#ALSO I PUT UP MY LIGHTS IN MY ROOM ON SUNDAY TOO!!! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

scuderiahoney · 3 months

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Oscar Piastri x reader // in motion pt 1

hockey au part 1: moving in, family dinner, and the first game of the season. also featuring: a whole bunch of other f1 cameos. 4.9k words

warnings: alcohol, slight reference to injury, my limited knowledge of college hockey, it’s a bit slow burn-y but i hope you get the vibe

You’re sitting in Lando Norris’ room, a basket stuffed to the brim with goodies perched on your lap. You’ve just finished going through them with Lando, explaining each one in excruciating detail. There are snacks, -both healthy and non healthy- study items, some school gear, and everything in between.

“You’re crazy,” Lando says, brows raised. “Like. Clinically. Coach told me to keep an eye on him, not… mother him.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t you want him to feel welcome? S’gotta be scary, coming to a new team his junior year.”

The two of you are talking about Oscar Piastri, the hockey prodigy who, for two years, has been playing at a different school. Now he’s headed to play with Lando’s team, and his coach had strongly suggested that Lando take him under his wing. He’s moving in as one of Lando’s roommates in their off campus house today, so you’d made him a welcome basket. You’d been thrilled about the whole idea. Lando’s less excited, it seems.

“I do want him to feel welcome,” Lando says, collapsing backwards onto his bed and sighing. “This just seems a little overboard.”

“When am I not overboard?” You ask, hugging one knee to your chest.

Lando purses his lips, then shrugs. “You’ve got a point.”

You hear a commotion downstairs, and both you and Lando sit up a little straighter. You can hear Max Verstappen, the team captain, talking, probably showing Oscar around the house. You wiggle your fingers on the bed in excitement. Lando sighs in mock annoyance. He’s smiling, and you can tell he’s excited too. You know him well enough to know that. You’ve been friends for years and years now.

Lando stands up and nods towards the open bedroom door. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

You follow him down the stairs and into the living room, where Max is standing with Oscar, explaining something and waving his hands around as he speaks. You and Lando lean in the doorway, his head stacked above yours, and wait patiently for them to notice you. Max does first, and his eyes light up. He waves the two of you in and introduces you both to Oscar, who smiles politely.

You’re holding the basket of goodies in your arms, and you hold it out to him. “This is a little welcome present,” you say, blinking softly.

Oscar takes the basket into his hands and blinks softly. His cheeks have gone red, and you feel your own face grow warm as he looks up at you. His hair falls over his forehead, and he smiles. Oh. Oscar Piastri is cute.

“Wow, thanks,” he says, quietly. “This is great.”

Lando leans over your shoulder. “You’re welcome.”

You elbow him, so hard he hunches over and groans. “Fuck off, Norris, you did nothing.”

Oscar laughs, muffling it behind his hand, and you feel quite proud of it. Max is quick to pull Oscar away after that, muttering something about showing him the rest of the house. Lando, having recovered, stands up and glares at you. You shrug. Then something pops into your head.

“Hey, family dinner is at 7:00 tonight,” you call after Max and Oscar, and Lando winces at the volume of your voice. “Don’t be late! I’m talking to you, Max.”

Nearly everyone shows up to the family dinner that night, which isn’t how they usually go. The whole team doesn’t live at the house, but Sunday dinner is open to everyone, and people make appearances based on their schedules. The guys who do live in the house are almost always there, of course. And you, because you almost never have anything better to do.

Oscar comes down to dinner in a Timberwolves hoodie that you recognize from the gift basket, which makes you feel a bit giddy inside. He stands on the edge of the crowd of people in the kitchen, like he’s a bit afraid to even put a toe in the wrong place. You smile softly at him from across the room as you open a bottle of soda. That same pretty blush returns to his cheeks.

Someone notices him, finally, and announces his presence. They’re hockey players, so they jump straight into teasing and far too aggressive handshakes. You let out a little sigh of relief as you see some of the tension fall from his shoulders. He looks happy to meet everyone, a smile slipping across his face. You can’t help the matching one on your own lips.

“Told you he’d be fine,” Lando says, nudging your shoulder.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Across the room, you hear someone comment on his hoodie as they tug on the front of it. “Nice, already repping the team!”

He nods, looking towards where you and Lando stand at the counter. “Oh. Yeah. Lando and his girlfriend gave it to me.”

The room falls silent for just a few seconds, and then they all erupt into laughter. Oscar looks around, bewildered, face even redder than before. You roll your eyes at the rest of the boys.

“I’m not his girlfriend,” you state, and Oscar scrunches his face up sheepishly. “And, like I said before, Lando did absolutely nothing to help.”

“You know, you could sound less disgusted at the idea of being my girlfriend,” Lando suggests.

You roll your eyes and pick your drink up off the counter. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Alex, a goalie on the team who’s leaning on the counter nearby, nods along. “Besides, it’s not like you could ever pull Bunny, Lando.”

Lando puts his hand on his chest in mock hurt. Alex’s comment is met with resounding agreement. Oscar looks even more confused. There’s a little furrow in his brow that you think is honestly quite adorable.

“Bunny,” Max says, pointing at you, always happy to explain something, “is her nickname.”

“It’s a long story,” Alex pipes in.

Oscar doesn’t ask more than that. When everyone sits down for dinner, he’s quiet, especially compared to the rest of them. He’s still settling in, you remind yourself. A new team must be daunting. As everyone talks about class schedules and syllabuses and how they can’t wait for the hockey season to start, you relate to him more than he’ll probably ever understand.

After dinner, the rest of the team files out. Eventually, you’re left at the dining table with Lando and Max. Their other roommates, George, Alex, and Charles, are in the kitchen cleaning up the leftovers. Oscar has disappeared, off who knows where doing who knows what. He’s probably still unpacking. It’s a Sunday night, and when you decide to head back to your own apartment, Lando offers to walk you home. When you leave his house, you look up at the window in the corner from outside. The blinds are closed, but Oscar’s light is on.

…..

You quickly find out that you and Oscar must be in the same major, or at least a similar one, because you keep bumping into him during the first week of classes. The strange thing is that he doesn’t seem to notice you, or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t care to. You’re in at least three lectures with him. He barely looks at you in any of them, and never acknowledges you.

He’s just as withdrawn at the hockey house, where you spend most of your free time. He’s not mean, he’s just not exactly social, either. After the first family dinner on the day he moves in, he misses the next three, which is nearly unheard of for someone who lives in the house.

Lando seems to think it’s fine. “He’s showing up to training, he’s talking to the team, he listens to the coaches well. Maybe he’s just not a social guy.”

“Or maybe he just doesn’t like you,” Charles, the alternate captain on the team, suggests.

You glare daggers at him, reach into the mixing bowl in front of you, and lob a bit of cookie dough at his head. He dodges it with expert precision. It smacks against the wall and sticks. Damn athletes and their good reflexes.

“Hey, hey, no food fights,” Max says, having walked into the kitchen at the worst time.

He’s glaring at Lando, who throws his hands up in innocence. “It wasn’t me this time!”

Max turns to Charles, who points a finger at you. The captain gives you an exasperated look, resting his hands on the counter. He usually reserves that look for Lando, or one of his other teammates when they’re causing trouble. You hate having it directed at you.

You shrug. “He was being mean.”

“Was not!” Charles whines, and you roll your eyes at him. “All I did was suggest that maybe the reason Oscar’s quiet around her is just that he doesn’t like her.”

Max hisses through his teeth. “Charlie, that’s mean. Come on, who wouldn’t like her?”

You smile brightly. “For that, Max, you can have the first cookie.”

Max grins widely and reaches over to rub his hand against the top of your head. It’s the same way he rubs his gloves against his teammates' helmets when they’ve done well. You think it’s the only way he knows how to show affection. As he steps past you, Oscar walks into the room. You’d be worried he overheard the four of you talking, but you know he’s just arrived at home- you’d heard the sound of the front door. He greets everyone with a nod, sidesteps you, and heads for the fridge.

“Want some cookie dough, Oscar?” You ask, waiting with bated breath.

Charles narrows his eyes at you, obviously offended by your offer compared to you throwing it at his head. Lando’s watching you with amusement on his face. You want to punch both of them.

“Oh, no thanks,” he says.

He grabs a protein shake and then leaves the room again with just another nod. You pout at his back as he disappears.When you turn and look at Max, he’s giving you a solemn frown.

“We’ve found the one man immune to Bunny’s charms,” he says, shaking his head.

The cookies take a while to bake, and by the time they’re done, the house is empty. Everyone’s off at practice. You pack them up into a container, knowing if you time it right you’ll catch them on their break. Then you walk over to the rink, which is only a short distance away, cookies in one hand and a book in the other. You sit in on practices sometimes. Their coach only acts mildly annoyed about it. It usually helps when you bring baked goods along with you.

You take your usual seat down near the bench when you get there. A couple of the guys wave when they spot you. The head coach glares at you from the corner of his eye and then makes his way up into the stands, headed for you.

“Hi, Seb,” you say as you smile up at him as you take the lid off the container of cookies. “I made chocolate chip this time.”

Sebastian, or Coach Vettel, as everyone sane calls him, sighs and grins before reaching into the container. “They’re still warm!”

You nod, watching as he takes a bite. The smile stays on his face, which is a marker of a job well done. He turns over his shoulder, and you cover your ears just before he whistles to the team.

“Take a break!” He yells. “Cookies!”

Half the team scrambles over to the bench. Sebastian waves you down towards them. You follow him out of the stands and down to the bench, where Max is leaning over the wall, hands outstretched.

“I was promised the first cookie,” he says, elbowing Charles when he gets a little bit too close.

You hold the container out to him. Behind him, Oscar is face to face with the goal on the ice, shooting pucks like he doesn’t realize they’ve called for a break. Your heart sinks. Not even the cookies can make him look your way. Max catches your gaze as everyone else takes a cookie and scatters away, either to sit down or meander on the ice. He nudges his hand against your wrist and smiles softly.

“Give him time,” Max says with a shrug. “He’s trying to find his footing. Trying to prove himself. He’ll open up when he’s ready.”

You sigh heavily. “I don’t know why I care so much.”

“Because you’re a good person,” he says, and you feel your face heat up. “Because he’s new and you worry about him just like you worry about all of them. But that’s my job, too, okay? So trust me.”

You nod. He nods back. Then Lando comes barreling up, yelling something about cookies. You hand him a couple and listen to him whine about the practice as Max tries his best to keep the morale up. Behind them, Oscar shoots another puck into the net.

When they go back to practicing, you watch for a bit before you open your book. The season is ramping up, and their first game is only a few weeks away. The first practice was rough, it always is- you remember Max coming back to the house, so frustrated he wouldn’t even speak to anyone. They’re in sync now, though- passes connecting seamlessly, moving like a unit on the ice. You’ve missed it, you’ll admit. The scrape of the skates on the ice, the slap of the sticks against the pucks. When Lando asks if you’re excited for the first game, you’ll fake a yawn, just to keep his ego in check, but really, you can’t wait.

After practice is over, Lando yells up to you in the stands. “We’ll walk you home, yeah?”

You nod in agreement. You give them time to get packed up and changed and then meet them in the lobby of the rink. Slowly but surely, they all filter out. Lando’s first, hair soaking wet, and he shakes the excess water on you. Then Max and Charles, deep in a conversation you’ll never understand. George and Alex follow them out, and you peer behind them, looking for Oscar.

Max nudges you towards the door. “Oscar said not to wait for him.”

You try your best to hide the frown. Nobody but Max seems to notice, and he doesn’t point it out. He just smiles softly at you, like he’s trying to be reassuring. It works a little bit.

Your apartment is a few blocks down from the rink, sort of on the way to their house, if you don’t mind making a small detour. They always insist on walking you home, whether it’s one of them at the end of a family dinner, or a whole group on their way home from practice. Tonight, George and Alex peel off to head straight home, while Max and Lando accompany you. They’re chatting about the team, about practice, and you don’t really start paying attention until you hear them say Oscar’s name.

“I think he’s downplaying it,” Lando says, kicking a rock down the sidewalk. “I think with him, we have a real chance at the championship this year.”

Max is quiet. You know this is a sore spot for him. The team hasn’t won a championship since before Max and Lando’s freshman year. They’re seniors now. They’ve been in the playoffs every year. The championship has been just out of reach every time. They all want it so badly.

“Let him downplay it,” Max says. “Don’t put too much pressure on the guy, you know? Besides, better than him being a cocky asshole, huh?”

Lando twists his face up, but he nods. “Guess we’ll see at the game next week.”

You perk up even more at that. The first game is only days away. The whole campus is buzzing about it, yourself included.

“You’re going to be there, right?” Max asks, turning to you. “Can’t go without our resident cheerleader.”

You nod eagerly. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You’ve reached your apartment building. They each give you quick hugs and then send you upstairs. By the time you reach your bed, you’ve forgotten all about Oscar Piastri and his unwillingness to act like you even exist. You fall asleep and dream of cookies flying across the ice rink like pucks.

…..

You don’t sleep over at Lando’s house often, preferring your own bed to the couch or the air mattress, or, god forbid, sharing a bed with Lando. The two of you are close, but never close enough to be that comfortable with cuddling, beyond long hugs when you’re feeling sad or he’s lost a game. But you’d had a movie night that went on long and when you’d fallen asleep leaning against his headboard, he’d suggested you just spend the night. Then he promptly curled up next to you and passed out.

You’d done the same, but now it’s 1am and you’re wide awake, blinking around the room. The poster the guys all tease him for stares at you from the back of the door- Lewis Hamilton, former Timberwolves prodigy and first round draft pick. It’s a bit ridiculous that he’s still got the poster, really, but you know he’s had it for years. You drag yourself out of bed and head down to the kitchen. Maybe if you can get some cold water, you’ll be able to fall back asleep.

You nearly scream when you walk into the kitchen and find that it’s not empty. Someone’s standing at the fridge, his back to you. It’s Oscar- he’s shirtless, and he turns to look over his shoulder like he knew you were coming. He probably did, you suppose- the house is old and the stairs creak, along with every other floorboard.

“Hi,” he says, quietly. You’re trying not to stare at the smooth expanse of pale skin on his back, or his toned arms. “Can’t sleep?”

You blink a few times, then take a step into the kitchen. “I was asleep. Then I woke up.”

He nods in understanding and turns back to the fridge. You watch as he pulls the pitcher out, then reaches for a glass- two glasses. Something about that makes your heart catch in your throat. You swallow the feeling down and take a few steps closer. His arm tenses as he pours the water. You’re trying not to stare, because really, it’s his kitchen and you’re an outsider here. You’ve never felt like this in this house before, so out of place. He’s the only one who makes you feel that way. You don’t think he’s even doing it on purpose. So you’re trying not to stare, and failing, because honestly, Oscar Piastri is hot. You’re only realizing it now, because you’ve been too focused on him ignoring you before this.

He clears his throat. “So. You’re not Lando’s girlfriend?”

That startles you out of your stupor. He slides the glass of water across the counter, and you step forward to grab it. You drum your nails on the granite and shake your head.

“Nope. Just friends. Strictly platonic.” You state. He raises his brows- you’re not sure what to make of that. “I know me being here at 1am sort of contradicts that, but, yeah.”

Oscar nods. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry, I just…”

He just wants to know why you are here, if it’s not because you’re dating his teammate. He doesn’t understand. You get it. Between the nickname and your penchant for hanging out around the house and the practices, he probably does think you’re some sort of puck bunny. You fight the urge to jump to your own defense. Oscar’s given you almost nothing. You don’t owe him an explanation in return

You shrug. “It’s fine. Logan asked the same things,” you say, referring to the freshman rookie. “I promise I’m not trying to fuck all your teammates or whatever you assumed. I’m just friends with them.”

You see his whole body tense. You take a sip of your water and study his face. You can’t quite read his expression, not in the same way as you can with most of his teammates. It’s annoying that he’s so easily unknowable. He’s not even trying.

“That’s not why I asked,” he says, quietly.

You almost believe him. You would, really, if he hadn’t been so standoffish towards you for the first few weeks you’d known him. You try to remember what Max said a few days ago. He’ll open up when he’s ready. Or maybe, never at all.

You take the glass with you when you head back up to Lando’s room. “Good luck on the physics quiz tomorrow.”

He calls out a soft, “you too,” at your retreating figure.

It’s a kind gesture, but you’re definitely going to fail the quiz. He doesn’t need to know that, though.

…..

You file into your seat at the first game of the year surrounded by the smell of hot dogs and soft pretzels and cheap nacho cheese. Lily, Alex’s girlfriend, is already waiting in her spot next to yours. She’s wearing Alex’s varsity jacket. You’re clad in a hoodie you stole from the hockey house, one you’re pretty sure used to be Max’s at one point. It’s been passed down to other people so many times it doesn’t matter, now. Lily smiles at you when you sit down and tears off a chunk of her pretzel for you. You accept it gratefully. Between the pretzel, the chill in the air, and the sound of Shut Up and Dance by Walk The Moon playing in the background, you feel right at home.

The Zamboni is down on the ice, making its last round. “Did you ask Alex if we could ride the Zamboni this year?”

Lily nods. “He said ‘we’ll see’” she says, mocking his accent and letting out a puff of air. “So. We’ll see, I guess.”

You sigh heavily and lean back in your seat. You’ve been begging them to get you out on the Zamboni for years now, trying to bribe everyone from the players to the coaches. None of the bribes have worked yet. You swear you’ll get your chance one day, but this is Lando and Max’s last year. They’re your best shot- they’re the ones you’re closest with, and the most easily convinced to go along with any of your antics.

The Zamboni leaves the ice, and the players come out of the tunnel, and for the next 60 minutes-plus breaks- you’ll be glued to the game down below. It feels like the whole school has been waiting with bated breath- it’s Seb’s first year as head coach, they’ve got Oscar now, this could be the year. They could win it all. Maybe this is it. When you look over, Lily’s hands are gripping the armrests tightly. You place a hand on her wrist, just to remind her you’re there. She smiles gratefully as Alex takes his place in front of the net, and the rest of the boys take their places on the ice.

Oscar scores 30 seconds in. The two of you lose your minds in the stands, screaming your heads off. Down below, you watch Max rub his glove against Oscar’s helmet, watch the way Lando comes barreling into the younger boy from across the ice. The electricity of it crackles in the air. For the rest of the game, you can’t take your eyes off of him, off of number 81. He’s captivating.

They win with a solid 4-2 score, and the team they played is one of the easier ones, but it still feels good, and bodes well for the rest of the season. Oscar scores two of the goals. Another goes to Max, and the fourth to Charles. You and Lily head to the house before they’re even off the ice, knowing full well what’s about to come. You make quick work of clearing any breakable items from the common spaces of the house, you make sure all the bedroom doors are closed, and you remove anything they wouldn’t want stolen or spilled on- blankets, random hoodies, Charles’ entire week’s worth of homework strewn across the kitchen table. Lily pulls the mixers from the fridge, while you take the bottles of alcohol out of the cupboard. The two of you set up beer pong in the backyard together.

When the boys get home, they bring a crowd with them- the rest of the team, minus the freshmen, the team’s girlfriends and friends and some of their families, and anyone else they’ve picked up along the way. The house already feels full, and you start to usher people towards the backyard, knowing it’ll only get more crowded from here on out. Max pulls you into a hug as he slips past you on his way outside- you pass him a shot, and he smiles gratefully before he tips it back. Lando is hot on his heels, and you repeat the process. They’re freshly showered and starry eyed, riding the adrenaline high. The two of them shove at each other, and they bump into you in the process.

“Good game, boys,” you tell them, smiling brightly at your friends.

“Fucking Piastri, mate,” Lando says, snapping his fingers in a way that makes you wonder if he’s had a shot on his walk here. “I mean, come on!”

Max laughs and shakes his head. You pour another round of shots for the three of you, and Max shrugs, as if to say, why not. You tip them back and all collapse into fits of laughter afterwards.

When you look upstairs, you just barely catch sight of Oscar, disappearing into his room. He makes eye contact with you for just a second, and he smiles softly, cheeks rosy pink. You smile back, and then he turns and shuts the door behind him. It’s the last time you see him that night. The whole team is talking about him, and he’s not even there. You think that maybe you’ll never understand him. You don’t have time to worry about him, though, not when your friends are dragging you outside and begging for a round of beer pong. Oscar can take care of himself.

In the morning, you wake up on the couch in the living room. The sun is just peeking through the blinds, and you’re surrounded by empty plastic cups. Someone has tucked a blanket over you haphazardly, and there’s a hoodie shoved under your head as a makeshift pillow. Max or Charles’ doing, probably, or maybe a joint effort. It’s early, far too early, and you close your eyes to try and fall back asleep when you hear it- the noise that probably woke you up in the first place. Someone’s in the kitchen.

When you lean over the back of the couch and look through the doorway, you find Oscar. He’s surprised to see you this time, it seems- he stops in his tracks, eyes going wide. His cheeks are red, and his eyes are, too- he’s been crying. After all his pretending you don’t exist, you shouldn’t care, but the sight of him makes your heart twist in your chest.

“Hey,” you say, quietly. “You okay?”

His eyelashes flutter, and then he closes his eyes and sighs. “M’fine.”

He’s clad in a hoodie and a pair of shorts, and his running shoes. He’s carrying a water bottle, too. He probably thought he could sneak out of the house and go on a run before anyone else was awake, and that nobody would even know. But here you are. Watching him fight back tears.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” you say, quietly. “I won’t tell. I get it.”

He opens one eye and stares at you, unconvinced. You nod.

“The pressure of the first game,” you suggest. “And you won, but now the pressure’s even bigger to keep it going. And everyone is talking about you but you don’t like the spotlight.”

He nods, chewing on his lower lip. “Yeah. Exactly.”

You rest your chin on your hands on the back of the couch. “It gets easier. Promise. And the guys- they’re just happy to have you on the team. It’s not all on your shoulders.”

He lets out a little huff and rolls his aforementioned shoulders. You can tell he doesn’t believe you, and for a moment, you wonder how shitty of a team he played with before. Max’s first priority as team captain has always been making sure his teammates are okay. Winning comes second. You know it’s not always like that for other teams.

“D’you… do you wanna come on a run with me?” He asks, and you blink in surprise.

You groan and flop back down onto the couch so he can’t see the way your face twists up. You do want to, actually. This feels like an olive branch. But a run is out of the question for you based on the ache in your right knee. Your physical therapist, Lando, and Max would probably all kill you for saying yes. So you say no instead.

“Piastri, I am violently hungover and I think I fucked up my knee last night, so I think I’ll pass,” you say. You hear him walk towards the door, and when he gets there, he turns back to look at you. His cheeks are still red, but his eyes are less watery. “But have a good run, yeah?”

He smiles. “Thanks.”

You can see him through the front window as he gets ready to take off. His breath curls into misty spirals in the cold morning air, and he’s silhouetted by the morning sun. It’s a bit breathtaking, really. When he disappears from view, you close your eyes and try to go back to sleep, comforted by the thought that maybe he doesn’t hate you, after all.

find part two, Change Of Heart, here!

a/n: i know it feels a little slow rn but we had to do some intro! let me know what you think!!

main taglist: @4-mula1 @celestialams @struggling-with-delia @lovekt @i-wish-this-was-me @forzalando @iloveyou3000morgan @callsign-scully @arian-directioner @racingheartsposts @ggaslyp1

series taglist: @sourskywalker @ivyvlair @gwginnyweasley @annispamz @bearlul @aresriiots @lightsoutletsgo

if I’ve left you off a taglist on accident please let me know!!

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pickingupmymercedes · 1 month

Text

All these little things - Lewis Hamilton

Lots of fluff. 9 snippets of fluff to be exact (plus 9 more to come on Sunday - pt 2)

Also there's 20 more fluffs just like these ones - Ways to say I love you and Ways to say I love you pt. 2

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

wordcount: +3k

a/n: I've gotten so many requests for fluff Lewis, regular things with Lewis, just Lewis being a bf/husband. So,I hope you guys enjoy mostly domestic moments with him.

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

Late night snack

The rhythmic rumble of a passing truck vibrated through the floor, a jarring counterpoint to the silence pressing against her eardrums. Jet lag, the unwelcome souvenir of her whirlwind trip to Paris, had her wide awake at 3:14 am, staring at the unfamiliar shapes of Lewis's NY apartment.

Her stomach, thankfully, didn't mirror the wide-awake state. In fact, the thought of food sent a shudder through her. But the disorienting quietness, punctuated only by the city's lullaby of honking horns, demanded some kind of action.

She slipped out of bed, the cool floor a stark contrast to the plush carpets of the bedroom. Padding down the hallway, she felt a strange sense of displacement. This wasn't their Monaco or London apartment, but Lewis's NYC one, and while they’ve been living together for a while they would seldom stay there.

The warm glow of the kitchen light drew her like a moth to a flame. She rummaged through the fridge, her fingers brushing against a carton of leftover takeout, a half-eaten bag of kale chips, and a jar of something labeled "Grandma's Pickles."

Just as she opened the jar, a sleepy voice filled the doorway.

"Night pick me up?" Lewis stood there, hair tousled and eyes crinkled with sleep. He wore a worn t-shirt that hung tight on his broad frame, and even in the dim light, she could see the rumpled remnants of a smile playing on his lips.

"Couldn't sleep" she mumbled, putting the pickle jar on the island.

"Jet lag?" He crossed the room, his presence filling the previously empty space. She nodded, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks. "Yeah, I guess."

He leaned closer, his scent - a mix of cologne and the lingering warmth of sleep - washing over her. "Next time, call me so we can raid the fridge together" he teased, his eyes twinkling.

She stuck her tongue out at him playfully. "They're Grandma's Pickles! How could I resist?"

He reached out, taking the jar gently, setting it on the counter. He pulled her to his body, his embrace a warm haven in the cool night. "You know," he said, his lips brushing against her ear, sending shivers down her spine, "sometimes the best cure for jet lag is a good cuddle."

She laughed. "Is that a doctor's recommendation, Dr. Hamilton?" He pulled back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "The most handsome doctor you know," he corrected, before leaning down and capturing her lips in a soft kiss.

The kiss was slow and sweet, a gentle reassurance. Pulling away, Lewis rested his forehead on hers, his voice a warm rumble against her skin. "Truth is," he admitted, "I woke up missing you."

Lazy sunday Mornings

The silence was almost unsettling. Lewis, accustomed to the constant hum of activities, found the stillness of his mom's house almost jarring.

He cracked open one eye, surprised to see a sliver of sunlight already peeking through the curtains. It was way too early for a lazy Sunday morning, especially after a grueling season.

He glanced over at Y/n, her head buried in the crook of his neck, fast asleep. A soft smile tugged at his lips. He loved seeing her so relaxed, the worry lines on her forehead smoothed out, a gentle rhythm rising and falling with her breath.

He reached out, tracing a fingertip down her cheek, the temptation to wake her with a kiss strong. But before he could act, a soft groan escaped Y/n's lips. Her eyes fluttered open, blinking sleepily at him. "Morning" Lewis murmured; his voice rough with disuse.

Y/n stretched; her smile sleepy but undeniably beautiful. "Too early" she mumbled, pulling him closer. Lewis chuckled, wrapping his arm around her. "Couldn't sleep," he admitted. "The silence is...different."

Y/n laughed softly. "Close your eyes" she said, her voice a soothing whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Before he could ask, she began gently tracing the back of her finger to the bridge of his nose. It was an unexpected sensation, a light tickle that soothed something within him. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, the rhythmic move lulling him back to sleep.

He drifted off in a haze, fragments of dreams swirling around him. A couple of hours, punctuated by the occasional weird dream, must have passed because the next thing he knew, a high-pitched squeal pierced the peaceful silence.

"Uncle Lewis! Wake up!"

Lewis groaned, burying his head under the pillow. Another voice, slightly deeper this time, chimed in. "Come on, Auntie Y/n! Uncle Lewis is being a lazy bum again!"

Y/n giggled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Sorry, my secret weapon doesn’t work on them”

Lewis peeked out from under the pillow to see his niece and nephew bouncing on the bed, their faces alight with excitement. There went his peaceful Sunday morning, but the sight of their bright smiles chased away any lingering sleepiness. It was time to be Uncle Lewis for the day.

Roscoe photos

Y/N stifled a yawn, her eyes glazing over at the endless stream of spreadsheets projected on the screen. The board meeting droned on, each statistic sounding more monotonous than the last. Glancing around the table, she saw her colleagues diligently taking notes, their expressions an equal mix of concentration and fatigue.

A notification buzzed on her phone, a welcome distraction. Unlocking it, she saw a picture on Instagram – a close-up of Roscoe staring intently at the camera with his tongue lolling out in a comical fashion. The message: "Deep in thought... about treats?"

Y/N chuckled silently, the image instantly bringing a smile. She quickly tapped a like, then sent a playful message back to Lewis: "Looks like someone's plotting world domination... or maybe just the next jar raid."

Before she could put her phone down, another notification popped up. This time, the picture was Roscoe sprawled across a fluffy white rug, toasting in a sunbeam. The caption: "Living my best life. Don't be jealous."

Y/N couldn't help but grin. Lewis clearly had a newfound time killer – chronicling Roscoe's every move.

Over the next hour, the barrage of photos continued. There was Roscoe sporting a pair of tiny sunglasses, another with a flower crown perched precariously on his head, and yet another napping in a miniature F1 car. Each picture accompanied by a silly caption, making Y/N laugh silently behind her hand.

The sheer absurdity of it all was a welcome escape from the monotony of the meeting. She pictured Lewis, presumably bored at his own meeting, deciding to entertain her with Roscoe's antics.

It was a sweet gesture, a silent way of connecting with her amidst their busy schedules.

Finally, silence descended upon the boardroom as the meeting concluded. Y/N stretched, a relieved sigh escaping her lips. Reaching for her phone, she sent a final message to Lewis: "Thanks for the Roscoe spam. You made this meeting a bit more bearable!"

Almost instantly, her phone buzzed again. A new picture filled the screen – this time, it was Lewis himself, a sheepish grin on his face, with Roscoe perched on his lap. The caption read: "Just your average meeting attendees. Don't tell Toto."

Cramps

A dull pain ripped through Y/N, jolting her awake. Moonlight streamed through the bedroom window, casting the room in a soft, silvery glow. Disoriented for a moment, she blinked back trying to grasp what was happening.

The monthly visitor arrived at least once every cycle, and tonight was no different.

Throwing off the covers, she shuffled towards the kitchen, her body a symphony of discomfort. Reaching for the familiar bottle of pain relief on the top shelf, she fumbled slightly, wincing at another twinge. Grabbing a glass of water, she popped a couple of pills and made her way back to the bedroom, hoping the medication would kick in soon.

Sliding back under the covers, she snuggled in beside Lewis, who stirred slightly in his sleep. A moan escaping her lips as another cramp flared up.

Sensing her discomfort, Lewis sleeply wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "Everything alright, love?" his voice was thick with sleep, but still holding concern.

"Just the usual," she mumbled, burrowing deeper into his warmth. "Cramps." He understood. They'd talked about it before.

Without a word, he shifted their positions, maneuvering her back to his chest and reaching his hands under her shirt to rest gently on her lower abdomen. A silent communication, a shared language they'd built over time.

His touch was soothing, a welcome contrast to the ache radiating from within. His large hands, usually so strong, felt surprisingly gentle as they pressed against her skin. The warmth seemed to seep into her, easing the tension knot by knot. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as he acted as her own human sized heating bag.

As the cramps eased, Y/N snuggled closer. She could have sworn she felt Lewis's lips brush against the back of her head, a silent promise of being there for her.

Winning Celebration

The rhythmic crash of waves against the Monaco shoreline provided a calming white noise backdrop to the quiet murmurs in Lewis' living room. Sunlight, filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting an especially warm string of light to the tangled mess of limbs sprawled under a thin duvet.

Lewis, his bare chest lightly dusted with golden sunlight, held Y/n close, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the small of her back.

"You were incredible this weekend" Y/n whispered, her voice husky. "That overtake at Sainte Devote? Pure magic."

Lewis chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated against her ear. "Just had a feeling " he admitted, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Course you did" Y/n continued, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as he leaned down to place a soft kiss on her neck.

Just then, the sound of the front door creaking open shattered the peaceful intimacy. A loud, slightly slurred voice echoed through the apartment, "Alright, I brought those-"

The voice, belonging to one of Lewis' friend, cut off abruptly as the realization of what he'd walked in on dawned on him. He stood frozen for a beat, his eyes widening at the sight of them entangled on the living room rug, bathed in sunlight.

"Don't mind me" Daniel finally stammered, his voice thick with embarrassment and amusement "I'm clearly way too drunk for this. Don’t worry I won't be remembering any of this."

Y/n buried her face in Lewis' chest, a strangled giggle escaping her lips. Lewis, meanwhile, burst into laughter, the tension dissolving into a wave of relief and amusement.

"Typical" Lewis chuckled, shaking his head. "Always the party crasher."

Y/n peeked up from his chest, a playful glint in her eyes. "See? Told you he wouldn't be fazed," she teased, remembering a previous, similar incident involving a particularly enthusiastic post-podium celebration.

Lewis grinned, pulling her closer. "Seems you were right" he admitted, his voice laced with affection. "Now, how about we get ourselves to the bedroom before he decides to join us?"

Y/n raised an eyebrow playfully. "Sorry, I don’t share." Her lips crashing into his as he brought her even closer.

Stargazing

The humid costal Cape Town air hung thick and heavy as Y/N and Lewis stepped out onto their hotel balcony. A million diamond-like stars glittered across the velvet expanse of the sky at the distant villa they were staying at.

"The night sky here is so clear" Lewis breathed, tilting his head back to take it all in.

Y/N smiled, a wave of nostalgia washing over her. "Look south," she instructed, pointing towards a constellation of four bright stars forming a perfect cross. "See that? That's the Southern Cross."

Lewis squinted, following her finger. "The Southern Cross? I've never seen it before."

"It's not visible from most places in Europe" she explained. "It's our signpost back in South America. My dad always says that whenever we get lost, all we have to do is find the Southern Cross. It always points south, it points home."

A warm feeling spread through her chest as she pointed to each star in the cross. "See, the little arm on the left is Mimosa, and the one on the right, slightly dimmer, is Pálida - 'pale' in portuguese. The longer arm pointing north is called Rubídea, and the longest one, pointing due south, that's the Magalhães star, named after the explorer."

Lewis chuckled. "And the one in the middle, kind of squeezed between the right arm and the south one?"

Y/N grinned. "That's Intrometida," she declared. "It means 'nosy'. It's the odd one out, just hanging out there in the middle."

Lewis laughed, a low rumble in his chest. " Fits the description."

They stood in comfortable silence for a while, simply gazing up at the breathtaking display of stars. The vastness of the universe felt humbling, and yet, the familiarity of the Southern Cross, a beacon from her childhood, brought a sense of comfort.

"Thank you for showing me this" Lewis finally said, his voice soft as his fingers reached for hers and he held her gazer "But my favorite part of this view is right here beside me."

Late night driving

Rain lashed against the windshield, blurring the neon glow of oncoming traffic into streaks of light. The countryside, usually a picturesque blur of rolling hills and quaint villages, was now an inky expanse punctuated by the occasional farmhouse windows alight.

Y/N gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, the late-night drive back home to London starting to feel endless.

A glance at the passenger seat revealed Lewis, his head resting back against the headrest, a peaceful expression on his face. He was supposed to be in charge of the music for the long journey, but exhaustion, brought on by a long day of meetings at the factory, had clearly won him over.

Y/N stifled a yawn, her eyelids growing heavy. Reaching for her phone, she pressed the home button.

"Hey Siri," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Yes, Y/N, how can I help you?" came the disembodied voice from the phone's speaker.

"Play some upbeat songs, please" Y/N requested. A beat of silence followed, then the unmistakable opening chords of "Dancing Queen" by ABBA filled the car.

Y/N's lips curved into a smile. Maybe a little cheese was exactly what she needed.

Just as the chorus picked up a startled groan erupted from the passenger seat. Lewis jolted awake, blinking rapidly as he adjusted to the sudden change in light and sound.

"What is this?" he exclaimed; his voice thick with sleep.

Y/N glanced over at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Abba?!" she replied, tapping her finger rhythmically on the steering wheel in time with the music. "You know, since you failed in your designated DJ duties."

Lewis's face scrunched up in mock horror. "Seriously? Dancing queen?!” Y/N laughed. "Hey, classics never go out of style. Besides," she added, a teasing lilt in her voice, "how can you resist singing along?"

Lewis opened his mouth to protest, then a ghost of a smile played on his lips. He sighed dramatically. "Alright, alright," he conceded, "but only because you’re driving”

Y/N winked at him, her heart lighter. The rain continued to fall outside, but inside the car, filled with ABBA and the playful banter between them, the long drive felt a little less daunting.

Ironing shirt

A low hum danced across the room and dragged Y/n from her sleep. Disoriented for a moment, she blinked, the hum resolving itself into the rhythmic hiss of an iron.

She turned her head, a smile tugging at her lips. There, across their motorhome room, stood Lewis, shoulders broad and relaxed as he glided the iron over a crisp white shirt. The scene, domesticity in all its glory.

"Lew?" she rasped; her voice thick with sleep. He glanced up, a smile mirroring hers as he set the iron down. "Morning. Sleep well?"

"Yeah" she mumbled, burrowing deeper into the covers. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure your shirt is crispy" he said with a bright smile on his lips, picking the iron back up.

Y/n stretched languidly, the sheet slipping down her shoulder and revealing his t-shirt she had slept in. " You really didn’t have to”

Lewis chuckled, a warm rumble in his chest. "Non sense". He gestured towards the bed. "Come on now, sleepyhead. We need to leave soon."

With a sigh, Y/n threw back the covers and padded across his motor room, the plush carpet a welcome comfort against her bare feet. She wrapped her arms around Lewis from behind, pressing her cheek against his back.

"You shouldn't have done that" she mumbled into his shirt.

"Shouldn't have ironed your shirt?"

"No, woken up so early." Lewis turned in his arms, his brow furrowed slightly. "You know I don’t sleep too much”

He brushed a bit of hair from her face, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. "Spoiling me rotten, why don’t you?!" she teased, leaning up to kiss him softly.

The kiss deepened quickly, a familiar electric current running between them. He held her close, the iron forgotten on the ironing board. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, a comfortable silence settled around them.

"Alright, enough distractions." Lewis said with a playful grin, picking up the iron again. Y/n swatted him playfully on the arm. "Fine, fine. But at least let me make you some coffee."

"Make it strong, beautiful. Long day ahead." he said, winking.

Naps

The scent of Lewis's signature cologne hit Y/N as she fumbled with her key, the familiar aroma a warm welcome after a long day of meetings. She pushed open the door, a tired smile gracing her lips. Stepping inside, the apartment was the picture of disaster with luggage all around.

Curled up on the plush white sofa, Lewis lay fast asleep, his chest rising and falling gently. But he wasn't alone. Nestled beside him, Roscoe mirrored his position, a ball of contentment.

Y/N's heart melted. Lewis, notorious for his messy sleep schedule, must have been exhausted after the race. And clearly, Roscoe, ever the emotional sponge, had picked up on his human's need for rest.

She tiptoed closer, careful not to disturb their slumber. Lewis's face was relaxed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. One hand lay unconsciously draped over Roscoe's back, who in turn let out a contented sigh in his sleep.

Unable to resist, Y/N pulled out her phone and snapped a picture, capturing the heartwarming tableau of man and dog united. A soft chuckle escaped her lips. Maybe unpacking could wait.

Just then, Lewis stirred, his eyes flickering open. He blinked blearily at her for a moment before a grin spread across his face.

"Hello gorgeous" he mumbled; his voice thick with sleep.

"Hey you" she replied, her voice soft. She gestured towards Roscoe, who was now blinking awake, his tail thumping a lazy greeting against the sofa cushion.

"Looks like someone else is happy you were back" Lewis observed, reaching out to scratch Roscoe behind the ear.

The dog whined happily, nuzzling into Lewis's hand.

"Well," she declared, sinking down onto the sofa beside them, "it seems you two had a relaxing afternoon."

Lewis chuckled, pulling her close. "We did," he admitted, his voice laced with sleepiness. "Until you arrived, photojournalist extraordinaire."

Y/N playfully swatted at his arm. "Hey, someone has to document the domestic bliss."

Lewis leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Then perhaps," he murmured, "you should document some more."

______________________________________________________________

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#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton imagine #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #lewis hamilton #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic

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finniestoncrane · 2 months

Note

PREWAR COOPER STUFFS ❤️‍🔥 DESPERATELY needing some fluffy morning after/Sunday morning routine with his wifey 😩👏 him being VERY grabby and just an absolute horndog dkfnfnrk (he is down bad for reader)

Morning, Sunshine

Cooper Howard x Fem!Reader, word count: 1k hello post divorce cooper, please hit me up, i'll make you eggs (also post-divorce barb i know you're a baddie but that's just my type so i'll make you eggs too pls lemme make you eggs too...ANYWAY) but please this is so cute and i have made it gender neutral as you corrected so everyone enjoy being cooper's little chef and getting caressed by this hungover idiot 🤎 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: suggestive things, mentions of alcohol, angst

Cooper stumbled into the kitchen, his feet shuffling on the floor as though they were made of lead, unable to lift them any higher. He groaned as the light from the windows assaulted him, and you smiled without turning to him, offering a brief, hushed 'good morning'. He returned the greeting with a groan. His entire body felt weighed down, the ache of sleeping in one position all night, lacked out in a drunken stupor after he had pawed at you and attempted to fuck the lingering stress out of his body.

And now he was in his own kitchen, messy from the small gathering of friends from the night before, stressed once more and hungover as shit to boot.

But there you were, by the stove, the source of the wonderful smell that had woken him up and had him drifting from the sancutary of his dark bedroom to face the world. Even when he was hungover, or sick, or just too damn tired to accept reality, he did it anyway. Who knew how many more mornings there were for him to see? That looming threat, the dark secret he had to keep to himself, one not even Barb knew was the real reason for their divorce. The source of his agonies, but also, the reason he felt so inspired to wake up each morning and spend as much of the time he had left with you as possible.

"I wasn't expecting you out of bed any time beforeat least midday, Coop."

"Then you shouldn't have started cooking something so god damn delicious."

His voice grew closer as he made his way, instinctually, towards you.

"I'm sorry, did it wake you up?"

"It did, but there's nothing to apologise for."

He was behind you now as you stood in front of the burners, a pan in your hand, your signature omelette cooking over the heat, your grip wobbling a little as Cooper looped his arms around your body. Everything he did stole your attention, pulling your focus with his charismatic personality, the way he commanded a room the moment he entered. And it didn't help that he had begun to kiss at your neck, letting his lips drag along your prickling skin as he moved down to your shoulder, nuzzling back into you as he sighed. The satisfied moan on the exhale had your stomach tensing, eliciting a soft moan of your own in reply.

"You want me to make you something to eat?"

"Please, darlin'. If that isn't a bother."

"Never is for you, Mr Howard. You get a coffee and take a seat, I'll be right with you."

Once he was seated with his mug, the morning newspaper to the side of the place setting at the kitchen island, you turned from the stove to plate up the omelette for him. It was the first you had properly looked at him that morning, and you could feel your breath hitching as you took him in. Even in this state, bedraggled, skin greasy with a sheen of sweat, hair unkempt and slicked back in messy waves, his breath, which you could smell over the countertop, still tainted with the cocktails he’d been making the night before. Even with all of that, he was still the most handsome man you had ever laid eyes on. And those same eyes couldn’t help but fall to his chest, his robe hanging open, exposing his torso down to his navel.

You wondered if he’d bothered to find any underwear to put on before covering himself with the short robe when he’d stumbled out of bed.

“Oh, sweetheart. You made this for yourself.”

“You eat first, I’ll make one for myself just now.”

Cooper flashed you a grin, one you remembered seeing so often in press photos, at promotional events.

“You really are a doll, know that?”

You returned his smile, turning back to the stove as he ate a few bites of the omelette with a satisfied groan. Cooper took a sip of coffee, watching you over the top of the mug. Every day could be the last. He didn’t want to believe it, but it always hung in the back of his mind. He’d lost Barb to Vaut-Tec, lost Janey, at least partly, to the divorce. He’d lost his sense of security to the war, his work to the paranoia that had burrowed inside of him. You were all he had now, and intended to cling to you with everything he had. Holding your hand tight at the party last night, clutching your body in the bed as he fucked you, passionate, desperate. His fingers entwined in yours as you slept, then holding you in his arms, your body smooth and warm.

Cooper stood up from his chair, unintentionally quiet to the point where you didn’t even notice he had moved until he was right behind you again, pressing himself against you so tight that you could feel the beginnings of his erection pushing into you. With a firm hand, he took your wrist, guiding you to set down the pan, switching the stove off and turning you in a choreographed spin so that you were facing him, your chests together, eyes trained on one another.

“You got enough ingredients for another, right?”

“Uh… yeah? Why?”

“I just think it might be ruined by the time I’m finished with you.”

His hands slipped down from your lower back, cupping both of your cheeks as he raised his eyebrows in a silent, questioning plea. Every moment with you was precious to him, every inch of your body worth placing a kiss to, worth tasting and savouring. Why not make the most of your time together by making sure you were as close to each other, as pleasured and satisfied, as possible?

So, when you blushed, biting your lip and giggling, he knew you agreed, and he took your hand and pulled you back to the comfort of the bedroom with you, hoping to relieve himself of a little more stress.

#fallout #fallout amazon #x reader #finnie writes #cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout fic #cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard fanfiction #cooper howard one shot #cooper howard smut #cooper howard imagine #fallout tv #fallout tv series #walton goggins #cooper howard x fem!reader

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finelinefae · 4 months

Text

soft

synopsis: girls with cute tummies and soft thighs and extra chub in different places can also date hot popstar boys okay? okay.

word count: 2.1 k

contains: plus size reader, non au harry, fluff, mentions of body image and insecurities, harry being obsessed with his girlfriend

A/N: the start of a new thing called 'soft girl sundays' which I'm starting !! i wrote this for wp a few months ago but it's one of my fave things I've written so I'm re-posting it here. it's cheesy and fun and harry's obsessed with his girl !! i know for a lot of us girlies sometimes it feels like we take up too much space and we're always made to feel smaller mentally, physically, in every way really but you have much of a right to be here as everyone else so take up alllll the space u need !! women are beautiful and majestic no matter their size 💘

. . .

My girls' in the audience tonight.

I look past the curtain across the stage and see her in the VIP section.

Even without the stage lights shining on her, she's glowing.

She's wearing a shirt with my initials stitched over her heart and every time she lifts her arms, I see her soft tummy and the dimples on her back when she spins. Her thick thighs are on show as she wears the smallest pink skirt known to man. Her hair falls past her shoulder and down her back and her cute cheeks turn pink as she smiles when she speaks to some of the team who stand with her.

She's the living embodiment of the divine feminine and I can't ever seem to get over the fact that she's all mine.

The music begins to play and I watch as her face lights up with excitement. She's seen this show over a few dozen times but she never fails to be just as excited as the first time she saw me walk on stage with a hickey on my neck that she'd put there moments before.

When it's my queue, I skip onto the stage and my ears nearly burst as the sound of people screaming over the music starts to fill the stadium. She's smiling, she's cheering, she's singing the words to every single song. She's so pretty and she's all I see.

When the show ends, I walk backstage to my dressing room. Normally I'd run into a car and get the Hell out of there before crowds of people start to fill up the streets to get home, but this time, Y/N was here and I knew how much anxiety she felt whenever we had to rush to be somewhere.

I walked in and accepted the compliments from my team after another successful show. Paris was a city I held close to me so it was always a fun time when we played.

I gulped down a glass of water and felt arms snake around my waist. I immediately grinned when I saw the lilac-painted nails that matched my very own. I feel her nuzzle her face into my back before I twist in her embrace and look into the eyes of the girl I love with everything in me.

"Hi baby," I whisper, stroking her cheek that still had glitter on it.

"Hi Harry," Y/N murmurs, her eyes tired but full of happiness.

"Y' okay?" I hold her, feeling her soft skin beneath my hand. She was so soft and cuddly.

"I'm okay." She smiles, lazily. "You did so good up there. I nearly cried,"

I laugh, "You always nearly cry."

"That's because I'm proud of you." She shrugs.

We sit on the couch and she straddles my lap, her skirt riding up and I nearly choke when I catch a glimpse of her lacy underwear. I put my hands on her thighs and squeeze them softly. "You excited for our trip tomorrow?" I asked, staring at her lips and suddenly feeling the temptation to kiss them. I did and she happily accepted.

We had a few days before the next show so we decided to head down to the South of France and spend a few days in Nice. We haven't been on a trip together in a while other than the tour locations so we made the most of the little time we had in between shows to spend as much time as we could together.

She nods, "I bought a new swimsuit just for the occasion."

I groan, my head falling back against the couch, "You kill me."

She giggles, "love you."

I immediately smile. "I love you too," I kiss her.

The morning after the show, we woke up early to make our flight down to Nice. Y/N whines the entire time because she's not a morning person and refuses to step one foot out of bed until I force her.

She sleeps on my chest the entire journey there, wearing an oversized hoodie with the hood up. "My whole heart is inside y'." I murmur as her cheek presses against my chest and makes her lips all pouty, light snores falling from them. I lightly push some of her baby hairs back from her face and trace my thumb over the soft skin of her cheek.

We arrive and head straight to our room at the hotel to drop our bags off before heading to the beach. Y/N immediately opens the doors to the balcony and gasps when she looks out at the view. "Harry, it's beautiful," Y/N says in awe.

I come up behind her and wrap my arms around her tummy, squeezing the softest part of her. I loved all the parts of her but her tummy was my absolute favourite. She always complained about it. How it stuck out when she wore tight clothing and even more so after eating. 'Harry I already have a tummy? Why punish me further by making it bigger after I eat? Seems unfair don't you think?' I'd spend the whole journey home telling her how beautiful she looked and how I loved watching her enjoy the food she loves and then I'd hold her in bed and run circles on her little, bloated belly because I had made it my life's mission to show as much love to the little chub of a tummy she had.

I pull on my swim shorts and a white linen shirt, leaving the buttons undone. I pack my beach bag for our beach towels and my book as well as my film camera and sun lotion.

Y/N walks out of the bathroom. Her hair in loose curls from the heat and her face already sunkissed and pretty. My mouth falls open when I take in the small, blue bikini on her body, revealing her soft curves and every perfect inch of her.

"Do you like it?" She blushes, acting like she's not the hottest girl I've ever seen in my entire life.

It tied at her waist and around her neck, my immediate thought being how easy it would be to take it off her and spend the entire day in bed, making out or whatever. I honestly couldn't care less as long as she's there.

"Baby," I dropped the bag on the floor and made my way towards her, pinching her chin between my thumb and forefinger and tilting her head back so I could kiss her at the perfect angle.

She whines and the sound nearly has me dropping to my knees. "You're fucking unbelievable."

"You really think so?" She bites back a smile, "You don't think I need to hide my stretch marks?" My heart aches at how unsure she sounded, the fact she even had to ask made me want to pick her up and kiss each stretch mark on her body.

"No, my love," I shake my head, kissing the stretch marks at the top of her left breast and feeling her heart racing at the delicate touch. "You have absolutely nothing to hide from anybody. Y' beautiful and you're mine,"

She smiles and kisses me again.

We head down to the beach to the reserved sunbeds. Y/N lays out her towel and sits down to apply sun cream to her arms and legs. I help her do her back, massaging her shoulders and trying not to combust as she rolls her head to the side and moans at the feeling.

I literally have a crush on this woman.

And she's my fucking girlfriend.

What did I do to get this lucky in life?

"Let's go in the water baby," I held her hand and we walked to the water, stepping in together.

She wraps her arms and legs around me when we're deep enough in the water. I squeeze her ass and she gasps, swatting me gently. "What?" I look at her innocently.

"There's people watching." She hides her face in my neck and I turn us both around to catch sight of the paparazzi hiding behind the trees and snapping pictures of us.

I release a sigh and pull her face back to get a better look at her. If there was one thing that could make my girlfriend second guess herself, it was the paparazzi constantly posting her pictures online and allowing people to berate her for how she looked.

"Please don't let them ruin your day my love," I kiss her shoulder, still holding her in my arms. "I promise, you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen."

"You promise?" She pouts.

"Feel this," I reach for her hand and guide her to the small bit of chub on my hip.

She gasps, "You have chub too!"

I rolled my eyes but smiled at the same time, her excitement was adorable. "Everyone's got something they're insecure about. No matter how hard I've tried I can't seem to get rid of it, maybe it's from all the cakes you've been making but how am I meant to say no to such a pretty face?"

She squeals in delight when I pinch her sides and giggles as I press kisses to her face. "Wanna go and sunbathe for a little, baby?" She nods and we both walk out of the water so she can sit in the sun for a bit.

I spend more time in the water and come out to find Y/N verging on the brink of sleep. I smirk as I crawl between her legs and lay between her thighs, sighing softly as I turn my head away from the sun and press a kiss to her inner thigh. She reaches down and runs her fingers through my wet hair, her nails scratching my scalp.

After midday, I order food to be sent up to our room. Y/N's passed out on the sunbed so I gently shake her awake, "Hi baby," Her pretty eyes flutter open, "Need you to drink something darling, you've been in the sun for a while." She slowly sits up and rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. I unscrew the cap of the water bottle and pass it to her, watching as she almost drinks the whole thing.

"I got us room service to be delivered. Want to head back upstairs for a bit?" Her cheeks were red and her hair was all frizzy due to the humidity. She nodded and we packed our things up and made our way back to our hotel room.

Our food was already laid out on the balcony by the time we walked into the room. I had left the air conditioning on so the room was nice and cool since Y/N struggled to sleep when it was too hot and stuffy.

She was wearing my linen shirt over her bikini and I couldn't help but stare at her ass as I followed her to the table outside.

There was fruit, bread and pastries laid out on a spread at the table as well as a glass of red wine and some orange juice. Y/N sat on one of the chairs with one leg hitched up as she ate some of her baguette and cheese, her favourite snack to eat when we were in France.

"Are you having fun, my love?" I asked, taking a bite of fresh watermelon.

She nods quickly, "It's the best. Anytime with you is always the best,"

"Come sit here," I motion and move my chair out, patting my thigh. She doesn't hesitate and stands up to sit down on my lap.

I kissed the back of her neck and put one hand on her hip, my thumb traced the edge of the waistband of her bikini bottoms, slipping under the material to trail soft circles over her hip bones.

"I'm keeping you forever, I hope you know that," I murmur, appreciating this intimate moment between us which didn't happen as often as I liked them to but we made do.

"I hope so," She whispers.

I loved this girl for all she was. There is nothing in this world that could change just how much I adored her.

"Harry," She says my name, "This bikini is pretty easy to take off you know."

I choke, eyes widening and seeing the smirk on her face. I pick her up, her legs wrapping around me and her ankles locking behind my back. "Is that a challenge or a request?" I kiss her lips, tasting the saltiness of the sea on them.

"Both," She says in between kisses.

This girl.

#softgirlsundays #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles imagines #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles fic #writing #fic rec #harry styles au #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you

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aliaology · 8 months

Text

YOU ARE IN LOVE

summary: reader slowly starts to realize that her best friend, luke hughes, has been in love with her for forever. she also comes to terms, knowing that she is in love with him too.

pairings: luke hughes x fem! reader

warnings: jealousy, fluff, underage drinking

BASED ON the song “you are in love” by taylor swift!

it started at a party. the dark room, the only light being the flashing ones from another room. you stood in the kitchen, grabbing another drink. luke was your d.d. tonight, but where was he? your eyes scanned the room, landing on him. he leaned against a wall, talking to a friend of both of you, ethan edwards.

luke’s eyes make their way to you. this was the first clue. his eyes held a look. one of yearning, one of adoration, one of lust. you look away, before glancing back. his eyes were back on ethan. no, no, no. do it again. i need to see it again. you thought.

you made the unilateral decision and walked over to the two boys, “what you guys talkin’ about?” you spoke, slightly loud due to the music from the room next door.

“just about how lukey here has you help you button up your coats.” ethan laughed.

you rolled your eyes in embarrassment. “cant keep things to yourself, can you?” you took a sip from your drink, grumbling.

luke laughs, throwing his arm around your shoulder. “you’re my favorite thing to talk about, gotta come up with more stuff.”

ethan let out an inward groan. “literally— all he talks about is you.”

it was a good thing the room was dark as you felt your face heat up.

driving with luke was normally fun, unless he was going so slow. he kept pointing out things as he drove the dark and very much calm roads. you held a warm cup of coffee in your hands, still tired from just waking up.

“i promise me waking you up will be worth it.” he told. you turn to look at him. “i found this area with a really pretty view and wanted to show you, i just didn’t expect to get back so late.” he added.

you chuckle. “its okay, lu, but if you keeping driving this slow, i think i might lose my mind.” you watched as he grinned.

he sped up and it didn’t take long to get there. it was at a park. he grabbed a blanket from his backseat and got out of the car. he rushed to your side and opened the door for you.

you smiled at him as he closed the door and then threw an arm around you. he walked you to the middle of the field, letting go of you to place the blanket down. he stood back up, shoulder brushing with yours. he looked over to you, the chain dangling on your neck caught his eye.

the moonlight reflected on it. it was the chain he got you. one that had a small pendent in the middle that had ‘you deserve to be loved’ engraved on the back.

he tore his eyes away from the necklace and looked at you instead who had been looking around at the trees. “look up” he said.

you looked at him and then at the sky, lips parting in disbelief as your eyes made contact with the millions of stars shining brightly. your apartment made it hard to see this stuff, with the lights all around and the light pollution, it was hard.

as you gazed at the stars in wonder, luke gazed at you with love. a small smile adorned his face as his eyes scanned yours. his eyes watched as the stars were shining bright, reflecting in your eyes. he trailed his gaze down to your nose, then your cheeks, and then your lips.

he wanted to kiss you. but he didn’t. he wished he did.

sunday mornings in the small hughes apartment was chaotic. living three doors down meant you practically lived with luke and one of his brothers, jack. you sat on the island, hiding your face in your hands as you laughed.

jack was currently scolding luke, who had somehow burnt the toast he was supposed to make. “how the hell do you burn toast, this fucking bad?” jack exclaimed.

you put your head in the shirt you wore, which was lukes. you used the fabric and your hand to muffle the giggles that were falling from your lips.

“im sorry! jesus ill remake it!” luke spoke.

“no!” jack said. “ill do it” he groaned.

the older boy then turned, looking at the girl who sat on the counter. “how the hell did you not smell this shit? either of you? and why didn’t you help?”

“shes just sitting pretty in my shirt.” luke scoffed, not listening to his brother and grabbing more bread out.

“shut up” you groaned, rubbing your eyes. “im sick— i cant smell anything.”

jack let out a small comical shriek. “get out! why are you here if you’re sick, we have hockey, dont get us sick.” he exclaimed. you rolled your eyes at jack’s behavior.

you hopped off the counter, making your way slowly to him. “come here jacky… its just a small cold” you cough to add a dramatic effect and soon, hes running. you laugh as you chase after him.

jack runs past luke, you go to do the same, but luke sticks his arm out and lifts you up. your laughter floods the apartment as luke presses your body against his, trapping you.

unfortunately, you missed the way he looked at you. missed the way jack looked at you both. and missed the way he really wanted to kiss you.

you liked parties, when they weren’t cut short. you grabbed a drink from the kitchen and made your way to the living room where everyone seemed to be. you pushed your way through the crowd until a man stopped you. he was roughly your age, maybe jack’s age.

he asked you to dance with him, which you did. you laughed as you two danced, not noticing the glare luke gave him from afar. the taller boy leaned against the wall with jack next to him. his hand tightened around the cup he held as his jaw clenched.

he shoved the cup in jack’s chest and moved towards you. he pushed through the crowd until he finally got over to you. “we have to go” he spoke, grabbing your arm lightly.

“what?” you asked. “yo— man we were havin’ fun here!” the man behind you said.

“yeah? well she needs to leave. lets go (nickname).” luke pulled you gently, making his way out of the house. as you both made your way out and neared the street, you removed yourself from his grip.

“what the fuck was that, luke? we’ve been here like an hour, there is no way we need to leave yet.” you scoff.

“we do— its getting late.” he replied, still walking.

you scoffed again. “seriously? jesus christ luke, i was having fun!” you told.

“having fun rubbing your ass against him?” luke turned, looking at you with anger.

“why does it matter if i was?” you yelled. “its my fucking body, im not even drunk either! i dont get why you are so upse—“ you were cut off.

luke shut you up by grabbing you by your hips and crashing his lips against yours. your eyes widened before closing slowly. your hands made their way to his face, holding both sides as he held you close.

he pulled away, resting his forehead on yours. he brought a hand up and held one that rested on his cheek.

“you’re my best friend.” he spoke. “but i want more. im so in love with you its not even funny. thats why we left, i can’t stand seeing you with anyone else.” he told.

your eyes scanned his face, looking for any indication of a lie. there wasn’t one. you smiled and pulled him back into you, your lips meeting his again.

he was in love.

you are in love.

true love.

she shoots, she scores!!!

#jack hughes #luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes x y/n #nhl imagine #hockey #song #love #new jersey #new jersey devils #Spotify

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minkyungseokie · 3 months

Text

Racing for Two | James Vowels

synopsis; James wants Y/n to stay home since she's ready to pop at any moment, but she wants to be there to support her grid children

warnings; pregnancy, there’s a ten-year-gap between James and reader (34 and 44)

note; requested

note2; still not very happy with James after he benched my boy Logan because Alex crashed, but I'm still gonna write for him. I added a part where he finds out

I’m am not knowledgeable enough about pregnancy as I’ve never been pregnant, so she gets over her morning sickness pretty quickly. I also apologize because this went in a different direction than where I meant for it to

Autosports Masterlist | Main Masterlist | James Masterlist

I do not give anyone permission to change, copy, or put my work on any other platform. It will only be on top, so if you see it, please report it. Or let me know.

Y/n groaned, hand on her stomach.

The woman had woken up feeling odd and as soon as she stood up, she had become nauseous. That led her to where she was now, bent over the toilet and puking her guts out, "Are you okay, love?" James questioned, entering the bathroom worriedly, crouching down behind her and putting a hand on her back.

"I'm okay, sweetheart. I might just have come down with a bug. Or I ate something bad." Y/n waved off his concern, "Are you sure?" James asked, "Yeah, I'm fine. Can you help me up?" Y/n asked, holding her hand out for James to grab. James grabbed the hand Y/n was holding out and helped her up, "Darling, if you're not feeling well, you don't have to come with me to the track. You can stay here and rest." James said, "James, I'm fi—"

Y/n turned and rushed to hunch over the toilet again, "I think you should stay here. You aren't feeling well and it's only free practice." James insisted, "But I want to see Alex, Logan, Oscar, and Lando. You know they've been looking forward to seeing me." Y/n groaned. "I'm sure they'll understand that you're not feeling well. If you feel better by tomorrow, you can join us for FP3 and Quali." James promised.

Y/n groaned again, "Fine. I'll stay here, but I'm ordering room service." She sighed, standing up and picking up her toothbrush. James walked up behind her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her temple, "I'm sorry, I know you wanted to cheer your...grid kids on, but you're not feeling well. Your health is more important than anything, dear." James muttered, lips still pressed against Y/n's temple.

Y/n huffed and spat out the foam, "I guess you're right. It's only qualifying, I'll be able to join you Sunday." The woman agreed. She turned in James' arms and wrapped her arms around him, "It's okay. Order yourself something when you're hungry and make sure to get some rest, okay?" James asked, "Okay." Y/n agreed.

"I have to go now, but I'll send someone to check on you." James spoke, gathering his things, "I'll be fine, love. Have a good day. I love you." Y/n hummed, gently pulling James down by the back of his neck, "I love you too." James said, pressing his lips to hers, "Make sure you eat."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Give the boys luck from me, yeah?" Y/n let out, walking towards the bed they shared and lying down, "I will." James assured, walking out of the hotel.

Y/n picked up the phone and ordered something light to eat as she wasn't as hungry as she usually was. "Some toast and turkey bacon should be sufficient," Y/n mumbled, putting the phone back onto the receiver. Y/n sat back with a sigh, reaching for the remote to turn on a show while she waited for the food to arrive.

Once it arrived, Y/n opened the door and took the food from the woman at the door. The smell of the food hit her nose and she began to feel nauseous until she had to drop the plate and run to the bathroom, "Ma'am? Ma'am, are you okay?" The employee asked, running into the restroom after her. The employee rubbed Y/n's back, "Ma'am are you sick? Do you need me to get anything?" She asked sweetly, "No, I'm good. I think I might be coming down with something. Although, I don't feel sick other than the vomiting." Y/n panted.

The employee's eyes widened and she began to look around, spotting signs of another person, "Ma'am, are you here with someone?" The woman, whose nametag read Kaila, asked. "My husband. Why? You don't need to call him. I'm only throwing up." Y/n assured, "Oh, no. I-- That's ...that's not what I meant. You are throwing up, but you don't seem to have a fever. You threw up at the smell of your food... There's only one thing I can think of." Kaila said. "What?" Y/n asked, "Hold on. I'm going to go get something. I'll knock on the door." Kaila informed before walking out of the hotel room, "What the fuck?" Y/n muttered.

She stood up and cleaned up the food that had fallen in her rush to get to the bathroom, "What do I eat now?" Y/n huffed, throwing the food in the trash and putting the plate on the dresser near the door.

Y/n sat back onto the bed and grabbed the remote again, "I guess I'll just have to watch some television until my stomach settles." Y/n sighed.

Y/n had forgotten that the employee had told her that she would be coming back until ten minutes later, when there was a knock on the door. "Hello, ma'am. I'm sorry for intruding like this, but I've bright you some stuff." Kaila rushed into the room, seeing the black plastic bag she had in her hand. "Pardon me, but this is highly inappropriate behavior. I—" Y/n started, "I know that this is unprofessional behavior of me, but I realized something." Kaila said, pulling out a few boxes.

"What are— Are...are those pregnancy tests?" Y/n asked, "Yes, I have been through this before. Believe it or not, I'm a mother of three, so I think I'm able to realize when one might be pregnant. Now that I look at you, you are kind of glowing. Go to the bathroom and take these." Kaila ordered, shoving the tests into Y/n's hands, "But I don't need to pee." Y/n protested.

Kaila sighed and left the room, coming back with bottles of water on her hands, "There you go. Drink and pee. I'll leave it to you. Have a good day, ma'am." Kaila placed the waters on the dessert and rushed out of the room. "What the hell was that?" Y/n questioned, looking at the door in confusion before looking at the water bottles.

With a sigh, Y/n snatched a water bottle and began drinking it slowly so she wouldn't throw it up immediately. As soon as she needed to use the restroom, she grabbed one of the boxes and took the test. "Now to wait." Y/n hummed, placing the test in the sink and setting a timer on her phone. It would be a few hours until James came back, so she wouldn't have to worry about him coming back and catching her before she was ready.

What was she going to do if she was pregnant? She knew that she and James weren't getting any younger and if they were to have children, it'd have to be before she turned at least forty. How would James feel about having a child? Y/n knew he'd want one, but they didn't really talk about when they wanted.

The timer went off, snapping Y/n out of her thoughts. Y/n stood up, taking a deep breath and entering the bathroom. She picked up the test with the screen upside down, "Whatever it is, I'm going to accept it. I'm going to be happy even if I'm not pregnant." Y/n assured herself before flipping the test over.

Pregnant

Y/n covered her mouth, tears welling up within her eyes and a lump sticking in her throat, "Holy shit. I'm pregnant. I'm having a baby!" Y/n cheered, holding the test to her chest. She was worried about how James would react, but at the same time, she was too excited to care. It would devastate her if James didn't want the baby, but she wasn't going to get rid of it. She was sweet on grabbing and raising the child, even if she has to do it by herself.

"Screw this." Y/n said, grabbing her purse, a jacket, and ordered an Uber. She wasn't planning on waiting to tell James about their growing family. She didn't want to wait, she wanted to share her joy with her husband immediately and maybe even her surrogate grid children.

She excitedly hopped out of the Uber and made her way towards the paddock entrance with her pass around her neck. "Hey, Mrs. Vowels!" A Aston Martin engineer greeted, "Hey!" Y/n greeted back. Y/n rushed through the paddock, not pausing for anyone, but making sure to greet anyone who greeted her. "James!" Y/n called out to her husband, who was talking with her grid children, Logan and Alex.

"Mama Vowels! I thought you were feeling sick." Logan greeted, hugging Y/n, "We thought you wouldn't be here. James told us that you were sick." Alex added also hugging Y/n. "I did, but..." Y/n dig into her purse and pulled out the test, "I wanted to tell you this as soon as possible."

James took a tissue and grabbed the test, "My love, are you... you're—" "I'm pregnant!" Y/n interrupted. James pulled his wife to his chest and kissed her while Logan and Alex cheered in a very Logan and Alex way. “Congratulations!” A few engineers cheered as the couple embraced each other, “Come here.” Y/n beckoned, pulling the two into the hug.

“Why are we hugging? What’s everyone cheering for?” The familiar voice of Lando Norris spoke up. The group broke apart and looked to Y/n, who had tears streaming down her face. Y/n held up the test, “We’re having a baby!” She said, “Congratulations!” Lando’s quiet Aussie teammate finally spoke up, “That’s amazing. Congratulations.” Lando said, giving the soon-to-be mother a big smile.

“I’m going to have another kid.” Y/n breathed, “What do you mean another?” Alex questioned, “You four are my kids. What do you mean? I’ve shipped you as soon as I met you guys.” Y/n said as if it was obvious.

“Well, I’m happy to be apart of your family.”

Y/n stepped out of the car with the help of her husband, clad in maternity clothing and her stomach protruding. "You know that you could've stayed home." James told her, putting a hand on her back to make sure she was okay while walking, "I know that I don't have to, but you're in the UK, so why would I not come and support my boys?" Y/n asked, rolling her eyes as she waddled into the paddock.

"Hey, I didn't think you'd be here seeing as you look like you're about to pop any second." Lando joked, jogging up to them as they passed the McLaren garage with Oscar trailing behind. "I didn't want to miss your home race, Lando. Even if "I'm about to pop" I'd never miss out for the world." Y/n tittered, before groaning. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Do you need anything?" James questioned, "It's nothing. My feet just feel like they're on fire." Y/n answered.

"You can sit in the McLaren garage if you need to." Oscar offered, "I think you should, love. You can come to the Williams garage when you feel like you can walk without your feet hurting." James said. "Thank you, boys, but I'll be fine. I think I make it to Williams. I want to be with my husband." Y/n rejected, "Are you sure? I don't mind walking to the garage alone. You can go rest." James reassured.

"No, I want to be with you. If I do go into labour, I want to be nearby." Y/n explained, "Okay, then shall we get you to the garage?" James questioned, guiding Y/n to the Williams garage and immediately getting a chair for her to sit. "Do you need anything? Water? Snacks?" James inquired, "Can I have some ice cream if we have any?" Y/n asked, "I'll go get that for you." James said, kissing Y/n's forehead.

"Thank you." Y/n said, watching James walk away, "Hey, Mama Vowels. How are you feeling?" Alex asked, holding a bottle of water out for her. "I'm swollen and in pain, but I'm happy to be here." Y/n answered happily, "Your due date is near isn't it? Are you sure it's safe for you to be here when your water can break at any moment?" Logan asked. "You both are worth it. I can give birth at any moment, yes, but I'm not going to miss you both racing." Y/n

scoffed playfully.

As James was coming back, Y/n felt a tightening sensation within her abdomen, "I got your ice cream." James announced, holding the packaged ice cream out for Y/n, "Are you okay, Mama Vowels?" Logan asked, bending down as the woman stared ahead of her blankly. "Mama Vowel?" Alex called, "Love?" James spoke, putting a hand on her shoulder. Y/n then felt a pop and what felt like a waterfall gushing down her leg. Y/n looked up at her husband with widened eyes and a slack jaw.

"My water broke."

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joemothersfavoritechild · 8 months

Text

“across the street” pt. 2

-3k-ish words

-mike schmidt x fem!reader

-no trauma au

an: thanks for all the love on my last post!! i took some inspiration from a few joel miller fics for this one. also, referring to the ending, gotta let it marinate or sum. and if you get the orange reference, marry me.

summary: you have a late night phone call with yk who, and build furniture in the morning.

part one is here!

————————————————————————————

You plopped down in your chair, sighing while rubbing hand sanitizer over your hands. Your shift had been busy as hell, this being the first break you had all day, and it was only halfway over. You wiped your now clean hands over your eyes, trying to rub the tired soreness out of them. At least the pay is good, you thought.

Your coworker calling your name pulled you away from your thoughts.

“25 wants you again.” They said.

“Why me?” You whined.

“I don’t know, I think she prefers women.” They answered your rhetorical, giving you a sympathetic smile.

“Fuck me, I’m going to have to take my lunch after this. I’m never working another Sunday.” You said, standing up on your practically creaking legs.

This was how the rest of your afternoon went, running in all directions like a chicken with its head cut off. “23 wants an ice cream,” “25 pulled out her IV again,” “Call security on 26, he’s trying to leave.” It was an absolute shit show, you hardly had a chance to see the time on your phone, let alone check for a text that you were desperate to receive.

Your drive home was quiet, soft music playing to hopefully decompress you. It always seemed to help. You pulled into your driveway, noticing the lights on at a certain someone’s house across the street, his old Accord telling you that he was home. You turned your car off, trying to stop looking at it from your rearview.

Walking into your house wasn’t as satisfying as you’d hoped, boxes still covering the floor. You took your shoes off as you set your work bag on the ground. You looked at your bed frame again in the dark, not bothering to turn a light on. Was a day too early to expect a message? Was that considered desperate? Probably, you thought. But fuck, you were so desperate. He checked all the boxes,

cute? : check

siblings? : check

caring? : check

a little mean? : check

dorky as hell? : check

abandonment issues? : probably check!

You forced yourself to pull your eyes off the box. As the saying goes, a watched fish doesn’t get caught.

That’s not right, you think. Your tired brain can’t decipher what you were trying to go for, but you knew it would’ve worked.

Anyways, constantly thinking about someone texting you doesn’t help anything. You plugged your phone into the charger near the couch, purposefully ignoring staring at it for too long.

Your eyes fell back to the boxes surrounding you. You passed them all, going straight to your bathroom to shower.

The shower was the right call, you decided. Scorching water loosened your muscles and kept your mind in the present. Washing the outside world off your skin was the highlight of your day.

You got out of the shower, eventually. The warm water didn’t last as long as you had hoped, though it did try. Your nearly hour-long shower would overwhelm any water heater on the market. You quickly dried yourself off, taking the time to brush your teeth and apply your skincare before wrapping your towel around yourself and stepping into your bedroom. You threw on some pajamas from your suitcase that moved with you; pajama pants and an old shirt.

You balled up your work clothes into your towel and put them all in the laundry basket in the corner of your room, already beginning to overflow. You reminded yourself to start the laundry sometime tomorrow as you walked back to your temporary bed, the large green couch in your living room.

You pulled back the covers on the couch, piling into it. You had completely decked it out; two blankets, a comforter, two pillows (one for your head, one for between your legs), and the fan dialed up. You closed your eyes, listening to the white noise of the fan above you.

You were interrupted by the shrill noise of your phone ringing behind you. You groaned, folding your blankets over so you could get off the couch and walk to the charger. You ripped your phone off the charger, taking it with you as you laid back into your bed. You re-adjusted your blankets before pulling the phone under your ear and swiping to accept the call.

“Hello?” You said groggily.

“Hey.” A voice responded. It took you a moment, but eventually, you recognized it. You were suddenly awake with nervousness.

“Hey, Mike.”

“Hi. Um, I texted you,” He said, sounding more like a question than a comment. “A few times, not a big deal. I just wanted to make sure you were alive.” He joked.

You paused, trying to quickly check your messages.

“You there?” He asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here. Sorry, I’ve been working all day. It was super busy, so I didn’t have time to check my phone, and when I got home all I was thinking about was sleep.” You described.

“No need to be sorry, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You’re okay?”

“I’m okay.” You responded.

“Good, good,” He pauses. “So, um, how was your day?”

“Pretty shitty.” You summarize, hearing him laugh in the background.

“Tell me about it.”

So, you did. You proceeded to tell him all the gritty details about your job. What your coworkers are like, the patients that you had to deal with, the frequent fliers, all of it. He asked a lot of questions, making you feel more comfortable rambling on to him.

“What’d you have for lunch?” He asked.

“I had leftover wingstop, I barely have any food at the house.”

“What’s your order?”

“Eight-piece boneless, classic hot. With fries, ranch, and a huge coke. It was amazing,” You said, practically salivating remembering it. “What about you and Abs?” You asked.

“It was very fancy, I don’t know if you’re prepared to hear me talk about it, you might be jealous,” He said sarcastically. “I made cheese quesadillas.”

You laughed a little too long at that, surprised. He was funny, another check.

You talked on the phone for a while, so long that you were talking about the most boring stuff. Like how Abby was a picky eater, and it annoyed Mike because all he wanted to do was eat a good burger now and again. It was sickly sweet and felt like being a teenager again. Whispering as to not wake your parents up, hoping that they wouldn’t catch you up past your bedtime.

You’re not sure when it happened, but you fell asleep on the phone. Mike was talking about something, maybe about the tv show he had been watching. You’re not exactly positive, but you know that you passed out cold.

Your eyes fluttered open, the phone still pressed up against your cheek, warm from the contact. You blinked rapidly, trying to keep your dream in your mind. You had to think hard, as it was delicate. If you let it go, you’d never remember what it was.

It was a good dream, as most of yours tended to be. You didn’t remember a lot, only pieces of it. But you knew Mike was there. You knew that he had led you to your bed, pulling you under the covers with him. You talked, cuddling close to him. God, it had felt so real. You could practically see the lines under his eyes and the pores on his nose. You smiled, but this felt a little creepy at this point. Borderline delusional, your mind added. You barely knew him and you were already dreaming about him.

You grabbed the phone from under your face, groaning as it got unstuck from your skin. Thankfully, it wasn’t dead. You unlocked it, taking the opportunity to look at the texts that you had gotten the night before.

Yesterday, 12:36 pm: hey, this is mike. i’ll need you on the weekends from 8 am-4 pm. and idc that you said not to pay you, i’m building your bed too.

Yesterday, 2:49 pm: you okay?

Yesterday, 5:03 pm: not to be creepy, but i think i’m going to call you. you’re worrying me a little lol

Today, 1:45 am: i think you fell asleep, i’ll talk to you in the morning :)

You smiled, making a contact for him. “mike <3” was now typing. Three little dots popped up on your screen and you quickly swiped out in nervousness. You opened it again when you got a notification.

Today, 10:23 am: i dropped abby off for school and slept in a little, is it okay if i come over to build that bed frame for you?

You smiled again, quickly replying to make up for last night.

Today, 10:24 am: yeah, ofc. give me a few minutes to wake up lol, i need to brush my teeth and clean up for a second.

He replied immediately.

Today, 10:24 am: lmk when you’re ready

You willed yourself to stop smiling, god it had been too long. You hardly knew how to act with a potential date.

“Oh, god.” You muttered to yourself, realizing you had to talk to him. Why did you have to talk to a man to get a boyfriend? Why couldn’t it just happen telepathically?

You sighed, rolling off the couch. You plugged your phone back into the charger, making your way to the bathroom. You completed your morning routine and ran to your bedroom to pick something out to wear for the day. You decided to go for casual, grey sweatpants and a green hoodie. Didn’t want to seem too desperate. You pulled your socks up your feet, laughing at yourself.

You grabbed a quick breakfast from your kitchen, consisting of leftover cookies and a slice of cold pizza. You tried your best to tidy your place up, moving boxes to the corner of the living room. Running down the hallway to your bedroom with your boxed bed frame in hand, you placed it on the floor, taking the other boxes and moving them to the hallway. You scrubbed your toilet and sink, turning on the air fresheners you had placed around the house.

You washed your hands, drying them before returning to the living room. You texted Mike, letting him know that you were ready. He liked the text message, and in less than two minutes he was knocking on your door.

You eyed the door at the noise. Jesus, he was not playing around. You took another deep breath, opening the door to see him standing there with a small smile. He went for casual too, you noted. He wore a black t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats. He held a bag, which you assumed was full of tools.

You smiled at him as a greeting and opened the door wider to allow him to walk into your house.

“Hey.” He said as you walked past you.

“Hi, thanks for coming so quickly.” You responded. “You didn’t have to, the payment feels premature.” You joked, shutting the front door. He looked a you for a second while taking his shoes off at the entryway.

“Shut up, you can’t sleep on the couch for a week”

“I totally can.” You bite back.

“You won’t, where’s your bedroom?” He finished, looking at you again.

You were shocked into silence, feeling your cheeks warm up. The comment made your head spin. Fuck, could he tell that you liked that?

You said nothing, ignoring his little smirk as you walked him to your bedroom. He followed behind you, dropping the bag on the floor with a small thump.

“Do you need any help or something?” You asked finally, breaking the tense silence.

“No, I’m good. I’ve done a lot of stuff like this,” He answered, shrugging. “You could put on some background music?” He suggested.

“That, I can do.”

You nodded, pulling your phone out of your pocket. You hesitated, before choosing a slower playlist of yours. Something calm, that you didn’t have to focus on. He nodded in enjoyment, then began to open the box that held your bed frame. He spilled the contents onto the floor, then kneeled on the ground. He started pulling stuff out of his bag. You guessed correctly, it was full of tools.

You just watched, sitting down against the wall of your room. It was attractive, him expertly putting your bed frame together. He was good with his hands, you wondered what else he was good at. He looked at you after a moment.

“You just gonna watch?”

“If that’s okay.” You shrugged, he nodded at your sort of question. He tried to hide his smile.

He was going to town, drilling, piecing parts together, all while completely ignoring the instructions. He didn’t need them.

After a while, you could tell he was getting hot. His black shirt was sticking to his skin. You hated to admit that it did something to you. You felt a warmth settle in your stomach and tried your best to will it away. Your eyes settled on his back, looking up to his neck when he turned towards you.

“Why’re looking at me like that?” He asked, eyes narrowed out of curiosity.

You made eye contact with him like a deer in headlights. Smiling at you, he laughed a little. Your words were stuck in your throat, embarrassed about being caught.

“Um, do you want some water?” You settled on.

“Sure.” He answered, chuckling at your suddenly shy demeanor.

You stood up off the floor and walked out of your room, closing the door behind you. What the fuck was that? You scolded yourself, internally. Now he was going to think that you were a horny weirdo. I mean, you were, but he didn’t need to know that yet.

You shook your head at yourself as you poured him a glass. This was ridiculous, you needed to chill out.

You came back into the bedroom and handed him the glass. He took it from you gratefully, fingers brushing over yours as he grabbed it. Telling you a small “thank you,” he brought the glass to his lips and began to drink greedily. You watched him as he downed the glass, some dripping down his chin.

When he was finished, he wiped a hand over his stubble. He looked over to you, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. He held the glass out to you and you took it, quickly walking out of the room.

You placed the glass in the sink, blinking to try and bring yourself back to life. How did someone make drinking water look so good? How was that even possible? And god, the look he gave you.

You needed to get it together before you blew it. Talk to him, say something, anything other than just fucking staring at him.

You walked back into the room with a mission, you were going to talk to him. Taking your spot on the floor, you cleared your throat.

“So, what’s your favorite food?” You decided on.

He barely paused before answering, “Definitely pasta, like a good chicken alfredo.”

“Shit, that’s a good answer. I’m really into sushi right now. Can’t afford it, but into it.” You said, smiling at his willingness to answer.

The stupid questions continued for a few minutes. The two of you got to know the smallest details of your likes and dislikes. Turns out, Mike can’t stand the color yellow but loves orange. He’s not much of a drinker, mainly because he can’t afford it, but he does occasionally smoke weed. He’s a cat person but would get a dog if Abby asked for one. It killed you when he talked about his sister because it was so obvious how much he loved her.

Eventually, he finished your bed frame. The gentleman that he is forced him to carry your mattress in from the laundry room, helping you set that up too. Mike may have been on the shorter side, but he was strong as hell. The two of you put on your sheets, blankets, pillows, and finally your comforter. It was almost too domestic, too real.

When you were finished, you didn’t want him to leave. You think he felt the same. This was confirmed when he saw the tv sitting in your closet.

“Do you want me to mount that for you?” He asked.

I want you to mount me, you fought against saying.

“That would be great.” You agreed.

Mike probably spent three hours helping you put your bedroom together, setting up shelves, arranging your cabinets, and helping you put your pictures and posters up while you talked his ear off.

Even though you told him a million times that he didn’t need to, he hung your clothes up in your closet while you folded the rest to go in your new dresser. Finally, your room was fully decorated and unpacked.

He rubbed his hands together, settling on the end of your bed. You sat next to him.

“Thank you, seriously. I was dreading doing all of that by myself.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He said.

You both looked at each other for a second too long, the tension between the two of you becoming thick. You took breaks from looking at his eyes by moving down to his lips. You took a deep breath, noticing him moving closer to you.

He hesitated, pushing a stray hair behind your ear instead. His hand lingered on your face, eventually moving down your arm to put your hand in his. He interlocked your fingers together, pulling it close to him and pressing a soft kiss on your knuckles. He held you there, hand resting on his chin. This was almost more intimate than a kiss, you thought.

“Do you not-” You started, getting interrupted.

“I want to, believe me.”

You looked at him, willing him to continue.

“I don’t want you to think that’s all this is.” He explained, you nodded. You know that this was him being respectful, but it made you want to tear his clothes off even more. Forbidden fruit, if you will.

“Let me take you on a date, tomorrow on my lunch break. I know a place you’d like.” He continued.

“Okay.” You said, smiling.

————————————————————————————

**i do not give anyone permission to use my work as your own, respectfully

this belongs to @joemothersfavoritechild **

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munson-blurbs · 2 years

Text

Wayne Munson has always doubted that he’s done right by his nephew. Sure, the situation is better than Eddie living with his deadbeat dad, but the kid sells drugs and spent an extra two years in high school.

It’s not until you come into the picture that Wayne sees the values he instilled in Eddie.

Like when Eddie brings you to meet Wayne for the first time, holding the door open for you and taking your jacket. You hand a package of Oreos to Wayne, telling him, “Eddie said these are your favorite, so I had to get them.” The three of you sit in the living room, sharing the cookies and swapping stories.

On his birthday, when he comes home to you and Eddie in the little kitchen, putting candles in a homemade cake. “Happy birthday!” you call out in unison, and Wayne can’t help but smile. Eddie lights the candles and you tell Wayne to make a wish. “Besides me moving out,” Eddie teases as Wayne blows out the candles. “You made this?” he asks the two of you. “I baked it, and Eddie put the frosting on,” you say. Wayne hasn’t had a homemade cake in years.

Or when Eddie walks through the door, eyes red and puffy, explaining to his uncle, “We had a fight, but I did that breathing thing you told me about and calmed down. I think we’ll work it out.” He’s referring to the time he was 14, frustrated with a riff he just couldn’t get, and punched a wall so hard he broke his hand. On the way back from the hospital, Wayne told him, “When you feel that angry, you gotta breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Slow and steady. Can’t afford another hospital bill, kid.” He didn’t realize Eddie remembered it after all this time.

The time he gets home from work a little earlier than usual, only to overhear you telling Eddie softly, “'M sorry, Eds. I’m not really in the mood.” Without any hesitation, Eddie says, “Don’t apologize. We can cuddle though, right?” There’s no pressure, no whining or begging. Only Eddie respecting the girl he loves.

The day you and Eddie finally get your own place, boxes loaded into a moving van. Before you leave, you give a neatly wrapped gift to Wayne. “Shouldn’t I be getting you a housewarming present?” he jokes, opening it carefully. It’s a photo of the three of you at last year’s Fourth of July carnival, fireworks in the background. The wooden frame reads Family is Forever. “So you don’t miss us too much,” Eddie teases him. He pulls you both in for a quick hug. The photo sits on his bedside table, where he sees it first thing every morning.

On Eddie’s birthday, Wayne gives him a card with a check inside; not a lot, but a little something. “What’re you gonna spend it on?” he asks, thinking his nephew will cash it and buy something for his van or his precious guitar. But Eddie gives him a shy grin and tells him, “Actually, I’m saving up for an engagement ring. Just wanna get her the best, y’know?”

When you pull Wayne onto the dance floor, feeling beautiful in your white dress, the new Mrs. Munson. Wayne isn’t much of a dancer, but he’s two drinks in and just so damn happy, and he can’t help but shuffle about when the band sings “Twist and Shout.” He also dances with you to a slow song, which is where you whisper to him, “thank you for raising such an incredible man.”

Or during a Sunday dinner, when you and Eddie invite Wayne over and ask him if he prefers to be called “Grandpa” or “Pop-Pop.” Later, he privately asks Eddie if he’s nervous about being a dad, to which he truthfully replies, “A little. But I learned from the best.”

And when Wayne sees Eddie hold his newborn son, he swells with pride. My boy has a boy of his own, he muses incredulously, and then it’s his turn to hold the baby. “So, what do you think?” Eddie asks him, beaming. Wayne pauses for a moment before he answers.

“I think we did all right.”

#eddie munson #eddie stranger things #stranger things #eddie munson x reader #fanfic #eddie munson x you #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x f!reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson x y/n #dad!eddie munson x mom!reader #dad!eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #fluff

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shares-a-vest · 1 year

Text

No one knows why Eddie and Nancy call each other "my dear" and "honey" respectively. Not even Steve and Robin, who only give a brief pause (and sometimes a confused, "huh?") before going back to whatever nonsense. Even though it is absolutely, one hundred percent, their fault.

It’s all because Eddie and Nancy are dating two people permanently attached at the hip. "Platonic soulmates" they say, repeated ad nauseam. Two people who should be siblings. A pair of bickering sisters who are also sometimes gross brothers. A brother and sister duo so chaotic they give the Sinclairs a run for their money.

Platonic soulmates who act like two silly drunk girls when they are out at a bar. Two losers who cackle with laughter and sing along far too loudly to the radio on the way home.

A pair of idiots stumbling up the stairs in Steve’s house, gradually discarding jackets, bags and accessories.

Eddie is relatively sober, having played with the band and Nancy is tipsy, never one to entirely shake her sensible and put-together self. So Eddie follows behind, closing the front door, locking it and turning the lights off, while Nancy scurries along picking up the tossed attire.

"You're my best friend!" Robin shouts, squishing Steve's cheeks together as they hang off each other, wobbly at the top of the stairs.

"Love you, Robbie!" Steve says, voice cracking as he sniffles and kisses her on the cheek.

He takes her hand and they disappear up the hall.

By the time Eddie reaches Steve’s bedroom, Steve and Robin are passed out on that plaid bedspread, all curled up together like two creatures huddled together for warmth and companionship.

Nancy grumbles as she straightens up the shoes scattered at the foot of the bed.

"I swear they forget we exist sometimes," she says, huffing as she tugs off Robin’s left boot that she’d only managed to unzip.

"Oh absolutely," Eddie agrees.

He can’t help but walk over to Steve’s bedside and brush his fringe from his face. Steve produces a gross snorting nose at the movement, cuddling in closer to his best friend.

"Stop… snoring… di…" Robin mumbles, not getting out her favourite nickname before drifting back off to sleep.

Eddie steps back and folds his arms, resigning himself to spending his Sunday tolerating two hungover platonic soulmates in their worst and most annoying form.

Nancy rolls her eyes. "Get your bag and come into the spare room."

They make quick work of changing, Eddie in an oversized band tee and a pair of Steve’s checked pyjama pants he had taken ownership of. He looks in the mirror as he stands side-by-side Nancy in the upstairs bathroom, both brushing their teeth in silence. He looks over her pale pink nightdress, embellished with embroidered flowers and can’t help the huffed laugh that escapes him.

"What?" Nancy smiles and spits out her toothpaste in the sink.

"We look like an old married couple who have run out of things to talk about."

Nancy giggles, quickly moving to a washcloth to wipe her mouth before she bursts out laughing. She zips up her cosmetics bag and makes a sharp turn to face Eddie, her brow quirked.

"Honey, did you enjoy the soiree this evening?" she says in an uptight, snooty voice, cocking her chin and giving a sly smile.

"Splendid, my dear!" he replies, toothbrush dangling from his mouth as he bows with a flourish. "Although the band was an absolute bore."

"Don't say that!" Nancy chides, breaking character as she playfully slaps his shoulder.

He snorts a laugh as he finishes up and rinses his mouth out, dripping water everywhere.

"Wheeler, there were like seven people there, including you, Steve and Rob," he laughs, dropping the facade too.

"Shall we retire for the night?" she says, changing the subject and slipping back into character. She offers her hand.

"To the bedroom!" he declares, pointing to the door.

The spare bedroom is, unsurprisingly, similar to the rest of the house. Sparse and low-lit with heavy dark curtains that make Steve’s plaid drapes look light and airy in comparison.

"I hope you don’t snore as much as Steve, Nancy," Eddie warns without any heat behind his words as he punches his pillow into a shape that isn't flat and solid.

"He does snore, doesn’t he?" she wonders aloud as she slips under the covers, huffing a laugh. "Robin talks in her sleep. Nothing serious or anything. Total nonsense."

Eddie rolls his eyes. "Of course she does."

"Last week she woke me up," she starts as she pokes at his shoulder. "Tapping on my shoulder saying, ‘Nance, tell the fish it’s time to get ready for school’."

"Di-did you have… fish children?" he asks before doubling over, cackling.

"I think so," Nancy ponders, speaking slow before snorting a laugh.

"Goodnight, my dear."

"Night, honey."

At that, they turn away from each other, snuggling under the covers for a restful night’s sleep.

The following morning, Steve and Robin swap out his bed for cocooning themselves in blankets on the Harrington's gigantic couch as Eddie finishes up making their breakfast. They’d stirred fairly early in the morning, moving into the guest room and not-at-all subtly waking Eddie and Nancy to demand breakfast, all the while complaining about their whereabouts the night before.

Nancy enters the kitchen, freshly showered and laughs at the state of their counterparts. But they do not surface. If anything, Eddie swears Steve’s snoring is getting louder with every passing minute.

"Breakfast is all set, my dear," Eddie says, flinging a teatowel over his shoulder and offering her Steve's plate.

She hesitates but he gestures to the others on the couch. Robin is now babbling something incoherently as she taps Steve on the shoulder.

"Thank you, honey," Nancy giggles as she takes the food.

#eddie and nancy are the more sensible counterparts to platonic stobin thanks for coming to my ted talk #platonic with a capital p #platonic edancy #eddie munson #nancy wheeler #the fruity four #platonic stobin #edancy ficlet #steddie #ronance #robin buckley #steve harrington #lilys ficlets

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tropes-and-tales · 8 months

Text

🤮 FINALLY

Day 9: Exhibitionism (Frankie "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader)

(For the 2023 Kinktober event that I created on my own because I am boring and basic and am trying to keep it simple this year...found here!)

CW: Light angst, kinda; idiots in love; enemies to lovers but not really; smut (fingering; exhibitionism; PiV, unprotected); 18+ only.

Word Count: 5553

AN: This was requested by @elegantmusicdragon!

The cabin is small: it only has two bedrooms. The Miller brothers claim the loft bedroom on the second floor, the steep eaves of the roof leaving barely enough room for Will and Ben. Pope, as the group’s resident planner, helps himself to the slightly larger bedroom on the first floor.

It leaves you and Frankie in the living room. There’s a lumpy couch; there’s a thin, rolled-up mattress for the floor.

There’s also a fair amount of antagonism between the two of you. It’s not complete hatred: it’s love-hate, maybe. Begrudging respect. Admiration, but only if someone put a gun to your head and made you admit it.

You just irritate each other. Too similar in some ways, too different in others. Polar opposites in some aspects, the same person in others. It’s been the same as long as you’ve known each other: there’s a low-simmering annoyance with each other that eventually blows up in a fight, then cools off in a period of niceness until it cedes back to annoyance. It’s been that way for as long as you’ve known each other—for years.

The hooking up is new.

The hooking up is so new the guys don’t know about it. You haven’t been hooking up long enough to get caught. Hell, it’s so new that even the two of you can barely fathom it. Each time a dalliance ends, you both have the same stunned, sheepish expression, like neither of you can believe it happened.

But it keeps happening: Frankie shows up at your door in the middle of the night. You turn up on his porch on a Sunday afternoon. You call each other; the other comes over eagerly enough. The two of you sneak off at a group hang-out, and you reappear long moments later to the larger group one at a time, flustered or overcompensating by being too casual.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you told him the last time you hooked up.

“Obviously not,” he agreed. “This is insane.”

Neither of you really meant it.

-----

The cabin is a thing Pope is trying to do. It’s a tradition he wants to start in the wake of Tom’s death. A way to keep everyone together, even if just for a long weekend every fall: the gang may drift apart, but they can reassemble once a year at least, for good food and drink and sitting around the campfire.

Thursday, and everyone rolls into the rental property where the cabin is perched along the shore of a lake. The Miller brothers turn up together; Frankie comes alone. You catch a ride with Pope since he flew into your hometown.

Thursday, and it’s just take-out pizza and beer from the nearby village. It’s stocking the cabin with provisions, unpacking, settling in, claiming where you’ll each sleep for the weekend. Pope builds a fire in the massive fire pit outside just as the sun is setting, and Frankie feels a calm settle over his nerves. He’s been clean now for over a year, but the cravings come and go. He glances across from him and studies where you sit between Will and Pope: the firelight casts you in an orange light, throws your features in sharp relief where shadows fall. You’re quiet tonight—maybe your nerves are bad too. Frankie knows you have your own anxieties.

Thursday, and when it’s time to turn in, you don’t even bother to fight Frankie for the mattress on the floor. You take the lumpy couch, and you fall off to sleep within minutes, leaving Frankie to lie awake with his own thoughts for a long while.

-----

Friday, and everyone is back in their groove with each other. There’s the usual laughter, the usual ribbing. Pope knocks Frankie’s hat off his head. Ben feigns a series of punches at Pope. Will wraps his arm around your waist and spins you until you slap at his arm and shriek for him to release you. It’s easy and familiar, like slipping into a faded old t-shirt washed to velvety softness.

Pope organizes a hike to the summit of a nearby mountain. The weather is so crisp and the air so clean it hurts Frankie’s sinuses to breathe. At the summit, the views are spectacular, stretching for miles in all directions, the hills and dales and low-slung mountains of this patch of Appalachia. Frankie is reminded that not everything is so complicated: there are swaths of wilderness where life is simple, where his problems seem small and inconsequential.

You all settle on a flat stretch of rock and eat lunch, sandwiches and apples from a farmstand in town that you packed in for the hike. Frankie watches you peel out of your boots and socks and stretch your bare feet against the sun-warmed rock. The conversation flows naturally; everyone shares their latest life updates, their hopes for the near-future.

If Tom is with you, his ghost rests lightly between the five of you.

On the hike back, there’s a tricky stretch of the trail, a switchback that was easier to climb up than it is to climb down. Frankie is behind you, taking up the rear, and he loses the rhythm of his hiking cadence when you suddenly balk. He pulls up just in time to not run into you.

“C’mon,” he grumbles, exasperated. With Pope at the head of the group, Frankie has just been on auto-pilot, his feet leading him forward, but now he’s been yanked out of his reverie by your sudden stopping.

“Ground’s covered in scree,” you reply. Frankie watches as you take a tentative step forward, reach out a steadying hand along the outcropping of rock. You do this sometimes, he knows—you have sudden moments of freezing up, afraid to fall, afraid to stumble and jam up a wrist or twist an ankle. Frankie watches in exasperation as you suddenly transform from an assured hiker to a bumbling newborn foal, all shaky legged and trembling hands.

“C’mon,” he repeats. “Move.”

“Don’t rush me.” The words come out tense, pushed out between clenched teeth. You hate being weak, sure, but you hate being weak in front of others—especially Frankie.

“Don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not.” You take another careful step forward, your toe knocking some of the scree loose.

“It’s not even that steep here.”

“I’m going as fast as I feel comfortable.” You turn your head, glance at him, and Frankie sees the animal panic in your wide, unblinking eyes, your nostrils flaring as you take shallow breaths. “Go around if you have to.”

He doesn’t have to go around you but he does. He heaves a sigh, edges around you on the trail, and he doesn’t miss the quiet little whimper of fear as you press yourself against the face of the mountain to make room for him. He doesn’t glance back to see that you’re fully frozen now, not moving at all—until Ben notices and reverses back to rescue you.

“Overthinking it?” he asks. Frankie can’t make out your reply, but it makes Ben chuckle, then add, “well, let’s get you off this part then, yeah?”

Friday, and Frankie learns that there’s an ugly streak of jealousy in him. Ben manages to peel you off of the mountain face with gentle teasing and good humor, and Ben is the one to wipe away the couple of shaky tears that squeezed out during your crisis of courage. The group rearranges itself: Pope then Will, then Frankie, and you and Ben at the rear, and Frankie seethes the rest of the hike back to hear the two of you joking and teasing.

Friday, and Frankie learns that he can be jealous over you. He’s quiet over dinner as he turns over this new intel about himself.

Friday, and when it’s time to turn in, you take the couch again. Frankie lies awake and watches you in the faint silvery moonlight streaming in through the curtains, and he berates himself for letting Ben step in where he could have intervened. Frankie could have been kinder, could have helped you. You’ve never been cruel to him about his own struggles. A little episode of panic on a low-stakes hike would have cost him nothing in terms of kindness.

Frankie does something he’s never done before with you.

“Hey,” he whispers. “You awake?”

You huff out heavy breath, a low groan. “I am now.”

A long stretch of silence passes. Frankie can’t quite get the words out; his tongue feels like it’s glued to the roof of his mouth. Enough time passes that you sigh again, roll over on the squeaky couch.

“Sorry,” he manages to mutter. It comes out gruffer than he’d like, more mean-sounding.

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry.” Now he sounds defensive, a bit petulant.

“Oh.” A beat, then, “for what?”

He rolls over on the mattress and faces where you lie feet apart from him, slightly higher than him on the couch. “For being a dick on the hike.”

“Ah.”

There’s another long beat of silence, and then the room lights up as you turn your phone on. He hears you tapping on it, and he asks what you’re doing.

“Just marking the date and time. Latitude and longitude.” In the white light cast across your face, Frankie can see your smirk. “Need to know where to put the memorial plaque when the time comes.”

“Huh?”

“You know.” You lock your phone and toss it aside, and Frankie hears you roll over to face him. In the scant light from the moon, he can just make out your face, still smirking. “The commemorative plaque. On this place and on such-and-such date, Francisco Morales offered the first apology in his life.”

Frankie bristles. “Funny, but I’ve apologized lots of times before.” He thinks of his ex-wife, his mother, Tom’s wife. He’s apologized plenty: for his bad behavior, for his poor choices, for all the ways he’s lacked as a son or a husband or a teammate.

“Not to me you haven’t.”

“Bullshit.” He rolls onto his back and stares up at the rough-hewn boards of the cabin’s ceiling. “I probably have.”

“Bullshit,” you retort. “You haven’t.”

“Well now I have, and I damned well regret it.”

You laugh softly, but it doesn’t have its usual bitter edge to it. You don’t add anything for so long that Frankie’s eyelids start to get heavy, but just as sleep starts to lap around his ankles, he hears you say, far softer than before, “I appreciate it, Fish.”

Friday, then: Frankie learns he has a jealous streak for you, and he learns that he can feel ashamed of how he sometimes treats you. Both revelations pale in comparison to how he feels to own up to his less-than-stellar behavior…and how he feels when you accept his apology rather than retaliate with your own less-than-stellar behavior.

-----

Saturday, and the day starts promising: sun in the blue sky, bird song, the wind rustling through the leaves. Storm clouds gather after noon, low and fast-moving, blotting out the sky, and the evening turns into a torrential storm.

You and Pope go into town to pick up more beer, a bottle of wine for dinner. Frankie and the Miller boys stay behind. Ben gets a headache and goes to nap it off, which leaves Frankie and Will alone on the cabin’s porch, watching the rain disturb the mirror surface of the lake as they nurse a couple of longnecks.

“Good to have everyone here,” Will offers after a while.

Frankie grunts in agreement. He doesn’t mention Tom, and neither does Will.

Will handles the bulk of the conversation, which is really just gossip about you and Pope and Ben since you’re all absent. It doesn’t come across as especially catty, though, since Will spins everything in his motivational lingo.

Then Will touches on you and Frankie’s rocky relationship. He takes a sip from his bottle and gives Frankie a sidelong glance, says, “heard the two of you talking last night. Surprised it didn’t end in yelling.”

Frankie snorts and takes a drink of his own beer. “First time for everything.” He shakes his head, rueful, and adds, “we’ve just never got along. You know that.”

Will nods in that irritatingly sage way he has now. “Well, you’re both crabs.”

“She makes me crabby. I’m usually fine otherwise.”

The man chuckles and shake his head. “Nah, I mean you’re both crabs. You’ve both got tough shells. Even if you could get out of your own shell, you’d have to get past hers and vice versa. Double walls up, whatever you want to call it. Makes it tough to connect.”

Frankie bites back the obvious response: that you and he connect plenty, in a carnal way, and that Will’s dumb analogy would crumble the moment Frankie mentions that the two of you fuck often, and that you don’t have a tough shell when he’s balls deep in you. Instead, he snorts again and says, “okay,” heavy on the sarcasm.

“The problem with a crab’s shell though,” Will adds in that faux-wise tone of his, “is that if you don’t shed them once in a while you can never grow.”

Frankie almost wishes you were here to hear this bullshit too. You’re irritating, but as a fellow crab, you’d tell Will to fuck off, to go play shrink with someone else.

-----

You and Pope return, and the two of you handle dinner together. Pope sears the steaks on the grill outside; you make fresh pasta and sauté late-season vegetables. Ben is pulled from the loft bedroom by the scent of the food, headache gone, and everyone circles up around the table to eat and drink.

The fire snaps in the fireplace and the rain drums against the roof, and Frankie hasn’t felt so relaxed since South America and the scramble over the Andes that ultimately claimed Tom’s life. He glances around the table, and it occurs to him that aside from his parents, the people he loves best in the world are all right here with him. Even you, he supposes.

He lets the good food and drink and warmth of the fire work against his anxiety. He feels the snarls and tangles of his tight muscles—those perpetually tense shoulders hiked up near his ears—unlock. He feels all those bad feelings, the constant self-doubt and low-level depression ebb into the distance. He is lulled into a drowsy state as he eats, as he sips at his wine, and he rejoins the conversation in process and finds himself jolted by its subject.

It's Pope needling you, and the man is clearly picking up a thread from earlier between the two of you. He’s asking you about some guy, some guy named Paolo, and Frankie feels an uncomfortable prickle along the back of his neck.

“Just call him sometime,” Pope tells you. “Grab a coffee or something.”

“Nah, Santi.” You push a bite of steak around your plate and don’t look up. “I don’t think so.”

“I think the two of you would get along.”

“I’m not really interested.”

“Why not?” Will interjects, catching up faster than Frankie. Then to Pope, “you trying to set her up?”

Pope nods at Will’s question as you shrug and mumble something about being out of the dating game for too long, and Frankie stares at you, wills you to look up at him, but you don’t.

“Which is why this is perfect,” Pope replies. “Paolo is coming out of a long-term thing. He needs a gentle reintroduction to dating too. C’mon…what would lunch hurt? Or dinner?”

“You should think about it,” Will adds. He glances over at Frankie, catches his eye. “Might help for you to get out of your shell.”

You laugh at that. “I think I’m good, William, but thanks.”

Then Ben gets in on it, Ben and Will and Pope cajoling you into dating this Paolo guy. The Millers point out your paltry dating history, your lack of serious relationships—you’ve never even lived with a guy, let alone edged up against an engagement or marriage. Pope tells you about Paolo, some coworker in his contracting work with a failed marriage, something about cheating, the man is hurting, blah blah. Frankie is shocked to find that his jealous streak isn’t just wide but deep—it feels like a bone-deep ache, a cold searing in his gut as the guys egg you on, try to convince you to just meet the dude.

“What do you say, Fish?” Pope asks, and Frankie glances up and finds your eyes settled on him. There’s a question there, but Frankie can’t see beyond his own tough exterior to know what it is.

“Sure,” he replies with a shrug he hopes looks nonchalant. “I’m sure this Paolo guy would love to be disappointed by you.”

Which earns him a punch in the shoulder from Ben, who’s sitting beside him, and rolled eyes from Pope, and a disappointed tsk-ing from Will.

Frankie doesn’t see how his barb lands with you, though. As soon as he launches it, he looks away, looks down at his plate, so he can’t see if you are hurt or not by him.

But he hears your reply to Pope. He hears you say, “you know what? Sure. Give him my number. I don’t have any better prospects.”

-----

The rest of the evening is a blur. There’s a robust game of poker, low stakes, and the beer flows steady as the conversation.

Frankie goes mute, only mumbles out monosyllabic answers when the conversation turns to him. His thoughts turn maudlin.

He always felt a step ahead of the guys. More mature. More of a man. Him and Tom, both: making the adult choice to marry instead of drifting around in the chaos of the post-army bachelor life. Where Pope and the Millers lived in bland beige apartment complexes, strung together short-term relationships and hook-ups, Frankie had a house with a wife. He felt a smug satisfaction when he’d meet up with the guys back then, like he and Tom were the sage elder statemen of the group.

You had been there too, of course, but it was different with you. Back then, Frankie used to compare you against his wife—you were the other woman in his life, so you were a handy comparison to his wife, Sophia. You were prickly where Soph was sweet. Opinionated where Soph wasn’t. When Frankie held the two of you up, it made Sophie shine brighter.

But now hindsight is twenty-twenty. Because Frankie always compared the two of you, he can’t help but craft an alternate universe where a marriage to you had faltered and then fell apart. With Soph, it had been ugly: she never spoke up, never held him to account for his increasingly bad behavior as his addiction took hold. She merely left one day—Frankie came home to an empty house and instructions to not reach out to her, that her lawyer would be in touch.

You’re the one who had confronted Frankie. You’re the one who arranged for the intervention, who chased him when he stormed out, who grabbed him by the arm and shook him, told him he had to get his shit together and get help. You’re the one who handled everything: packing his bag, getting him on the plane to the rehab. You found him a place for when he got out, you and Pope salvaging as much as you could from his marital home before it was sold as part of the divorce.

And now he’s back to square one, but even more so. He’s divorced. He’s a recovering addict. He’s got a bad back and a suspended pilot’s license. He’s nobody’s bargain, as the song goes, but he wonders how much his low mood right now is linked to you. Pope and the Millers talk you up, gas you up for this date with Pope’s buddy, and Frankie feels worse and worse the more he realizes you may slip away from him.

It's a startling revelation that he even cares. If asked, he’d lie and say he doesn’t, that you can date whoever you want, move away to wherever. That if he never sees you again, he’ll be perfectly okay, because the two of you have never gotten along and the hooking up has just been two bored, lonely people mutually using each other.

But he remembers a million little moments of you being…not kind, maybe. You’re prickly with your kindness, you sigh and roll your eyes when you do nice things for him, but you’re the one who started him on the path of recovery. You’re the one who stood in front of him at Tom’s wake and told him in a low voice that it wasn’t his fault, it was no one’s fault but Tom’s own greed.

Hell, he bets you’ve even taken the couch this whole time in the cabin because of his bad back.

Frankie feels like he’s close to some world-altering revelation, but it’s just beyond his grasp. Instead, he just stews: his memories circle around his failed marriage, how he was never further ahead than the guys after all. His memories shift to you then, circle around you: the most irritating person he’s ever known, yet the one who probably saved his life. The frustrating woman who has had his back for years, who squabbles with him and argues with him and (lately) has been fucking him with equal aplomb.

-----

When everyone turns in for the night, Frankie waits a long while before he hisses out your name. You don’t sigh or groan like he’s woken you up; you answer him by saying his name back with a questioning lilt.

“You can take the mattress if you want,” he whispers. “If the couch is uncomfortable.”

“It is, but I’m fine.” A beat, and you confirm his suspicion by adding, “your back.”

“Mattress is wide enough for both of us.”

He hears your quiet snort of laughter. “Nice try, Fish.”

“What?”

“You know what. If I lie down with you, you’ll get all handsy.”

Frankie smiles in the darkness. “You don’t mind my hands usually.”

Some spring deep in the couch squeals as you roll over. “We said we weren’t doing that anymore.”

“We say that every time,” Frankie points out. “And then you call me at two in the morning because you need it so bad.”

You snort. “I never need it.” You’re silent for a long moment, then add, “and anyway, I’m actually looking forward to meeting Pope’s friend.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious.” Your voice does lose its snarky, insouciant tone—you sound uncharacteristically somber. “I need to get my shit together. I’m tired of being alone all the time.”

That stings Frankie a little, like all those moments with him don’t count, even though he knows they don’t. You’re talking about being alone, all those times you need someone to talk to or cuddle up with or just be with. Frankie and your hooking up isn’t any of that; it’s a lone moment of physicality without any of the intimacy.

“And you think Paolo is the one then?” he asks, and the name Paolo drips with disdain that he doesn’t bother to hide. You hear it, too.

“You sound jealous, Fish.”

“’m not.”

“Because I thought I was just gonna disappoint him anyway, so why would you be jealous?”

“Said I’m not.” He’s not jealous. He isn’t. The bloom of hot acid in his gut is something else entirely. Maybe Pope didn’t cook the steaks thoroughly enough. Maybe it was too much red wine.

Now your voice turns faux-casual, conversational, like you’re just gabbing with a girlfriend. “Do you think Paolo is hot?” you ask.

“Probably looks like a troll doll.”

“I bet he’s big. Huge.”

“Gross.”

“Bet he’s slinging a real hog around.”

Frankie scoffs. “Pope said he’s divorced because his wife cheated on him. He’s probably tiny.”

“Ooooh, you’re definitely jealous.” Another rustling of your blankets, and then Frankie feels it—your bare foot reaching down and out to where he lays, your cold toes kicking him lightly in the side. He swats at you, but you pull your foot back at the last minute with a laugh.

“Fuck off,” he grits out. “I’m not.”

Another playful kick that clips him in the shoulder. “Aw, Fish, did you fall for me? Are you in love? Are you—”

He’s quicker this time, and he catches your foot, catches his hand around your ankle and tugs you towards him. You squeal; he gets you halfway off the couch but not entirely and there’s a moment of tug-of-war. Frankie doesn’t release your ankle, and you try to break his hold, but Frankie (who knows how strong you are, how good you are at self-defense) doesn’t think you really fight him that hard.

Instead, you let him pull you the rest of the way onto the floor. You let him tug you across the short span between the couch and the mattress, and he’d smirk and gloat at how willingly you come to him, but within a second you are beside him. You smell smoky, like the snapping wood fire of the evening has burrowed into your hair, and you smell like the wet, washed-clean earth and loam, and you smell like the slightly-metallic water of the lake, and Frankie’s mouth finds yours, seals over yours, steals away any other teasing or arguing you may do.

Part of him hates how well the two of you fit together. For as much as you squabble and irritate each other, in these moments, you are perfectly in line with each other. On the same wavelength. Frankie kisses you deeply, tastes you beyond the mint of your toothpaste, and he still—even after all these moments, all these stolen interludes—gets a fluttery swoop in his gut when you slide your tongue against his.

He maneuvers you underneath him and you go willingly. Eagerly. He wishes sometimes he could read your mind. He wonders what you’re thinking in these moments. Have you been lying beside him the past few nights, wanting this to happen? Or are you only riled up and slick to his searching fingers because of the idea of this Paolo, a man who could theoretically assuage your loneliness?

The thought makes that deep streak of jealousy pulse inside him, so he breaks the kiss as his fingers slide into you. He feels how wet you are, always wet and hot for him, and he hisses into your ear, “this for me?”

“Fuck off, Fish.” You whisper it back, and in the wan moonlight, Frankie can see you glaring up at him.

He pulls his finger out, adds a second, pushes both into you. He catches how your eyelids flutter, how your lips part at the stretch of his digits. He studies your face as he pulls out, pushes back in a handful of times.

“Tell me,” he demands. He keeps his voice low, aware that the Millers are asleep in the loft above you and Pope is asleep in the bedroom just beyond the small galley kitchen.

“I said fuck off.” You enunciate the fuck clearly, catch your lower lip between your teeth as you hiss out the eff. As guilty as Frankie feels to compare you to his ex-wife, the differences are never more stark than here: Sophie had been completely soft, completely submissive in the bedroom, never quite willing to do more than a handful of positions or situations. Fucking you is like wrestling a wild cat sometimes, and you make him work for it, and Frankie kinda loves it.

He clucks his tongue in mock sympathy. He pushes his two fingers into you as deep as he can, then crooks them inside you, strokes your inner wall until you gasp underneath him.

“There it is,” he croons. He dips his head, drags the slick muscle of his tongue along your pulse point where your heartbeat jumps and thunders away. “Knew I’d find it.”

“Fish—”

“Always find it.” He moves his thumb, presses it lightly against your swollen clit. “Pope’s dumb fucking buddy could never.”

You laugh but it’s breathless as he works his hand against you. You tangle a hand in his hair and tug against him, steer his head back to you.

“Knew you were jealous, you asshole,” you whisper. You surge forward and nip at the side of his neck, and he bites back his own groan, hushes you, reminds you that the guys are nearby and you have to be quiet.

Frankie reaches down and shoves his sweatpants down enough to free his aching cock, and he doesn’t even bother to get you out of your sleep shorts. He only shoves them to the side and then removes his hand, guides his cock to replace his fingers. He hears the low groan you give at the contact, so he reaches up a hand and covers your mouth and pushes into you in one firm, deep thrust. His hand absorbs your moan as he mounts you, but he looses his own groan to be back inside your clenching heat. You both freeze for a long moment—his cock twitching inside you, your cunt bearing down on him—but none of the guys make a noise, so you proceed as quietly as you can.

You’re not nearly quiet enough.

*****

Pope is woken by the sound of a thump, like a body hitting the floor.

That’s exactly what it is: Frankie yanking you off of the couch, and just as Pope starts to wake up, starts to swing around and put his feet on the floor, he hears a moan.

Ben sleeps like the dead and hears nothing: not you and Frankie squabbling in whispers, not you and Frankie fucking, and not the furious clicking of Will in the other bed, texting back and forth with Pope. He’s only woken up later.

Will hears everything. He never fell asleep at all, only drowsed a bit, so he heard you and Frankie talking down below.

Then he hears the same thump as Pope, then the same moan.

His first thought is that Frankie has made you cry, that Frankie has said something mean enough to break that tough dam that holds back your emotions. But then he hears a gasp (yours), a low chuckle (Frankie’s) and he realizes what he’s hearing.

“Holy shit,” he breathes out. “No way.”

His cell phone, silenced, lights up with a message. Will unlocks it and sees that it is Pope.

Please tell me I’m not hearing what I think I’m hearing, the text reads.

Will responds. Not sure, he types.

Pope: You got eyes on them???

Will: No way

Pope: Sounds like she’s crying. Need confirmation.

Will: NO

Pope: Ur in the loft. Confirm.

Will sighs, mutters “fuck.” It does sound like you’re crying and trying to hide it, breathy, bitten-back moans that could be crying or could be…you and Frankie fucking.

The former seems unlikely. Will’s never seen you cry, and he thinks he’s only heard you once—a similar gasping sound, through a flimsy motel room wall in Central America as you made your way back to the States with Tom’s body.

The latter—the thought of you and Frankie fucking—seems even more unlikely. Yet when he freezes, when he holds his own breath so long he hears his heart beating in his ears, Will swears he can hear the quiet rustling of fabric, heavy breathing that sounds more like Frankie.

He moves as slow as if he were on a mission. He turns around on the trundle bed and crawls to the edge of it, a millimeter at a time. He reaches the open doorway of the loft; there is no door, and it looks down at the first floor, and when he peers over the railing, he sees the two of you awash in silvery moonlight.

Frankie, on top of you. Your knees on either side of Frankie’s hips, one hand gripping his curls at the nape of his neck, the other hand reaching down and grasping his ass, guiding him where he fucks into you in slow, deep strokes.

Will doesn’t know why he never saw it before. This can’t be the first time between you—you move too well together. The two of you have always grated against each other, but no one ever really thought it was hatred. You and Frankie love each other in your own way, Will guesses, and maybe this is just a facet of that.

You helping Frankie get clean: another facet of that love.

Frankie going silent at the thought of you dating Pope’s work buddy: another facet of that love, perhaps?

Will retreats just as slowly. He doesn’t want to ruin the moment, though he thinks he’ll need therapy to erase the vision of the two of you fucking from his mind. He climbs back into bed carefully, then texts Pope.

She’s not crying, he types out.

She’s not??? Pope replies.

Yeah, dude, Will types. She and Fish are fucking.

Pope responds with a puking emoji first, but then he adds, FINALLY.

#frankie morales #frankie morales imagine #frankie morales x reader #catfish morales #catfish morales imagine #catfish morales x reader #triple frontier #kinktober 2023 #tropes and tales

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honeyboylovee · 7 months

Text

‘the bed was so cold without you’

Pairing: Idol!Mingyu x gn!reader

Word count: 500ish

Genre: Idol!Au, established relationship!AU, fluff

Warnings: mentions of food and baking a cake, mentions of staying up late, they kiss once, they’re in love that’s all<3

A/N: I got this idea from a pinterest trope list and decided to write it. It is way longer that I expected it to be. I just love this man! What can I say? Feedbacks are very appreciated. I hope you enjoy! Thank you for reading.

—————————————🩵————————————-

Your apartment is dimly lit when Mingyu enters inside. As he takes off his jacket, his gaze falls on the covered plate of food kept on the table, which he guesses you had cooked for him. This is the third time this week that he is late from work. He looks into the living room for any sight of you.

You aren’t there. Maybe you’re already asleep, he thinks to himself.

Walking towards the kitchen he eats the food on the table after reheating it. He even washes the plate. He knows very well that you do not like to wake up to dirty plates in the sink. Once done with that, he moves upstairs.

As he climbs the stairs, he can’t help but be excited to see your face. He assumes that you’re sleeping considering it’s an hour past midnight. When he reaches towards your shared bedroom, his gaze falls on a dim source of light coming from the room.

You’re watching something on your mobile. Your attention shifts to him when he opens the bedroom door.

‘You’re here’, you say with a smile on your face as you put your phone aside after pausing the video.

Mingyu can’t help but smile when he sees you in your pyjamas looking so cozy. You stretch your arms out for him to come and hug you. And he does so. How you missed his hugs for the last few days! With his comeback nearing, you hadn’t gotten much time with him but you understood.

‘Why’re you still awake, my love?’, he asks you softly.

‘I just can’t sleep for some reason,’, you say, ‘and I also missed you. I wanted to wait for you to come home.’

‘But you have work tomorrow baby, don’t you?’

‘I don’t. Tomorrow is a Sunday, remember?’

Then it dawns on him why you were awake till so late.

‘I’m going to take a shower, my love. I’ll be done in 15 minutes and then we can sleep together, yeah?’, he says as he pecks your forehead and moves towards the bathroom.

Around 10 minutes later he sees you on the bed watching something on your phone again.

As he plops down on his side of the bed he asks, ‘What are you watching baby?’

You turn the phone towards him so he could watch too.

‘Remember the chocolate fudge cake that you liked from the cake shop that we went to? It’s a recipe video for that. I’m going to try and bake it tomorrow ‘cause I’ll be at home. I was gonna surprise you tomorrow but now you know.’, you say and look at him expectantly.

He is looking at you with the softest look on his face and before saying anything, he captures your lips in a kiss. A kiss that is slow and comforting just like his presence.

Once the kiss breaks, he says, ‘We’ll bake it together baby. I don’t have practice tomorrow.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

Both of you fall in a comfortable silence as you watch the video.

‘The bed was so cold without you.’, is the last thing you say before you doze off while cuddling him.

#seventeen x reader #idol mingyu x reader #mingyu fanfic #mingyu fluff #kim mingyu #mingyu x reader #seventeen fluff #seventeen #fiction #mingyu imagines #honeyboylovee

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k-hotchoisan · 7 months

Note

[congrats on the 500 followers!!] #19 pls!!

19. Skype Video Call sex with Yeosang or Sexting with Yeosang?

Thank u anon for the congratulations (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵)🩷 YOU ALL ARE SO NICE PLEASE 😭🩷

NONETHELESS imagining Yeosang looking all cute and shy behind cameras?? VIDEO CALL IS A MUST BECAUSE HIS vOICE TOO HELLO????

When you’re excited to show Yeosang new toys you bought, so you give him a little surprise when you face time him.

Genres/warnings: smut, drabble, use of toys, mutual (virtual) masturbation, orgasms, dirty talk

Tag list: @bro-atz @diamond-3 <message me to be in my tag list✨)

K’s 500: This or that? masterlist here!

Yeosang’s phone buzzes one lazy Sunday night. The moment he sees that it’s your name, he immediately unlocks his phone.

[yeo, I bought some reeeeally cute toys today! Do you wanna see?]

Yeosang doesn’t think too much about it. You usually send him or show him the stuff you bought, and he likes to hear you talk and gush about it. He adores your enthusiasm—the way your face brightens up when you’re showing off the funky stuff you bought.

So he replies with an [okay!!]

[but you need to be alone though!! It’s only for your eyes!]

Yeosang raises an eyebrow, and he looks around. No one’s at home at the moment-

[…in your room]

And Yeosang laughs. It’s as if you hear his thoughts. He gets up from the couch and goes into his room. He shuts the door behind him and is comfortable on his bed, sinking into the mattress. He replies you with the green light that he’s definitely alone right now.

A few seconds later, your caller ID flickers across his screen, and he answers. But what he doesn’t expect to see is the camera view pointing right at your lower abdomen. It’s fine, he thinks, that is, until the quality improves a little that he realises that you’re only in a shirt and panties.

“Babe~ can you hear me?” You call out, as you bend over to adjust the camera, pushing it slightly back so your face is in view, and Yeosang is just staring at the way your tits are peeking out of the collar of your shirt, and he swallows hard.

“Y-yeah”, Yeosang manages out, lying to his side as he presses his legs together.

You fix your hair for a moment looking at yourself through your own screen before giving the most innocent smile.

“Yay, great! So I just really wanted to show you this toy I just bought-“ you say offhandedly, as you reach over off-screen, grabbing a lilac coloured silicon toy. “-and I thought you might like it because it’s such a pretty colour.” Yeosang’s thoughts are all over the place. It’s the first time you’re suddenly doing something like this, and the moment he sees the vibrator appear on screen, he almost loses it.

“-and I think you deserve to see me use it for the first time, right?” You hum, stroking the toy. “Since we will be using it often. Might as well.”

He swallows hard as the tent in his pants only grow. The thought of him drawing out endless orgasms at a quicker pace when he pins it on your clit while he fucks you hard from below, or you using it to overstimulate his pretty little cock to the point he’s begging you to stop-

“Yeosang”, you call out, snapping him out of his little daydreams. He knows he’s been caught. But you pretend not to notice.

“Do you want to be in a more comfortable position. It’s only fun if I get to see you play with yourself too.”

“Of course”, he replies quickly, trying to rid his hazing and perverted mind, evidently to no avail. He positions his phone at his night stand, and your view of him is him lying down, head against the pillows, his lower body barely making into the cut. He’s hugging the pillow.

“Have you sanitised it yet?” Yeosang asks. A soft smile appears on your lips. It’s a small detail but his attention to such things always makes your heart flutter so much for him.

That’s why you wanted to put on a little show for him. Yeosang deserves it. And you also adore seeing him slowly getting flustered.

“I did! Thank you for reminding me baby”, you giggle, lifting your knees up, the way the wet patch of fabric pressing against your wet cunt doesn’t go unnoticed by Yeosang. Yeosang internally curses. He wants to be in you so bad right now. He watches you cover the toy in lube.

“Turning it on now”, you say, flicking the on button as the toy springs into life, buzzing lowly. Yeosang’s eyes are glued to the screen, watching the way you’re talking about it has different settings and vibrations, which honestly, does not register in his head because his attention only settles in when you press the toy at your clothed pussy.

“A-ah… it’s only at the lowest setting but it already tickles.”

Yeosang eyes the way the wet patch grows larger and larger. He’s absentmindedly palming his painfully hard erection, not ready to take it out yet.

You shift the vibrator up a little and it’s pressed right against your clit. Your thighs jerk from the sensation, as a soft moan echoes into the mic, right to Yeosang’s cock.

“It’s good but not good enough. Should I remove my panties?” You ask innocently, lifting the toy off your crotch, your fingers tugging against the fabric. Yeosang nods desperately.

You laugh, pulling the fabric to the side, and your cunt is in full glory—decorated with slick and looking so delicious. Yeosang’s mind hazes even more. God fuck, the things he would do to just get to your pussy, his pussy. He pulls out his cock from his track pants, and it’s so hard and pretty.

“This toy is pretty, but nothing could ever compare to your pretty little dick, Yeosangie”, you compliment, admiring the way his cock twitches at your words.

“Continue, please”, Yeosang huffs, giving himself slow strokes.

You giggle again, which instantly is replaced by a whiny moan as you press the toy right at your clit. Yeosang hears you press a button and the buzzing intensifies, and your cries are growing louder, and it sounds so fucking beautiful.

“Babe, this feels so good. I think you’ll like it. You’ll like it when I press this against your tip and force you not to cum right?”

Yeosang groans, pressing his thumb over his silt as he begins to fuck his hand. His low moans are sending you off the edge. You could never comprehend how a pretty face like him has a voice so fucking delectable and low.

“God, so good. I wanna fuck myself with this now”, you say. Yeosang barely has his eyes open from the pleasure but now he’s starting right at your screen, wanting to see your cunt swallow the toy like how it swallows his cock.

He watches. You slide the toy along your folds, making small squeals as more cream leaks out of your hole, before you push the silicone vibrator right into your cunt so easily. You gasp as your lower body vibrates a little before you force yourself to stay still. Your panties are completely soaked by this point, so you opt to take them off, struggling with the vibrator pressing against your walls. Soon, your legs are fully spread open, only the tail of the toy peaking out of your hole.

You sigh, as you tug the tail end of the toy, letting it go slightly in and out of your cunt for Yeosang to see.

“What are you thinking about Yeosang?” You ask, attempting to prolong the pleasure. Yeosang is pumping his cock so desperately, the sound of skin slapping and the way precum oozes out of his tip making the sounds even wetter.

“Thinking about,” he pants, struggling to form proper thoughts. “Thinking about fucking you with that vibrator in you like that.”

“Naughty boy. You wanna feel the vibrator in your cock too?”

Yeosang nods, struggling to keep his eyes open as the pleasure only builds.

You’re not faring any better, the vibrations were climbing up in intensity, your legs jolting from time to time as the knot in your stomach pulls taut.

“Yeosang…” you call out. “It feels so good. Oh my god. I want you here so bad. I want you to fuck me ‘till I can’t think.”

Now Yeosang curses vocally as he watches the way your hole leaks out more thick cream, onto the tail of the vibrator, and the way you’re looking into the camera with a fucked out expression—eyes hooded and a pout. Your fingers reach down and pull open your folds, letting more cream dribble out of your folds as you watch the precum on Yeosang’s cock turn more thicker.

Yeosang’s moans are deep and it only turns you on even more as he also watches you with hooded eyes. God he’s so fucking pretty when he’s fuckedout like that.

“Cum for me, babe”, Yeosang whimpers, trying to hold off his orgasm. The knot in your tummy is so tight now the moment those words leave his lips.

“Fuck me, oh god I’m cumming”, you sob, the vibrations sending you over the edge, as you squirt all over the floor in attempt to remove the toy from your cunt.

And Yeosang bursts at the same time when he watches you squirt for him, crying out your name as he milks himself dry, cum spurting out of his cock, landing on his abdomen.

The both of you are left panting for a few seconds before your laughter echoes across the screen. Yeosang’s cheeks are flushed and it’s the cutest thing ever.

“Fuck. I could go for a round two since I’m not doing anything tonight”, you hum as you rub your toy against your folds again.

Yeosang sits up quickly as he tucks his cock back into his pants.

“I’ll be there in fifteen”, he shouts as he removes his stained shirt, rummaging through his closet for another.

You laugh as you disconnect the call.

#k’s500thisorthat🌶️#ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez smut #smut #ateez fic #kpop smut #yeosang smut #Kang yeosang #ateez yeosang #yeosang #yeosang x reader

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carmyboobear · 2 months

Text

ALEXITHYMIA CH 5: detergent, thrifting, and cake

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader

Chapter Rating: T (11k)

ao3 link, ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4

Chapter Summary: It’s his roommate’s birthday this week, and Carmy doesn’t find out until it’s a couple days away. Once he finds they’re unluckily spending their birthday alone, he makes it his mission to make their lonely day better. It’s the least he can do. Little does he know how much more he has to discover about them and about himself.

Tags: reader having trauma, carmy having trauma, toxic families, domesticity

A/N: It’s time… it’s time. I said last chapter was the longest…just kidding. THIS ONE is the longest, and it was hardest to write so far. The duo gets to have a lot of fun this chapter, though! arguably the most so far! A lot of domestic goodness and good food and shopping! Until… :)

also HUGE shoutout to @justaconsequence on tumblr for being my beta reader for this chapter! she was so kind and so helpful. this behemoth of a fic is too much for me to proofread on my own. anyway, thanks for reading and enjoy! can't wait to hear what y'all think!

Typically, by this time on Monday morning, Carmy's usually three cigarettes deep into paperwork, urgently (and poorly) calculating the sales the restaurant needs to make this week to stay afloat. Because even though it's a Sunday closing activity, he never seems to find the occasion to get around to it, and by 10 pm, he doesn't have the capacity to be crunching numbers.

Not that 8 am is much better. At least he's not dissecting the debt this morning—he's studying detergent prices.

“Why is this one, like, almost 20 dollars?” Carmy stops reading the price tags and glances over at his roommate, who's squinting at products on upper shelves. The lights are always too bright in this place. “And for such a small bottle…”

“Pre-mixed organic sulfate-free 100% vegan bleach,” Carmy reads dully.

“So stupid.” They shake their head. “Does grocery shopping ever depress you?”

“Usually,” he replies dryly. “Inflation is pretty depressing.”

“Don’t even get me started. Capitalism in general depresses me.”

“Hm, yeah. That too.” He sighs through his nose and tries to refocus. He's having a hard time processing all the numbers and letters today. “You see any unscented detergent? Somethin’ mild?”

“Um…” They crane their neck up and down, and then they crouch on the ground. They pick up a white bottle. “How's this? It's like, 8 dollars. It's not name-brand, but…”

“You know I don't care.” He kneels with them, huddling in close. They smell faintly of a sweet, yet musky perfume. He reminds himself to focus on the detergent, not the way they smell (even if it's far more interesting). “Yeah, this looks good. Thank you.”

“For your vintage denim, right?” They stand up to put the detergent in their shopping cart, which is barely separated with his stuff vs. theirs. He doesn't understand why his face grows warm at their comment, but it does.

“Uh, yeah. It is.” If the blush shows on his face, they graciously don't comment. “Although I'll admit I don't get around to washing them as much as I should.”

“You're not supposed to wash jeans that often anyway, right?” They lean their elbows onto the rickety cart as they push it, and he ambles along next to them, matching the slow, relaxed pace of their walk.

“Yeah, but I really…” The implications are clear. They fail in suppressing a laugh, and it makes him smile. “And I’m supposed to hand wash them, so.”

“Oh, so what you're saying is that you never wash them,” they tease.

“That is not at all what I'm saying.” They make an unimpressed face. “I do laundry, it's just…”

“Not often,” they supply helpfully. He tries to come up with something, but he's got nothing. “It's okay, I understand.”

“I promise I wash my clothes,” he mumbles, wilting.

“I know.” There's that new smile he's grown to recognize more clearly. It's this mischievous one they get when they’re teasing him, and it's so cute he doesn't have any room in him to get even a little irritable. “I've seen you do laundry maybe once or twice.”

“Hey,” he says, warning, and they laugh and run ahead of him, the squeaky wheels of the cart giggling alongside them.

After the night he almost burned down their apartment, he had felt different. It was like a switch being flipped, light abruptly filling up a dark room, and he's been squinting, struggling to adjust. But as he walks with them today, grocery shopping lit by blinding white fluorescents, he finds that he can see them rather clearly.

The connection between the two of them is tangible, palpable. It's workable pasta dough that's been kneaded to uniformity. The dough is malleable, clean, and when he touches it, sticky, glutenous residue doesn't cover his palms. When he catches at them peeking over their shoulder to make sure he's still following them, he chases away the urge to pull them into his arms. He throws the desire into boiling water in hopes that enough pressure will change those feelings into something more palatable. He's not sure if it's working.

Something happened when he hugged them that Saturday night. He doesn't dare name what that “something” is, but it's rising from where it's sitting at the bottom of the pot, just about to hit the surface—

“Hey, I gotta get some stuff in this aisle.” Carmy snaps out of it and follows them as they veer the cart to the left. He raises his eyes to read the categories on the sign.

“You bakin’ somethin’?” They both move out of the way for an oncoming cart.

“Yeah, was thinking about it.” They halt to a stop in front of the boxed cake mix and step back to fully peruse the shelves. He stands next to them, and they glance at him out of the corner of their eye. “You’re not judging me for getting box mix, are you?”

“Not at all,” he answers honestly. “Food is always better when made from scratch, but box mix has its uses. Besides, I’m not a baker.”

“That’s true, but I’m sure you still make an insane cake.” Carmy’s aware he can’t make them unsee his flash of a smile, but he still shrugs. “Sure, stay humble.”

“I try. What’s the occasion?”

“Ah, nothing much. It’s just my birthday.”

“Oh, okay.”

…And he's about to move on, just as casually as it came, but then the processing finishes.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” They ask confusedly.

“Is it your birthday today?”

“No, um, it’s this Thursday.” He exhales in palpable relief.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He hates at how worked up he sounds.

“Um…” Their face is twinged with guilt. “...There was never a good time to bring it up?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be getting upset.” He sighs, shakes his head. “I just feel like I should’ve known, I guess.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not your fault. I never brought it up. Um…” Their hands are fiddling with the edges of their sleeves. “I just have complicated feelings about my birthday.”

“Ah, I see. I get that.” That, he can understand. “Is it all the gifts and stuff?”

“Kinda. It’s a part of it.” They lean down to grab a box of devil’s food cake, and that makes him remember that they’re in a grocery store. Not quite the best place for a personal conversation like this. They’re being vague, but he won’t press. Not right now.

“You shouldn’t be baking for yourself on your birthday,” Carmy mutters. They smile at that, but it’s different. It’s heavy with melancholy.

“It’s alright. I’m gonna be celebrating with my friends this weekend, just not on my actual birthday.” His conflicted expression persists. “It’s okay, really. It’s just a day. It’ll be enough of a present to not have to go into work.”

“Put that back,” he blurts out. “I’ll make you a cake.”

“Don’t you work?” Their eyebrows are arched in surprise. “You really don’t—”

“I know I don’t. But I want to. I do work, yeah, but I’ll, I’ll get someone to cover me.” He’s never said those words before in his life, and now that they’re out, he can’t take them back. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want to take them back. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” they reply quickly.

“Then let me do this. Please.” He has no idea where this courage is coming from. “I want to. I know I'm always working, but I really…” Their eyes are wide with wonder, yet watchful. It shouldn't make him falter, but it does. His heart stutters and whatever bravado briefly gripped him fades away. “I’m…probably being too pushy right now. Tell me to fuck off?”

“I’m not gonna tell you to fuck off for wanting to bake me a cake,” they laugh, easing his worries like they always do. “C’mon, Carm.”

“So, uh, is that a yes, or…?”

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not trying to ask you to take off of work for my birthday,” they start carefully, “but I wouldn’t object to it. So, yeah. It’s a yes.”

“Okay.” He can’t help his giddy smile. There's someone saying you look stupid like this, but he’s with them, and it makes everything else silent. “Okay, good.”

“You’re…being super sweet about all this.” He doesn’t understand why—maybe it’s the way they say it—but hearing that makes his neck go hot.

“I mean…friends do stuff like this, don’t they?”

“Only the good ones.” They beam beautifully at him. He hasn’t done anything to warrant their affection, he thinks, but the feeling of their smile is so warm. He can’t resist soaking in it.

He's glad that lady luck blessed him just enough to stop their birthday from passing him by. He's been itching for an opportunity to repay them for all the bullshit they've had to take from him as of recent (although he knows if he brought it up, they would say it wasn't anything worth repaying). They deserve something good from him for once, not panic attacks and nightmares.

He just wishes he could figure out why they were going to spend their birthday alone. He knows them a lot better now, but there's still so much left shrouded. He wants to know them inside and out—he wants to learn what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night, what makes them happy. He wants to know all of it in its entirety, to fill in the gaps in the puzzle he doesn't have the pieces for.

He has some of the pieces. He understands that their relationship with their family to his—distant, strained, and difficult. Unfortunately, that’s about it. He doesn’t know any of the specifics. It’s not like he’s talked to them about his family outside of the off-handed bitter remarks, just as they have, but he finds that this fact leaves him dissatisfied.

He just hopes that they'll let him in. He's not sure if they will, but…he's gonna try. He has to. He's sick of not trying.

. . . . .

“You want to take off?” Richie’s staring at Carmy like he’s grown a second head. They're taking a smoke break in the back. “I don’t know what sort of doppelganger bullshit this is, but if you’re trying to pretend to be Carmen, you’re doing a shit job.”

“Very funny, jackass,” Carmy mutters. “I’m being serious. This Thursday.”

“All day?” Carmy grimaces, but he nods. Richie shakes his head. “You’re being weird. Really fuckin’ weird.”

“I know I shouldn’t. It’s a bad idea, but—”

“Cousin, no, that’s not at all what’s goin’ on here,” Richie interrupts, and Carmy’s at a loss for words. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“What?” Carmy squints at him. “Are you being serious?”

“‘Course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” Carmy decides not to comment on that. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to get you off this ship for just one fucking second?”

“As the owner of this place, you’ve tried way too many times,” he replies dryly.

“Uh, as the original co-owner of this place, you don’t listen to me enough.” Again, Carmy decides not to elaborate on that one. It’s not worth it. “Take the day off. I was running it fine before, and I’ll keep running it.”

“No, no, we’re not saying that, it was not fine,” Carmy starts, but Richie’s already flipping him off.

“Whatever, I already know, new fucking system and all that. Don’t get anxiety or whatever over it, that’s why you got Syd hustling shit your way, right?”

“Uh.” Carmy didn’t realize that Richie had even been paying attention to the new hierarchy in the restaurant, let alone respecting it in any capacity. “Yeah, she is.”

“Then it’s fine.” Richie blows smoke in his face, and Carmy swats it away with a glare. “It was fine when you came in an hour late today, wasn’t it?”

“You guys knew I wasn’t gonna come in until later,” Carmy argues, defensive (although he’s not sure if there’s actually anything to argue about).

“Exactly.” Richie sighs all of a sudden, a long one that sounds like it’s bone deep. “Carm. Let me be straight with you. You need to do this. Okay? No backing out of this one.”

“Why’re you sayin’ this? What are you sayin’?”

“It’s ‘cause of your roommate, right? This Thursday?”

“...Yeah.” Carmy pales. “How did you—?”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Richie says, grinning. “It was obvious.”

“No way. I didn’t say shit.”

“You didn’t need to.” Richie flicks the ash off his cigarette. “They’re changin’ you, man. We can all see it.”

“...” Carmy can’t deny that. He doesn't have time to ponder on that right now. “Is it really okay?”

“Yeah, you could stand to have an attitude adjustment.”

“I wasn’t talking about that, asshole. I was talking about Thursday.”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, it’s completely fine.” Richie claps a hand on his shoulder, solid in its grip. It makes Carmy’s eyes snap to him, mostly in confusion. “So what’s the occasion? Must be important.”

“It’s their birthday. I mean, I could just go home early that day, but—”

“Yo, if you’re gonna take off, don’t halfass it—”

“That’s not what I was gonna say. When I’m here, I can’t seem to find my way out. This place…it just has a way of trapping you in.” He doesn’t expect Richie to nod, but he does. “I know if I don’t take the whole day off, I’ll never get out of here in time. Not until it’s too late.”

For some reason, that makes Richie laugh.

“Yeah. That's it.” Richie shakes his head as smoke trails out of his mouth. “That’s just it, man. You have to make time for the things that’re important. Even the recitals where you have to listen to five year olds play twinkle twinkle little star 20 times. You can’t miss shit like this. Because once you miss it, it’s gone.”

“Rich.” Carmy wants to say something to make that haunted expression leave Richie's face, but he doesn't come up with anything in time.

“Don’t give me that look.” Richie’s hand falls from his shoulder. “I’m just tryin’ to stop you from fucking shit up. They actually seem like a good person.”

“Y’think so?”

“I do. You?”

“Yeah.” Carmy doesn’t bother hiding his smile, even though he can already sense Richie’s teasing coming from a mile away. “They’re a really good friend.”

“Friend. Sure.” Richie snorts.

“Don’t push it,” and for some reason he adds, “they were gonna spend it alone.”

“Huh. Sociable guy like them spending it alone?”

“I know. I didn't ask. Maybe I should've.”

“Maybe. I dunno, cousin. Everyone's got their secrets. Especially the ones that try to act like they don't have any.”

“You're strangely full of wisdom today.”

“Fuck right off,” Richie responds in regular Richie fashion.

“I think they're like me. Like us.” Carmy's not sure why he's saying this on a Monday afternoon at work out of all times, but the truth bursts out of him beyond his will. Richie's expression shifts into something more solemn, something recognizable. “Y'know what I mean.”

“...Yeah.” Richie claps his hand on Carmy's back again. “Shitty parents club.”

As Carmy stands there in the back, feet sore and tobacco in the air, he sees his childhood in flashes. He's five years old again and is following Mike around with scuffed sneakers and untamed hair, although he supposes that unruliness never truly changed with time. There's warm sunlight filtering through green summer leaves. He hears his mother behind him, somewhere, but maybe he doesn't.

He thinks of home, of his bedroom, and it is cold. He has homework he’s failed to complete again. It's sitting on his desk, on top of all of the other shit he can't finish. There's screaming, and he's not listening.

He blinks. He’s 30, and he hasn’t talked to his mom since Michael died.

“Shitty parents club,” Carmy repeats hollowly.

. . . . .

When Thursday morning arrives, Carmy ends up greeting his roommate with flour in his hair and eggs sizzling on the pan.

“Um,” they say, just as Carmy goes “G'morning.” They both freeze, brief awkwardness circling between them before it dissipates with their breathless laugh.

“Good morning. I didn't think you'd actually take off,” they admit.

“I said I would,” he replies quietly, but it's not accusatory. How many times had he said he'd be home for dinner just for him to arrive when they're already asleep? He tries not to make empty promises anymore. Nonetheless, he understands their surprise. “Um, I'm almost done with breakfast. I didn't get to the coffee yet.”

“Am I supposed to be offended?” They laugh. “That's the least I can do, with you doing all of this.” They sluggishly shuffle behind him to reach down into some kitchen cabinets. “It's a special day, so I'll even make us pour overs.”

“That's true. It is special.” He peeks over his shoulder, pausing from basting the eggs in brown butter to see them setting up on the kitchen island. They gently place the hourglass-shaped glass onto the counter with a light clink. He silently switches the button on for the electric gooseneck kettle to his right. “Am I allowed to wish you a happy birthday, or should I not?”

“Hm, I don't mind. Just don't overdo it, which I doubt you will.” They pull out a bag of coarse ground coffee and a filter. As soon as they open the bag, he can smell the sweet scent of the light roast floating towards him.

“Okay. Then, happy birthday,” he says as casually as he can.

“Thanks, Carmy.” He studies their expression, searching for annoyance in their content expression, but he doesn't find any. “That's not even really what I meant by today being special, though.”

“How else did you mean it?” The eggs are done. He reaches over the hot pan to cut the heat.

“Well, y'know. I dunno if we’ve ever had a full day off together.” They're carefully scooping grounds into the filter fitted on top of the glass, creating a small hill. “I think I managed to catch you coming home early on my off days sometimes, but never a full day.”

“Huh.” Carmy has to take a minute to think about that one. “Yeah, I don't know either. I think you're right.”

“Then, like I said. It's special.” They seal up the bag of coffee grounds, and then they frown. “Shit. I forgot to turn on the kettle. Can you—”

“Already did it,” he reports, pleased, and his sense of accomplishment only doubles at their sigh of relief.

“Thank god.” There's the familiar clicking sound of the kettle reaching the perfect temperature. “Just in time, too. Can you hand it to me?”

“Yes, chef,” he says, because it always makes them laugh. Today is no exception. He slides the metallic kettle over to them.

“So what delights did you whip up over there?” They ask. They begin pouring the almost boiling water over their coffee grounds in a slow circle, gradually inching towards the middle. “It smells amazing. I want the full break-down.”

“The full break-down, got it.” On two circular plates, he's carefully placing a fried egg, thick cut bacon, and a slice of toast with jam and butter. “Uh…it's nothin’ special, just stuff we had in the fridge. We've got a, uh, brown-butter fried egg with a little paprika, sage, pepper, salt…”

“Oh, just an egg made with liquid gold, no big deal,” they imitate.

“Cut it out,” he snips back, but he's smiling and they know it. “There's honestly not much to it. This thick-cut bacon was in the back, so I cooked the rest of it. And the toast is just brioche with salted honey butter and blueberry jam.”

“Carmy. C'mon. That's nothing special to you?”

“I mean.” It's not quite nothing, he thinks. “I can make nicer breakfasts, is all.”

“That's what you said when you made me garlic bread, and that fucking blew my mind.” They set the kettle down with a thunk. The glass is full of dark coffee. Prepped next to them is their favorite glass mug alongside Carmy's. He's not sure how they knew that it was his favorite, but he doesn't question it.

“I'm just letting you know that you should wait to be really impressed.”

“Too fucking late, man.” He's turned around and placed the two breakfast platters on the kitchen island, and they gawk openly at it. “Holy fuck.”

“It's ready,” he says, surprisingly meek. He can't comprehend why anxiety's hitting him now of all times. He's served acclaimed food critics, top-security government officials, and celebrities more times than he can count. Before that audience, he never faltered, but in front of his roommate in their crumpled pajamas, his heart stutters.

“Oh, wow…” They regard the food with undeserved softness. Like a punctured balloon, his anxiety immediately begins deflating. They're staring at the food like it's a painting in a museum. “You seriously didn't have to do all of this.”

“I know. I just wanted to.” He feels heat on the back of his neck. “Is…is that okay?”

“It's more than okay.” Suddenly, he notices their eyes are puffy, like they were crying. “Goddamnit, get over here.”

He only registers what's about to happen for one second before they're hugging him. Their palms are on his back, and the top of their head tucks under his chin perfectly. He makes a small, surprised noise.

“I, I'm glad you like it.” He links his arms around them, allows himself to rest his chin on their head. With their face turned to the side, their ear's pressed up against his chest, and he's instantly struck with the paranoia that they're gonna hear his rapid heartbeat.

“I haven't even taken a bite yet, and I love it.” They lean back then, arms still wrapped around him and head craned upwards to look at him. It's far too intimate for what they are, and Carmy hates how his heart beats even harder. “Thank you for doing all this. Seriously. I…”

“The breakfast's just a side thing, I'm, um, still baking you a cake.”

“What? You're doing this and a cake?”

“Um,” Carmy repeats intelligently.

“Carmy. Carmy, Carmy, Carmy.” Their words ooze affection, but surely he's just imagining it. Their hands are crawling up his back. “God, I could just ki—”

“There's the timer,” Carmy blurts out, because his phone's ringing and so are his ears. At the sound, they let him go, and he grabs two towels to retrieve the two circular cake pans from the oven. A toothpick poked through the middle comes out clean, so he sets them on a wire rack to cool.

He needs to focus on the cakes. That's the most important thing.

“Oh my god.” They lean in close to the cake and take a deep breath. “Is this—”

“Devil's food cake, yeah.” The heat searing his face is surely from opening the oven.

“You—how did you—” Their smile is luminous with joy. “You really pay attention to every little thing, don't you?”

“Sometimes. When it counts.” He fidgets awkwardly, nails picking at the sides of his fingers. “Wanna eat by the window, or…?”

“Fuck yeah I do. Can you bring the plates over? I'll have the coffee over in just a second.”

Carmy sets up at their little table first, placing the plates just right across from one another. The morning sun casts a cozy glow through their speckled window, streaking planes of light across the floor. He patiently waits and watches them pace from the fridge to the counter, splashing cream into their mugs. Through the transparent glass, he watches the white fizzle into the dark coffee, blending into a warm brown.

“Just a tiny spoon of sugar for you, right?” They peek over their shoulder, catching his stare, and he nods. He's also not quite sure how they know that, either. They've had coffee in the morning maybe a handful of times before.

He supposes they also pay attention sometimes, when it counts.

“Alright, here we go.” They bring a mug in each hand and set them delicately down on the table. He notes that his coffee is the perfect color. “Oh, thanks for waiting. You didn't have to.”

“I, I guess so, yeah. It's just, uh, you always wait for me, so…”

“That's—that's true.” An odd tension sets in their face, but they laugh it off, and it disappears. “I guess I’m not used to it anymore.”

A part of him wants to ask further by what they meant by that, but they're already taking pictures of his food so dutifully. He doesn't want to ruin it, so he eats.

It's nice to have a solid breakfast for once. He had taken their advice from the other night and had been drinking milk with protein powder. It was nice not to feel like he was teetering the edge by lunch time, but truthfully, it was a bit unsavory. This breakfast platter is much more palatable. It also helps that his stomach pains aren't active today.

Time rolls by slowly this quiet morning, and Carmy recognizes the oddity of it immediately. It's clear to see when by this time, he's usually already done at least ten laps through the restaurant. An irritating signal in his brain is telling him that he needs to get up and do something, not sit around and eat, but for once, he doesn't want to listen.

A memory from roughly two weeks ago (or was it one week?) unearths all of sudden. He was up early, drinking shitty coffee and sinking into dissociation. Mornings were lonely, as he was usually the only one up, but not that day. His roommate came stumbling into the kitchen, awake from a restless night. They chatted before he had to head out, and he remembers wishing he had more time in the morning to spend with them.

He imagined a morning just like this one, with pajamas, food, and messy hair. He daydreamed about having all the time in the world, and he thought about getting to spend it all with them. Now he’s sitting in that moment he imagined, except that it’s real. They're across from him in their wrinkled pajamas and bedhead, contentedly mowing through their food. There's a smear of jam on the corner of their mouth. He takes a sip of his coffee, and it's perfect, just as they made it for him.

This amount of good should scare him, needs to scare him, but he just can't bring himself to care anymore. He wants more than nightmares, cigarettes, and floating just above the budget. He wants this.

He tastes his coffee and reminds himself that he’s still here. The moment hasn’t passed him by.

“Is it good?” He asks quietly. It’s a rhetorical question, it always is, but he can’t help himself. He wants to hear it from them.

“So. Fucking. Good.” They have to finish chewing before they answer. “You always knock it out of the park. If this is the prelude, I don’t know if I can handle what’s next,” they say, gesturing towards the cooling cake.

“It won’t be ready for a while yet. You have time to prepare yourself.” That makes them smile. All according to plan. “Got anything in mind for today?”

“Nothing glamorous. I was just gonna go out for a little. Go thrifting, maybe watch a movie later. Smoke a joint.” They shrug. “Just my usual sort of thing.”

“Mm.” He dusts off crumbs from the toast off his fingers on his pants. “Sounds like a good time. You still wanna go?”

“I do, yeah.” They stare at him for a moment, as if processing his words. Or just him. “Do you…wanna tag along, or…?”

Whenever they ask him if he wants to spend time together (whether it’s grocery shopping, smoking, or watching a show), they usually offer it with an air of nonchalance. Carmy’s assumed it’s been out of politeness, restraining their expression as to not put any pressure onto him. That’s the person he’s used to, not this uneasy anxiety, someone afraid to ask him to spend time with them.

It reminds him of himself in every way.

“I’d love to tag along,” he answers easily, just as they’ve always done for him. “I’ve got the whole day off, after all.”

“Right. ‘Course.” He watches their little smile double in size. “I promise to not make you watch me try on clothes for too long.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I like thrifting, y’know.” And you, he thinks to himself.

“You do? Oh, of course—” They make a contemplative noise to themself. “Vintage denim. I always wondered how you managed to have so many pairs.”

“Once you know where to look, they’re pretty easy to find. I can help you find some, if you want.”

“I’d love that. I realized the other day that I don’t have any dark wash jeans, so—actually, the truth is that I do have a pair, but they’re so fucked up and old that I never wear them anymore. Anyway, I need new jeans. Think you could find some dark wash blue jeans for me?”

“If you’re willing to hit up more than one store, then definitely,” he replies, just a smidge cocky.

“I’m willing to hit up even two more stores.” He pretends to gasp, to which they nod confidently. “Yeah. That’s right. Maybe even three.”

“We won’t need three,” Carmy promises. “I’m better than that. Probably won’t even need two, but…” He shrugs. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”

“Okay, Mr. Confident over here,” they tease. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

They head out after they both clean the kitchen and freshen up. Carmy gets the flour out of his hair and rewets his hair to revive some of his curls. He silently thanks his past self for showering the night before. With the passage of the morning cold and the rising sun, the afternoon weather’s become brisk and pleasant. However, the weather’s barely a factor in how he’s dressing.

Is this too much? Is this not enough? He’s switching shirts and pants in the mirror like he’s about to go on a date. He knows he’s not, swears to himself that he’s not, but he’s put product in his hair and cologne on his wrists and temples. It’s not a date, but he can’t fucking decide what to wear.

He sucks it up and settles on a gray sweater, light wash blue jeans, and white sneakers. From under his collar and at the bottom of his sweater peeks out a brown button up. It’s probably too much, but this is his sixth outfit change. He’s fed up with it and himself.

After adjusting the gold chain that got hidden under his collar, he steps out.

He finds them already waiting by the door in this thick knit cardigan and fitted plaid pants that makes his heart stutter. When they hear him approaching, their head snaps up from their phone, and their skin sparkles with touches of makeup.

“You look really nice.” He has no idea how he let that slip, but he’s more shocked that he didn’t stutter once.

“Ah, th—thank you,” they stammer, fingers fidgeting with the edge of their sleeve. He’s not sure if it's their makeup or their skin that’s doing the blushing. It’s nice to see them being the one tripping over their words for once. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”

“Oh. Um.” Handsome? It echoes in his head. He instantly feels self conscious. So much for being the more suave one for once. “Thanks, uh…I just didn’t wanna wear my work clothes,” he lies in an attempt to ease his embarrassment.

“I gotcha.” He’s glad they don’t challenge him on it. “Shall we head out?”

“Yeah. Where we headed first?”

They take the metro to their personal favorite shop a little up north. The metro’s surprisingly busy for a Thursday afternoon, but the crowd forces the two of them to be huddled next to each other. They’re both standing close to a pole by the window, each with one hand wrapped around the metal.

As passengers come and go, they step closer to him to move out of the way. Eventually it just gets to a point where they’re standing nearly pressed up against his chest. He tries not to dwell on how that makes him feel, but he can smell the fragrance they put on, and it’s very distracting.

Luckily, the ride is short. Any longer on the train, he might’ve put an arm around their shoulder, god forbid.

“If we can’t find what I’m looking for here, maybe you can show me one of your favorite spots to go thrifting,” they say as they enter the thrift store. The interior is decorated, clean, and lovely, and unlike the metro, it’s not packed to the brim with people. It smells faintly of incense, and there’s local art framed all over the walls for sale. It oozes warmth and excitement, much like them.

“There’s a ton of shit here, so maybe we won’t need to after all.” He finds himself intaking everything at once, eyes flickering from sign to sign. “I’ve never been here before. This is really cool.”

“It’s my favorite place to find new clothes.” They trail down the racks, finger flitting between clothes. “I hope you can find something you like here, too.”

“I’m sure I will.” He’s already walking to their denim section and immediately spots some contenders. “I think I already have.”

He’s not sure if they mean to spend hours in there, but he certainly does. There’s more than just clothes to look at, although that’s what takes up most of his time. There’s dishes, furniture, cds, vinyls, books, even electronics. He goes back and forth with them, clothing articles piling up in his arms as they sit on battered couches together and peruse scratched cds. Everywhere he looks, there’s just more, more, and more.

“Okay, I’ve gotta cut myself off,” they say as they leave the furniture section. They’ve sat on nearly every chair in that place. “I already have so many clothes to try on, and that’s not even including the jeans you’ve picked out for me.”

“If it helps, some of these are mine.” Carmy flips through the layers of hanging jeans that have built up on his forearm. “If you can believe it, I even found some stuff that isn’t denim.”

“I’m not sure if I can, but seeing is believing.” They thumb through some long-sleeves he’s carrying that are seeping out from under the jeans. “I’m just glad you were able to find some stuff for yourself, too. Not that I was that worried.”

He hands them the jeans he’s found for them, all dark wash and in their size. To his surprise, they also hand him an article of clothing for him to try on.

“I thought you’d look good in this. You’ll have to show me when you try it on,” they say, and it’s innocent, completely meaningless, but as soon as Carmy agrees and rushes to hide in the changing room, he views in the mirror and sees his flushed face.

Doesn’t mean anything, he repeats to himself, over and over and over. Stop getting in over your head.

He tries on his items of choice first. The first is a dark green henley that looked better on the rack than it did him, so he puts it in the reject pile. The second is a dark blue long sleeve that fits just right. It’s cheap, too, so it’s an automatic purchase. He presumes the way to word it is that it hugs him in all the right places, but he’s not sure. The rest are jeans, of which only one he decides to buy. A bit pricey, but for the brand and year, it’s worth it (although he basically always uses this reasoning with himself).

Now, for the piece of clothing they picked out for him. It’s a dark brown t-shirt that seems like it’s just the right length. It’s a muted, yet warm brown, a bit rosey in hue. He doesn’t realize it’s a v-neck until he gets it over his head and down his shoulders.

“I’ve never worn a v-neck before,” he calls out to the room next to him.

“Oh, are you trying it on? Do you like it?” Their slightly muffled voice calls back to him.

“Um…I’m not sure,” he admits with a shaky laugh. The collar is lower than he’s used to. It dips below his collarbones, and between them dangles his chain. “Should I show you?”

“Yes! Hold on, lemme get some pants on. …Okay, I’m stepping out!”

He hears their door open alongside his. When they see him, their expression snaps into what he believes is surprise and delight. He’s sure he looks somewhat the same.

They’re wearing one of the vintage jeans he picked out for them—dark blue Levi’s. Although they’re rolled up a couple times at the bottom, it seems to fit them just right. As he stares, he’s reminded of his many pairs of Levi’s, and it’s more or less like seeing them in his clothes, which is. Which is. Uh. Yeah.

“I knew that would suit you,” they say with a grin, to which he realizes he can’t hide his blush.

“It’s not weird?”

“Not at all. It looks good.” They tilt their head to the side as they openly look him over, hip cocked. Something in their gaze is making him hot. “No pressure to buy it, of course.”

“It’s different from what I’m used to, but…” He looks down, smooths the fabric with his palm. “It’s kinda nice, something like this. Um, and what do you think about the jeans?” He needs to direct the attention off him quickly.

“Oh, I love them. The others ended up fitting not quite right on me, but that’s how it goes.” They move from side to side, almost twirling. It’s cute. “I love these, though. Just a little long, but I’m used to it.”

“That’s how it always is. I can hem them for you, if you want. I usually hem mine.”

“And he sews,” they say, seemingly to themself, but they’re looking right at him. Embarrassing. “If you don’t mind, that’d be amazing. Either way, I’m probably getting them.”

“Good. You should. They fit well.”

“Yeah?” They glance back into their fitting room, likely examining themself in the mirror, and then back at him. “Okay, then. Definitely getting them.” With that and a cheeky grin, they go back into their dressing room to try on the rest of their clothes. Carmy follows suit, grateful to hide his embarrassed face.

Carmy heads to check out with the dark blue long sleeve, a pair of jeans, and the brown v-neck. They’ve decided on the pair of jeans they showed him earlier and a little purple tank-top he wishes he got to see on them.

“Will that be all for you today?” The cashier asks him as he checks out first. Even the cashiers here are pretty nice, he finds.

“Oh, their stuff, too.” He nods to them, who’s standing right next to him.

“Carmy.” They glare at him.

“What?” He feels himself smiling.

“You can’t do this to me.”

“C’mon.” He nudges them gently with his elbow. “It’s my present to you.”

“Oh, so the present wasn’t the breakfast? Or the cake? Or helping me pick these out?”

“Why can’t it be all of them?” He decides to stop this in its tracks and takes the clothes out of their hands, sliding it onto the counter. “Just these two, and that’ll be it.”

“Just you wait until your birthday hits,” they mutter darkly, shaking their head. “Just you wait.”

“I haven’t told you my birthday.” He pauses. “Right?”

“I’ll ask Richie.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re giving me no choice.”

“You could also just, I don't know, not ask—”

“I wouldn't have to if you didn't force my hand—”

“You guys are cute together,” the cashier comments with a smile, surely a harmless, meaningless thing, but it shuts the both of them up. Carmy can already feel the impact of it on his psyche, and he decides to tuck away the surging emotions to unpack later. At least, he'll try.

“You really didn't have to get those for me,” they tell him when they're exiting the store. “But I guess I should just be saying thank you. So…thank you.”

“Sure. I mean, it would've been better if it was wrapped and stuff, but…” He shrugs. “Had to get you a real present, not just food.”

“Not just food, my ass.” That makes him laugh. “It'll be nice to have something to remind me of this day, though. That's one of the nice parts of getting gifts. Everytime I wear these clothes, I'll think of you.”

“Good. Yeah, that's…good,” he finishes lamely. He nods like their words haven't flustered him, but he's sure they can tell. They laugh, and he can tell it's because of his reaction.

“I'm sorry that the cashier said that,” they say out of nowhere.

“Why're you apologizing? It's not your fault.” Any embarrassment he was feeling before is immediately replaced with a new, more potent sort of embarrassment. He was hoping they wouldn't mention it.

“I guess that's true. I don't know, I just…” They trail off. “Just hope it didn't upset you.”

“Not at all,” he lies, and he prays they believe it.

. . . . .

The metro is less crowded on the way home. They sit comfortably next to each other and watch the city pass them by. A part of Carmy mourns the closeness they had on the way there, but the other part tells him to get it together and keep his distance.

“I'mma take a nap,” they say with a yawn. Their cardigan and bag have been tossed onto the couch. The new clothes have been thrown into the laundry machine, and there's the muffled sound of running water. “Maybe we could smoke and watch a movie later, though.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” He peers into the fridge to check on the cake rounds. Just as he left them. “Have a good nap.”

“Thanks, Carm,” they reply sleepily. “Wouldn't be a good day if I didn't get to have a nice nap, after all.” With that, they shuffle into their room and shut the door behind them.

Carmy spends the next two hours flying around the apartment, baking, cooking, cleaning. The sun slowly sets as he goes. He keeps his body and hands moving in hopes that his head doesn't have a chance to catch up, but it manages to keep the pace. It always does.

The crumb coat's fucked up on the left, his first train of thought says. He inspects the surface, eyes following the circumference of the cake. There's a little loose crumb. With the edge of his spatula, he tucks the crumb away.

The faint smell of chocolate wafts up from the cold cake rounds. He's hunched over the kitchen island, hands reaching between dark chocolate frosting and cake. The afternoon sun casts harsh lights onto the cake, and it glistens. He genuinely can't remember the last time he's made a layered cake. He's never been much of a baker, anyhow.

You're going to disappoint them, his second train of thought interrupts, running parallel to the other one at full speed. Who do you think you are? You don't make cakes.

He leans back, inspects his work. The crumb coats are perfect.

Fuck off, he thinks back, triumphant. Look at that shit. He runs his finger along the spatula, picking up congealed crumbs and frosting. He licks it off, and it's delicious. And it tastes good, asshole. So shut the fuck up.

You're being a nuisance, the thoughts continue. Carmy's pops the crumb coats in the freezer for a quick set. They don't actually like any of this. They're just being nice to make you feel better.

They seemed happy to me, he thinks, but he's faltering. He's washing the dishes, and the sensation of the warm water feels distant. They loved the food I made.

Couldn't you tell they were lying? He doesn't understand why these thoughts are rampaging through his head now of all times. It's not unfamiliar, but it's inconvenient. Keep this up, and you'll actually be surprised when they drop you.

Without warning, a memory hits him . As his hands drip with soap, he's reminded of playing with Michael and Sugar in the summer when he was five. Or six, or seven, he's never quite sure. They were outdoors at a local park, and the heat made the metal of the playground searing hot to the touch.

He was blowing bubbles, and the sticky mixture from the bottle was getting all over his hands. In his memory, Carmy watches the way the iridescent bubbles floated away and left little circles on the surface of the plastic slide. He can't remember why he wasn't playing with the others. He can remember the sound of their laughing voices in the distance, gleeful and delighted without him. He thinks he tried to join in, but it didn't work. It often just didn't work, and it was all his fault.

The memory ends, and Carmy's finished washing the dishes.

This is working, he thinks to himself. His hands are dried out from the hot water and soap. I swear to you, it's working. So just stop. Okay?

There's no response. Good enough.

He hears the door opening as soon as he's putting the finishing touches on the cake. With a damp paper towel, he carefully swipes away stray drops of frosting that fell onto the cake stand. He thinks it's best described as if a tiramisu was turned into a devil's food cake. It's not the best cake he's ever made, but it's definitely up there in terms of looks. All the components of the cake tasted good separately, so he hopes it makes sense in his mouth as much as it did in his head.

“Have a nice nap?” He asks before he turns his head. They're standing in the hallway, bed hair hastily tied back.

“Sorta. It was okay.” Their eyes are glued onto the cake as they walk up to the island. “Is this…?”

“This is for you, yeah,” he finishes for them. They take a seat on one of the chairs at the island. “It's a, uh, devil's food cake with vanilla mascarpone cream on the inside. The outside's this coffee buttercream…” He trails off, not knowing what else to say. He could mention the dutch processed cocoa powder, the expensive vanilla bean pods, or the endless sifting, but it feels too gratuitous.

“Wow…” They're still staring, as if it's not quite real to them. “I can't believe this is for me. It almost looks too pretty to eat, but you know I can't wait to tear into this.”

“We could, uh, have it now, if you, if you want,” he says hesitantly.

“I don't know if I could wait.” Their smile grows wider. “You even put candles on it?”

“We don't have to light them or anything if you don't want to,” he adds quickly.

“The candles are the fun part. I don't mind that. The song is…okay I guess, but…” They give him an expectant, excited look. “Were you gonna sing for me?”

“...Only if you wanted to,” he mumbles, suddenly stricken with embarrassment.

“Would that be okay? If I wanted that?”

“I wouldn't mind.” Not if it's you.

“Okay. Then, yeah.” They pull out a lighter from their pocket. “I’d really like that.”

Carmy cuts the overhead lights before taking out his own lighter to help them light the rest of the candles. One by one, the dark room gradually illuminates until it's filled with a warm, orange glow. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows onto their smiling face and reflect into their glossy eyes.

“Ready?” He asks quietly.

“I'm ready,” they whisper.

Carmy doesn't really need to clear his throat, but he does so anyway. He can't recall the last time he sang happy birthday to anyone, let alone by himself. This is the first time he's ever sung in front of an audience, too.

I can do this, he thinks to himself. I can do this.

His voice is awkward and scratchy. He never uses it like this, has never sang for anyone in his life. His ears burn, and he hates the sound of his voice, but he reminds himself to focus on their delighted little smile and warm gaze. The room is far too quiet for his voice, making the words painfully clear.

“Happy birthday to you,” he finishes singing, voice trailing off awkwardly. He's more than ready to finish singing now. “Uh, make a wish…?”

“Right.” The two of them sit in the flickering candle light for a moment longer, the silence thick. Carmy watches their face, their eyes boring into the candles with an expression he can only describe as longing. Then, they blow out the candles with a decisive blow, and the room goes dark.

He moves to switch on the lights. When he turns back to look at them, tears are streaming down their face.

“Hey,” he says softly. He props his elbows on the counter, standing across from them and tilting his head to the side. They're not meeting his gaze, glazed eyes boring into the dripping candles. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry,” they whisper with a sniffle, and it sounds like a reflex. Something about them suddenly seems so much smaller. “I shouldn't be crying.”

“It's okay. I don't mind.” That makes them smile, even if it's shaky. “Was the singing too much?”

“No, it wasn't your singing,” they say with a laugh. “Your singing was lovely. It's just—I'm so happy. You made today so special.”

“Yeah?” He fights the urge to reach over and wipe their tears. “I'm glad. I wanted to make it good. I…” He hesitates. “...I didn't like the idea of you spending it alone.”

“I didn't either. And I thought I was going to have to be alone…but then you—then you took off work, and you made me breakfast, you went shopping with me—even got me clothes—and now this—” Another rush of tears gushes from their eyes, and they hastily wipe at it with their shirt.

“You've done way more for me. This is the least I could do.” Before he can stop himself, his hand is brushing hair out of their eyes. They freeze for a split second, eyes finally flickering up towards him. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It's okay,” they whisper back. “Um…” They let out a shaky sigh, the sort of trembling sound that happens after crying too much. “I feel like I should explain.”

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” he assures them quickly, “but I…I'd like to know. If that's okay.”

“I want you to know. I, I do.” They open their mouth to keep talking, but shaky breaths continue to stifle them. It's hard to watch.

“Breathe,” he reminds them, quietly. He visibly takes in a deep breath, silently encouraging them to breathe with him. They follow suit, closing their eyes and taking a slow breath. Tears slip silently from their eyes. Gradually, their breathing becomes less of a staccato, evening out into something much more manageable.

“Thank you,” they murmur. He nods. They already sound a lot calmer. “I'm not sure where to start. I…I suppose I'll start with today.” Another deep breath. “I didn’t get a call from my parents today.”

“Ah…” The first missing piece.

“I knew they weren’t going to. But a part of me still hoped…” They stop and shake their head. “It's the first year that it's been like this.”

“What happened?”

“Uh…I went no contact with my family about a year ago.” Another pained, hollow laugh. The second piece. “I didn't even really want to—it was a complicated, shitty situation. My parents were being their usual shitty selves, and I just wanted them to apologize. It was over such a small thing, and, and I just…I don't know. I thought maybe I could fix things.” He's never seen them with such a heavy expression, etched with such weariness. “I just wanted them to apologize to me, Carm. That's all I wanted. And then they cut me off cold.”

Their voice is trembling again, and the tears are falling faster. The collar of their shirt is dark with moisture. Carmy hates that he doesn't know what to say. He hates just staring at them, silent as he tries to find the words.

Suddenly, he thinks of Michael.

“Michael never let me work in the restaurant,” he tells them. “That's why I went to culinary school. A big part of it, anyway. He just cut me off, didn't let me in no matter what I did, and it was…” He makes a vague hand gesture. “I felt insane. I was so fucking angry. I couldn't understand him. And I'm not saying that's anything like what you've been through, but…” He looks into their watchful eyes. “I'm sorry. I think I'm trying to say that I, that I understand. A little.”

“I…I appreciate that.” They give him a small, wobbly smile. He adores their smile, but seeing it through their tears twists something painfully in his chest. “He would've been lucky to have you. You're an excellent chef.”

“I am now, anyway.” He sighs. “Your family's missing out on you, too. You're…” Say it. Just say it. “You're a really wonderful person. I can't imagine…”

I can't imagine anyone looking at you and not loving what they see, he thinks suddenly, and he instantly realizes he can't say it. He can barely even comprehend that he just thought it.

He can't process this right now. This isn't the time.

“I keep trying to wrap my head around it all, wondering what I did wrong, what I could've done better… Sometimes, the conclusion I arrive at is that I must have done something to deserve this. That I just, I don't know, that maybe I'm just this permanent fuck-up, and…” They run a tired hand over their wet face, through their hair. “My parents fucked me up real good, man.”

There's something familiar about their words, and Carmy realizes it's because it sounds like him. He would've never guessed that under their easy-going smiles was a reflection of himself. He recognizes himself in their self-deprecation, the bone-deep pain. There was always a sense of sympathetic connection between the two of them, but he had no idea. He had no idea how far deep the mutual experiences went.

A part of him still can't believe that this is the truth, that this is what lies at their core, but then he remembers. He thinks about the night they were throwing up into the toilet. They were sobbing, crying into his shoulder about how much they hate themself.

“You know you didn't deserve it. Right?” Carmy's not sure when they started leaning in so close to each other. He's looking at their wet eyelashes with startling clarity. “You did all you could.”

“You don't know that.” Their words are so soft-spoken, but it still catches him off guard. “You don't know what happened.”

“You—” Irritation prickles inside him, his instincts itching to snap back, but he doesn't. He sees himself in them, and he holds back. “You're right. I don't know what happened. But I know you.” The shock is on their face as clear as day. “At least, I think I do.”

“I want to think you do, too,” they whisper. “But this—this messy bullshit is also me. I wish it wasn't. I wish you didn't have to see all this. I…don't want you to…think any less of me.”

“I don't think there's anything you could do to make me think less of you.” He doesn't resist dragging his thumb across a stray tear on their cheek. To his surprise, they lean into his touch. “Y'know when I almost burned down the apartment?”

“Oh my god.” They smile, and he feels their grinning cheek against his palm. “Yeah. Is it crazy to say I remember it fondly?”

“A little bit.” They laugh. It's quiet, but it's real. “Remember that talk we had after?”

“I do. Why?”

“You're allowed to mess up on onions,” he says softly. “It won't push me away.”

They stare at him for what feels like a long time. Their eyes refill with tears, but they don't spill. With a clammy hand, they shakily place their hand on top of his hand that's still cradling their wet cheek.

“Fucking onions,” they say finally with a wet laugh. Fresh tears drip onto his thumb, and he wipes them away again. As many times as it takes. “God damnit, Carmy.”

“No one deserves to have shitty parents, let alone ones that walk out on them.” He thumbs away more tears. “You being an imperfect person like everyone else doesn't justify that.”

“There must be something more I could've done,” they whisper. “Something I did wrong.”

“Maybe. But they're your parents, not the other way around. It's not your fault.”

“I know. I know that. I do. There just has to be a reason, because—fuck—the truth would just be too fucked up.”

“...And that is?”

It takes a long, still minute before they can get their words out.

“...It’s—it's that—” Their cries are verging on sobs, increasingly more staggered and uncontrollable. “It's that s-some kids—are just—some kids have parents that will never—never love—”

They can't finish. Their sobs have overtaken their whole body. Their body's hunched over the counter, curled into themself. Carmy can't think of a time where he's ever seen them crying so hard.

Without another word, Carmy pulls them into a hug.

They cry for a long time. Through it all, fleeting condolences pass Carmy by in his head, but they all feel too cheap, too meaningless. So all he does is hold them tight, letting them grab onto his shirt and soak the fabric on his shoulder. It's all he feels he can really do.

After a while, the tide subsides. He feels them wilting in his arms, exhausted from sobbing so violently. He doesn't actually want to let them go, but their sniffling nose sounds like it's completely stopped up.

“I'm gonna get you some tissues, ok?” He says quietly. They make a quiet noise of acknowledgement, and they pull back. He snatches up a box of tissues from the coffee table. He places it in front of them before grabbing them a glass of water.

“Thank you,” they mumble, voice scratchy. Carmy stands and watches as they blow through several tissues. The water gets downed instantaneously.

“Better?”

“Yeah. A lot better.”

“Good.”

“...I think, deep down, I know I didn't deserve what happened. Or just having shitty parents in general.” They sigh. “It's just easier to think that I do. That I deserve it.”

“...Yeah.” That resonates with a part of him he's not quite ready to acknowledge. “You're one of the kindest people I've ever met,” he admits quietly. “If someone like you deserves a shitty hand in life, I'm fucked.”

“Carmy…” Their smile is small, but genuine. “Thank you. I want to be able to genuinely believe that, one day. I'm going to try.”

“I know. I get it.”

“I know you do.”

That makes both of them smile, even if it's bitter.

“Thanks for telling me. About everything.”

“No, thank you for listening. For just being there for me.” They prop their chin in their hands, their elbows resting on the counter. “Y'know, this past year, I've been trying to find a sense of joy in all this mess. Sometimes it just feels so far away, like…like any happiness is just impossible. But I think I've found it. Rather, I've already found it.”

“Yeah?” Carmy looks at them expectantly, but he never expected this—

“I found you,” they tell him.

“...” He immediately fixes his shocked expression. He's at a loss for words.

Me?

“I never found a chance to mention it, but…my parents are the reason I decided to live with you. That's why I wanted to be your roommate, even though we were strangers.” They shrug shyly. “My lease was up on my last place. I was gonna go home, but then all that stuff happened at the last minute, and…yeah. I needed to find a place to live.”

“Seriously?” They just nod. “Damn. Uh…Yeah, that's fucking crazy. I had no idea.”

“At the time, I was miserable. I kept thinking to myself, ‘I can't believe how shitty this situation is!’ Don't get me wrong, it was fucking awful, but…it led me to you, so…it wasn't really all that bad, in the end. I got lucky.”

Fucking hell, he thinks to himself. Fuck.

“If you hadn't roomed with me, I wouldn't have been able to come back home for my brother's restaurant,” he says, mostly because he's so embarrassed that he swears his whole body's red at this point. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. “I think I'm the lucky one.”

“Can't we both be lucky?”

“I guess we can. Just doesn't seem very realistic.”

“Little too late to say that. It's already real.”

“...There's no other shoe?”

“Not that I know of. I think the other shoe's already dropped for us a while ago. Surely there's no other shoes left?”

“I hope not. I don't know if I could take another one.”

“Me neither.”

“...”

“Do you…want to eat your cake now?”

“Fuck, oh my god—I completely forgot! Yes!”

Just as Carmy planned, the flavors go perfectly together. Even though he knew it was going to be delicious, when he takes the first bite of the cake, relief washes over him. They seem to be overjoyed, inhaling the cake at dangerous speeds.

“You're gonna hurt yourself if you eat that fast,” he observes, both amused and concerned.

“Can't talk. Need to eat this.” That makes him laugh so abruptly he nearly gets cake up his nose. “This is the best birthday cake I've ever had, both visually and taste-wise.”

“I'm glad. Like I said, I'm not really a baker, but…I make an alright cake.”

“You make a fantastic cake.” They’ve got a bit of frosting on the corner of their mouth. “It doesn't get much better than this—eating a cake made by you.”

“Because I'm a chef, you mean?”

“No, not that. Not just that, anyway,” they amend with a cheeky grin. “Because you're my best friend.”

You're my best friend.

…

I'm their best friend, he repeats to himself. I'm their best friend.

He thinks about crying. He won't cry, but he thinks about it.

“Oh,” he replies intelligently. “...Really?”

“Y-Yeah. Unless, uh, you don't—”

“You're my best friend too,” he blurts out, and the anxiety on their face fades away into a relieved, beautiful smile.

“Thank god. That would've been pretty awkward if you didn't…” They shake their head.

“I've never been anyone's best friend before,” he confesses.

“Seriously?” They recover from the shock quickly. “Lucky me, then.”

“I thought you established we were both the lucky ones.”

“Oh, right.” They chuckle. “Lucky both of us, then.”

Carmy thought that life would always be the same. He thought that he was fated to a routine of nausea and nightmares, never quite close enough to reach a rest point. He thought that he was okay with it being his fate, because he never knew anything else.

He thought that loneliness, cigarettes, and memories would be enough, because it always stays the same. Nothing ever changes.

Until them.

He thought he had outgrown happiness, that his body had grown accustomed to living without it. That there was no longer space in his heart to withstand the weight of joy. But as he sits here with his roommate, chatting and laughing over a cake he made for them, he finds that's not true.

His capacity for happiness had never left. It had been there all along.

And with that, something in him lets go.

Carmy sees it all at once. It starts from the beginning—he sees the first day he met them, an initially hesitant meeting gone surprisingly well. He sees the first time the two of them smoked together, deliriously laughing through shared smoke. He sees them in the mornings, messy hair and wrinkled t-shirts. He sees them in nothing but an apron. He sees them in tight black clothes that leave little to the imagination. He sees them laughing at a joke that he didn’t think was all that funny.

He sees them in his dreams, red tomato puree bleeding from their gums. He sees them holding his trembling hands in theirs, soothing him back down from the storm in his hand. He sees them comforting him through his tears. He sees them sobbing, hot tears on their cheek and his hand. He sees them heaving into the toilet, whispering that they want to know him. He sees himself, embracing them tightly in his arms.

He sees it all. He knows that he can't avoid it anymore.

Carmy is completely, undeniably in love with them, and there is absolutely nothing that he can do to make that realization disappear.

…Some things, he understands, refuse to stay the same.

@zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @carmenbrzatto @thehouseofevangelista

#carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear #jeremy allen white #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x you #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy the bear #the bear fx #my fics #alexithymia fic #GOD. IT'S FINALLY HERE. THIS ONE'S A BEAST.#ch 6 is gonna be the climax..... it's gonna happen yall. it's finally here. hahahaha #anyway this one took so long to write because it was so revealing for me... as i'm sure yall have guessed. sigh.

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