆ lets you scritch his mohawk while he tells you how much he loves you and how glad he is that you're around and here with him

☆ lays his head on your chest when you both go to sleep so he can listen to your heartbeat and tap your arms to the beat of it, has both of you asleep within 5 minutes

john price:

☆ kinda awkward with comforting but he tries his best, he's always a little bit confused about how somebody like you could be so upset about anything

☆ he knows that it's not his place to fully understand though, so he sticks to doing what he does best: being an old ass man

☆ showers with you and washes your hair while you vent (or not) about how you've been feeling, he stays mostly silently except for humming to let you know he's listening

☆ towel dries your hair and changes the bedsheets to clean ones so you can be fully clean because he's a firm believer in being a little more tidy can greatly improve somebody's feelings

kyle "gaz" garrick:

☆ king of pampering in general, he's waiting on you hand and foot constantly. honestly he probably knows it's going to be a bad day before you even start your day

☆ he's always making you food to eat throughout the day, little snacks that aren't too big but are just enough to keep you energized and full

☆ ditches his military soaps for your nice ones when you take a shower, secretly (not rlly) loves when you laugh at him building bubble beards on himself and doing price impressions

☆ making you laugh is his goal in life tbh he's constantly cracking jokes while you both cuddle, some of them are so bad it's funny

könig:

☆ another guy that genuinely understands everything you're talking abt, his anxiety also makes him have awfulll days and due to being the military around lots of people he's learned coping mechanisms

☆ takes hot showers with you a lot in general, but even more when you're having one of those days. he's already washing your hair and face as soon as you get in

☆ lets you braid his hair while he talks idly about how missions are and how he adores you, though he says that in german. you've picked up on him saying cheesy stuff in german though so it's fine :)

☆ lets you sprawl out on him like a starfish when you both finally go to sleep, around 2am because of how many shows he wanted to watch with you

[morimementa]

Might I offer you a small smackerel of NikPrice mpreg?

TW for mpreg and illness mentions under the readmore.

Nik and Price trying for a baby, knowing the odds are really long, given Price is in his late 30s. They’re prepared to wait, and even to let their dreams go unfulfilled.

Anyway, they succeed on the first try. After the initial shock of “We thought this would be hard?!” wears off, they’re really excited. And in Price’s case, very, very nauseous.

(Ghost staunchly refuses to stop calling him “old man”, though.)

The morning sickness passes with little fanfare, but then comes the migraines. They start in month 4 and finally stop in month 6, but it’s not an easy time. They spend a lot of time in bed with the blinds drawn and the lights off, with Nik alternating between massaging his husband’s temples and rubbing his belly. It’s not something either of them care to repeat but the intimacy of that time was something special.

Nikolai dubs the baby "Little Mouse" because Price keeps craving string cheese of all things.

By pure happenstance, they're cuddling on the sofa when he feels the baby kick for the first time. It takes another month before the kicks are strong enough to feel from the outside, but it's more than worth the wait. Nikolai cuddles up with Price's belly and sings to them.

They find out the gender at 12 weeks, but I think we can all agree no one in the 141 would be caught dead doing a gender reveal party.

No, not even if Soap was promised Tannerite.

The next time they meet up with Soap and Ghost, Price casually drops the fact that the baby's a boy. Soap jokes about buying blue bubblegum cigars to celebrate.

They don't have a baby shower but their small circle of friends do bestow their gifts. Gaz finds a baby sized boonie hat and makes sure it finds its way onto Price's desk.

Nikolai has never been prone to worrying, but there's definitely a few times he holds his breath in anticipation during Price's ultrasounds. Premature births run in his family and he worries he's passed the curse onto his husband and their son.

Anyway, Price ends up almost a week overdue. He's less than thrilled, but still thankful there's little risk of the NICU at this point.

Nik consoles him with backrubs and promises of a ham sandwich once the baby's born.

Price finally goes into labor while Nik’s off at work. Ghost is the one who calls the ambulance. The EMT is a bit of prat and asks Price if he’s sure he’s in labor. The trauma Ghost inflicts on him without ever having to raise his voice becomes the stuff of hospital legend.

Nik arrives at the hospital while Price is between contractions and learns that his husband is just fine, but their kid’s godfather made an EMT wet himself.

Honestly, he should have expected that.

Their son is delivered safely and with few issues. He's a really chonky baby at 11 pounds, 8 ounces. Nik stops calling him little mouse and starts calling him Baby Bear.

His real name is Aleksandr or Alek for short. He ends up with Nik's nose and hair and Price's eyes. Gaz remarks that he'll probably grow out a beard when he gets older.

"The girls will be chasing him," Nik laughs. "Or the boys."

The first thing Price does when he's able to get out of bed and leave little Alek with Soap is light up a cigar on the porch. He's still going to smoke on occasion, but he makes sure he's not putting their son in danger.

This ended up being way more than a smackerel. No regrets, the fandom needs way more Nikprice Mpreg.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

daddys home

words: 1.8k

warnings: 18+ only!, smut, establish relationship (theyre married!), dad!rafe, mom!reader, p in v sex (protected), female receiving oral, mentions of pregnancy/breeding, readers stretch marks are described briefly

“when is daddy getting home?” your daughter asks for what feels like the millionth time since rafe left for work this morning.

you sigh, rubbing your forehead, hoping it alieves your splitting headache. “any minute now, poppy. why don't you go get a cup of water for him and leave it on the counter?”

you know that the task will occupy her for some time, having to drag her step stool that she uses when helping you cook around the kitchen to get a cup and fill it.

you let out a breath of relief when you hear rafe pull into the driveway.

“daddy! daddy!” poppy hears the noise as well, running to the garage door, jumping up and down excitedly as she waits for rafe to come in.

she jump-tackles him as soon as he opens the door. rafe laughs, catching her in his arms.

“hi baby.” he presses a kiss to the top of her head, toeing his shoes off onto the mat.

“welcome home.” you say, moving over to rafe, pressing your face into the shoulder that poppy isn't currently resting hers against.

“you okay?” rafe whispers into your ear, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. he sets poppy down carefully, only half listening as she begins to tell him about getting rafe a water all by herself like a big girl.

“yeah, she's just been… a lot today.” you sigh, wrapping your arms around rafes waist, snuggling into his warm body.

“hey, poppy. wanna spend the night at aunt wheezies?” rafe asks.

“yes! yes! yes!” poppy screams, quickly flying up the stairs to her room with her unstoppable toddler energy to pack a bag.

“thank you.” you look to rafe, taking a moment to press a kiss to his lips.

“wheeze has been begging to have her over, she'll be so happy.” rafe says, rubbing a hand up and down your back. “and you can get a real break.”

“god, i need it too.” you laugh, pulling away from rafe but not before giving him another kiss. “i love poppy to death, but she can be so exhausting some days.”

“aw, baby.” rafe coos. “why don't you go get in the bath, ill help poppy pack a bag then take her over the wheezies.”

“mmm, sounds perfect, can't wait to spend a night just us.” you wink at rafe before both heading further into the house and up the stairs. poppy has had a string of clinginess lately, especially at night knowing you and rafe are just down the hall, so she fakes nightmares to sleep in your bed.

it's nice having her so close, but at the same time you haven't been intimate with rafe in months.

“poppy.” you call into her room, seeing her stuffing pajamas into her backpack. “you be good for auntie wheezie, okay? ill pick you up in the morning and if you behaved, we can go to the park.”

“okay, mommy.” poppy nods, a serious look on her face.

“daddy is gonna help you pack then take you over.” you finish, looking to rafe.

“thank you again babe.” you whisper, rubbing your thumb over his cheek before heading towards your bedroom. you turn on the hot tap in the master bath, letting the jacuzzi tub fill as you scrounge in the cabinets for your epsom salt.

you let out a groan when you sink into the bath, eyes closing as you relax into the hot water, your muscles finally getting a break after entertaining poppy all day.

you relax in the bath until the water starts to turn room temperature. you pull the drain before getting out, toweling yourself dry. you go through your skincare routine quickly before pulling your robe on.

you exit the bathroom to see rafe on the bed, back against the headboard, having changed out of his work clothes to sweats.

“was she excited?” you question.

“poppy or wheezie?” rafe jokes, a soft smile on his face. “both of them were so excited, but i think wheeze might have more fun than poppy does.”

“that's good.” you laugh before taking a deep sigh.

“how are you feeling now?” rafe asks, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. you move to stand in front of him, letting your knees press into the side of the mattress.

“a million times better. no more headache.”

“good.” rafe tugs at the strap on your robe, not hard enough to undo it, but making his intentions clear. “wanna lay down?” 

“just lay down?” you smirk, raising one eyebrow.

“if that's what you want,” rafe takes your hands in his, bringing your knuckles up to his lips, pressing kisses along your skin. “mrs. cameron.”

“i want you.” you tell rafe, taking your hand out of his grasp to tug your robe open, revealing yourself to him. you slide the fabric off your shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

“you're so beautiful.” rafe says, eyes sweeping over your naked body. he rubs a hand over your stomach, the small lines running over your skin, the physical reminder of your pregnancy.

“this part of you is the most beautiful.” rafe leans forward, kissing the stretch marks. “because it shows that you carried our daughter. kept her safe inside you for nine months until he she was ready to see the world.”

“you're gonna make me cry.” you sniffle, feeling tears start to form.

“wanna make you cry a different way.” rafe says, standing up suddenly while turning you swiftly, pushing your hips down so now you're the one sat on the edge of the mattress.

rafe sinks down to his knees, spreading your thighs open for him, revealing your cunt.

“you know-” you gasp when rafe begins to kiss along your inner thighs, inching closer to your center. “i was worried when i first got pregnant that you wouldn’t be attracted to me after i gave birth.”

“really?” rafe questions. “why would you ever worry about something as impossible as that?”

“pregnancy brain.” you shrug, eyes fluttering closed as rafe spreads your thighs further, wrapping his hand around your ankle and bringing your heel up onto the bed.

“well, mrs. cameron-” rafe leans in, licking a stripe straight through your folds. “no need to worry anymore, i find you very attractive.”

you smile, bringing one hand to rafes hair, clutching it between your finger as he dives in, tongue swiping through your wetness, tasting you on his tongue. rafe works his way up from your entrance to your clit before lapping over the sensitive skin there.

“taste so good mama.” rafe hums, letting his tongue flick and play with your clit. you let out a cry, glad that you’re able to be as loud as you want with poppy out of the house.

“more.” you whine.

“all these years later, carrying my baby and you're still my little slut.” rafe tsks, bringing his finger to your entrance and plunging it in, thrusting in and out slowly as his lips wrap around your clit, giving gentle sucks to build you up, tease you.

“can’t wait for you to fuck me.” you toss your head back, pushing your hips even further into rafes face.

“yeah, you miss my cock?” 

“all the time.” you whine, bringing your other foot onto the bed as well, spreading your knees wide open to give rafe even more space to work into you as he adds a second finger.

“you think after being married for five years you’d be sick of me.” rafe jokes, but you shake your head.

“never, daddy.” the nickname impacts rafe differently now that he is actually a dad, knowing it comes from a different place.

“god, i was gonna have you cum on my tongue three times before i fucked you, but i need you too badly.” rafe stands up, but not before pressing another kiss to your clit, now puffy and red from the attention.

rafe hesitates before reaching for the nightstand drawer, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but before you can comment on it, he is removing his clothes and rolling the condom onto his length and lining himself up with your cunt. 

he rubs briefly through your folds before pushing in, sinking into your pussy. you let out a loud moan, unafraid to get interrupted by your daughter as rafe copies your moan right back.

“such a perfect pussy for me baby.” rafe coos, beginning to pump his hips forward. you wrap your legs around his hips as he leans forward, pushing until your back is resting against the sheets. he hovers over you, pressing your lips together. 

you moan into his mouth, moving your hips up and down in sync with his thrusts. your bare chests are rubbing together, yours still slightly damp from the bath. your nipples catch as rafe moves, making you whimper.

“so big.” you cry out, hands moving along rafes back, feeling the cords of muscles as they stretch with his movements.

“filling you up real good, huh?” rafe smirks, cocky that he can still get you in this state just from his dick.

“so good.” you turn your head to bite rafes earlobe, tugging on it. “you know,-” you gasp when rafe speeds up. “this is the same position we were in when i got pregnant with poppy.”

you remember the night well, when you ran out of condoms and decided together fuck it, were married, and you were blessed with your little girl soon after.

“yeah? want me to take the condom off mama? fill your belly up again?” rafe asks, moving a thumb to your clit, rubbing it quickly.

“yeah, daddy, yeah i do- fuck!” your back arches off the bed as rafe pumps faster, your body quivering as his thumb strokes you to orgasm, the tightening of your cunt causing him to spill into the condom.

rafe breaths heavily, hips slowly grinding into you as you work through your highs.

rafe pulls out as you try to stop your deep gasps of breaths. he pulls the condom off and tosses it in the trash can before climbing back onto the bed, flopping down next to you.

“were you serious?” rafe asks.

you don't need any more context to know exactly what rafe is referring to.

“i wouldn't mind having another baby.” you say honestly. “besides, poppy will start kindergarten in around a year, so think about in around nine months having another little one.” you feel yourself already beginning to tear up at the thought, wiping a tear from your cheek.

“oh, baby.” rafe coos, pressing a kiss to your forehead and pulling you into him. “well, since poppy is still at aunt wheezies…” rafe trails off, moving his hand from your waist lower to cup your pussy. “we can get trying right now.”

“it only took you one try for poppy.” you remind rafe, slinging your leg over rafes body, twisting yourself to sit on top of him, rubbing your cunt over his length.

“yeah…” rafe places his hands on your hips, flipping you over so your back is against the bed. “but maybe i want more than one try.” rafe says as his cock slides back inside of you.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @rafecamerongirl @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude

[daydreamingmia]

First Day on Set🌊🔱

Walker Scobell X Reader | Series | You Belong With Me🔱 Part 1

A/n: Sorry, I didn't re-read the story, so there might be spelling errors.

Y/n's bio: The reader is just a few weeks younger than Walker. She got her start on Good Luck Charlie as Charlie. But Taylor Swift discovered her musically. She has released three record-breaking albums so far. Once Taylor took her under her wing, things were never the same. Not that you didn't like it. You loved it!! But sometimes the paparazzi can be annoying. Especially when your best friends are huge stars.

When she gets the part of Annabeth in Percy Jackson, she becomes best friends with the cast. Especially her co-star, Walker Scobell. But will they become more than just friends?

The alarm clock goes off and you look over to see it is 7 am.

You groan as you turn it off

"Come on y/n! We are going to be late!"

You hop out of bed as your remembered what day it was. Today was the first day of filming Percy Jackson! You have loved Percy Jackson since you were very little and you were so excited to play Annabeth! You hop out of bed and rush to get dressed.

This is just the first thing I found on pinterest

(You can change it if you'd like)

By the time you are ready it is 7:35. You run out to the car and jumped in. Then you saw a text from the group. You have gotten very close to all of them in the last few months. Especially Walker.

Camp Halfblood GC

Walker🔱: Y/n! You were supposed

to be here 20 minutes ago! Are

you still asleep?🙄🙄🙄

Aryan🐐: Oh no! The monsters got y/n!!😱😱

Y/n: I just fought one off!! I'm on my way now!!

Y/n: I just fought one off!! I'm on my way now!!

Walker🔱: On second thought

maybe don't come here. 😬

Y/n: She says she'll let me live

if I tell her where Walker is hiding.

Walker🔱: What?!

Y/n: I'm on my way!! She let me go😁

Walker🔱: Oh no! You are the one

who is gonna betray me 😱😱

Y/n:🤣🤣🤣

Y/n: I'm pulling in now.

Walker🔱: Cool. You want some Chick fil a? I'm ordering delivery.

Y/n: YES PLEASE!!!😁

××FLASHBACK××

You and the cast of Percy Jackson were going to a Party to meet one another.

You get out of the car and are half way there when you realize you forgot your phone.

"Ugh! Mom I forgot my phone ill run back and meet you there."

She nidded

You were running back when you ran into someone.

"Hey!" He said jokingly as you both fell to the ground.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't look where I was going!" You apologized

"Don't worry about it!" He said with a chuckle as he stood up and offered you his hand. You took it and he pulled you up

"Hey aren't you that girl from Avengers?" He asked

"Please to make your acquaintance." You said in a funny voice bowing

You both laugehd

"Y/c/n is such a badass!"

You talked for a little but then parted way so you could get your phone.

××END FLASHBACK××

When you got to set you parking in your marked spot and went to your trailer to meet your hair and makeup artists(Gina and Natalie). They were very nice and sat you down as you got to know each other.

Walker walked in with Chick Fil A and sat next to you.

"I got you a cookies and cream milkshake too" He said sitting down I the seat next to you.

"Thank you!! Your makeup is done already?" You asked while grabbing the milkshake he was taking a sip out of.

"IT WAS DONE AN HOUR AGO! YOU WERE LATE!" He screamed and you both laughed.

You take a picture of him and the food and post it.

The first scene you did was the bathroom scene.

You were talking with Dior when the director yelled action. You got yourself into character.

"I can explain" Walker said nervously

"No you can't" I replied

"Okay. Wait...I know you dont I?"

"No you don't" I replied channeling my inner Annabeth

"You were there that night in the infirmary"

"Yes. I'm Annabeth"

"Are you stalking me Annabeth?"

"Yes" I say like it's totally normal

"Okay" He said caught off guard

"Well, I've been waiting to see if something like this would happen so I know if you can help me"

"Help you do what?"

"Win capture the flag of course"

The director yelled cut and Walker walked up to you dripping wet

"Hey great job! You were born to play Annabeth!" He said as you backed away from him

"What's wrong?" He asked a little confused

"I don't want to get wet" you said continuing to set back

"Well in that case..." He said with a mischievous grin in his face

He then lunged forward and had you in and bear hug and was spining you.

The hug you didn't mind but now you were covered in water too.

"WALKER! PUT ME DOWN!" You demand

"Fine" He said putting you down

"That's what you get for eating my nuggets" He said with a fake stern face

"I hate you! You said looking at how soaked you were.

"You love me" He said with a smile

"I do" you sighed

A/N: This is my first attempt at fanfiction!! I hope you like it!