#also. maybe also part of him finds familiarity in the long hair that he doesn’t quite place

[autismjpg]

personal HC is that taako kept his hair mostly short during the stolen century (as his hair would reset every year anyways) but during the 12 years post stolen century he lets his hair grow and when Lup returns she’s like LMAO TRYNA COPY ME HUH? and berates him for like ever

[jobean12-blog]

After the Fall

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word Count: 6,399

Summary: Bucky is your first love...your first everything so when things fall apart in college over a stupid misunderstanding you’re completely heartbroken but manage to move on...that is until your past comes back in a way you least expect it. 

Author’s Note: When Bucky and reader are dating they are at least 18 and when they reconnect their age is up to you- but they are obviously adults. The type of jobs mentioned are also up to interpretation- it’s a business thing for sure but as far as details it’s up to you! I had this whole moodboard planned to show the progression from young Bucky to now but I suck at them so instead I stuck some pictures in the middle of the fic to give you an idea :) And the first pic is what he looks like now hehe 🥵Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Dividers by the sweet @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: some angsty parts over past events, both Bucky and reader have lots of feels, there’s soft fluff and sweetness, i-m-pl-ie-d s-e-x-y times, f-in-g-er-in-g, some light d-i-rt-y ta-lk, Bucky is delicious of course lol 

You pace your apartment and try not to fiddle with your outfit any more than you already have. It’s only seven thirty am and you’ve been up since six. You still have an hour and a half before you have to meet with Steve for your first official day of work.

Maybe you should leave now…New York City public transportation can never be trusted. The office building is only a fifteen-minute train ride but just to be sure…

Twenty-five minutes later you find yourself sitting in the lobby of the large building, your face to your phone and your foot bouncing rapidly. Several people walk by and you barely notice them, keeping an eye on the time and carefully sipping your drink.

But then you hear heavy footsteps and a hushed voice, one that sounds almost familiar and just as you look up you catch the retreating back of a tall man, broad shouldered and with long dark hair neatly tied into a bun at the base of his neck.

You stare until he disappears inside the elevator, your whole-body tingling with awareness. Could it be your past has finally caught up with you after all this time? Or is it just the constant lingering feeling of what you never truly got over?

Just a coincidence. It has to be.

After several blinks you check your phone again and decide it’s time to head up to Steve’s office.

The receptionist outside his office greets you warmly before picking up the phone and letting Steve know you’re here.

You knock, even though you don’t have to, and wait until you hear Steve call you inside. When you open the door you notice he’s quietly speaking to someone and due to your sudden onset of nerves it doesn’t register that it’s the same man from earlier until he turns around and his ocean blue eyes meet yours.

Eyes you know. Eyes you had fell in love with a long time ago.

Your stomach plummets to your toes and you must look like a deer caught in headlights because Steve stands suddenly and rounds his desk.

“Are you ok?” Steve asks but your eyes are still glued to Bucky.

Steve calls your name and you finally look at him and swallow hard with a nod but your eyes flicker back to Bucky when he starts to move toward the door.

Bucky says something to Steve that you don’t register and already has one foot out the door before Steve stops him.

“Hey Buck, wait a second. I want to introduce you to our new executive assistant.”

Bucky stops short, still facing the hallway and slowly turns, plastering a fake smile on his face.

Steve gives him your name and you hold out a shaky hand.

The moment his skin touches yours you feel him over every inch of your body and a flood of memories assaults you, leaving you almost speechless.

“Bucky is my partner,” Steve says proudly.

You manage a small hello and quickly pull your hand back. Bucky looks away, nodding to Steve before leaving the office.

Steve’s eyebrows are drawn in with concern as he moves his gaze back to you.

“That was weird,” he mutters, studying you and you think he’s waiting for an explanation.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted anything,” you say softly.

“Not at all,” Steve answers with a warm smile. “Now come and sit. Let’s get you set up for your first day.”

You visibly relax and take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you’ve worked hard to get this position and you won’t let anything, not even your first boyfriend, your first love…your first everything, get in your way.

Thankfully the rest of your first day goes smoothly with no sign of Bucky and you have enough work to keep your brain busy and focused.

It’s when you get home, toe your heels off and fall onto the couch that the day catches up with you, breaking like a wave against the rocks and you sink deeper into the cushions with a groan.

Your cell rings, pulling your from your thoughts.

“Hey Nat,” you say tiredly as you greet your best friend.

“HOW WAS THE FIRST DAY?” she says, far too loudly.

You wince but a small smile pulls at your lips.

“It was great. Steve is so sweet and I was busy all day but kicked ass.”

“I knew it,” she says. “But I get the sense there’s more…”

She waits, always patient and far too perceptive.

“What do you mean more?” you ask, trying to sound easy and breezy.

“Babe,” she admonishes. “I can hear it in your voice.”

When you don’t elaborate she says, “I’m here and ready to listen when you want to talk.”

Her kind words are all you need to hear before you sigh heavily and blurt out, “Bucky works at the firm. He’s Steve’s partner.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Nat?”

“Wow,” is all she says.

“I know.”

“Are you ok?” she asks, her voice tentative.

“I will be,” you answer, closing your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Dare I ask…how did he look? It’s been so long!”

The image of him flashes in your mind but it’s blurry and mixed with the younger version of him you know from your past.

“Honestly, I don’t even know. I barely registered more than his eyes. I was in shock.”

“Understandable,” she says. “Want me to come over?”

“No but thank you. I’m just going to take a bath and go to bed. I have the rest of the week to get through.”

“Ok babe. Call me if you need me.”

“I will, thank you again.”

Once you have a warm bath running, bubbles dancing along the surface and the calming scent of lavender filling the space, you sink under the water, hoping to wash away the day and maybe even some of the past.

The phone at your desk rings and you answer with your well-practiced greeting, smiling when you hear Steve’s voice. He lets you know he’ll be out of the building most of the day, handling some meetings downtown and that Bucky will be here should you need anything.

You hang up and square your shoulders, refocusing on your computer screen and doing your best to push Bucky to the back of your mind.

It works until an hour before lunch when you get a notification for a meeting. The e-mail doesn’t give you many details, just a time and place to be. Silently praying it has nothing to do with Bucky you gather your lap top and bag and make your way to the top floor.

The office door is closed but you can hear voices and when you knock and hear Bucky say, “come in,” you instantly tense up.

He repeats the words and you finally find the strength to push open the door.  

Three sets of eyes turn your way, only one of them familiar. The other two men openly admire you and you have to force yourself not to sneer at them.

Bucky must notice because he says, “gentleman if you don’t mind we have business to conduct.” His words are firm but harsh and the two other men clear their throats and look away to absentmindedly fix their ties.

You step inside, shutting the door behind you and sitting at the small conference table.

A shadow appears over you and you look up to meet Bucky’s eyes.

“I need you to take minutes for the meeting and…”

The rest of his words fade away as you finally take a moment to get a good look at him. His voice is deeper now, his suit filled out with muscles he didn’t have when you were younger and his hair…his hair is long enough to brush his shoulders.

His presence is overwhelming, sending shockwaves through every nerve in your body and making them buzz with memories.

“You still with me?” Bucky asks, a cocky smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.

You nod and look down at your computer.

The meeting lasts about an hour and you do your job perfectly regardless of the fact that your heart is in your throat and your stomach is in knots.

“Thanks gentleman,” Bucky says as the two men get up to leave.

They both glance your way again with matching smiles and one of them opens his mouth to speak but Bucky quickly interjects.

“Meetings over.”

They leave without another word and you and Bucky are alone in his office.

You can feel his eyes on you and when you look up at him his jaw is clenching and his eyes are hard.

“Small world, huh?.”

He grunts, which you take as an agreement.

“I didn’t know you were Steve’s partner,” you start, inwardly berating yourself for the quiver in your voice. “This was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”

“I can tell you know what you’re doing,” he says, leaning over the table. “This is all strictly professional.”  

“Right,” you agree.

He stares for a moment longer then dips his chin before saying, “I’m going to lunch. You can see yourself out.”

You’re left staring blankly at the empty space he just occupied, the silence he left behind deafening and filled with so many unspoken words.

“Better day today?” Nat asks, this time from the couch beside you.

“I sat in on a meeting Bucky was conducting.”

“Oo,” she says, pouring you more wine.

“He looks so good Nat. Even better than before and I didn’t think that was possible…his hair is long now.”

She lifts her eyebrow and smirks. “Better huh? Well, he must be losing his mind over you.”

You smile at her in thanks but shrug. “He couldn’t have left his office quicker if I had set him on fire,” you joke.

“Are you ever going to talk about what happened?” she asks, eyeing you from over the rim of her glass.

“What’s there to talk about? We were young. When we talked about going to different schools he made it sound so easy. We’d visit every weekend. Be together every break and talk every day on the phone. But then…things just happened.”

“What things?” she asks gently.

“I kept hearing from other friends that he was studying,” and you make air quotes with the word, “with some girl named Sharon from this classes. I never asked about it because I trusted him but then we both got busier and we had less time…he seemed distant, or maybe it was just me. Things started to fall apart. Then I met Matt…”

She smiles wryly at the mention of your ex.

“More wine please,” you say with huff.

The next two days go by without a hitch. Steve seems very pleased with your work so far and you start to settle into your role well.

However, things fall apart again when Friday rolls around and you’re standing in the hallway speaking to one of the gentleman, Brad, from the meeting earlier in the week. He found you on your way to the staff room and practically cornered you to introduce himself.

“So, you should come out with us tonight. It’s a good way to end the week,” Brad says.

He leans closer to you, into your personal space, and you take a step back just as Bucky rounds the corner.

Your back meets his chest and you lunge forward but you never get far because Bucky’s hands wrap around your waist and he hauls you back to him.

“Woah,” you say, freezing at the feel of his hands on you.

Brad laughs but it quickly fades when he sees the murderous look on Bucky’s face.

“What’s going on here?” Bucky asks. “Don’t you two have work to get done.”

Your mouth drops open with a sassy retort but Brad beats you to it.

“We just met in the hallway and I was inviting her to drinks tonight,” Brad says lightly.

Bucky turns his eyes to you. “I was just going to grab my lunch. It’s my break.”

Your tone is defensive and you lift your chin defiantly.

“That might not be the best idea,” Bucky starts, turning back to Brad with a smirk. “She’s a lightweight….one too many drinks and she might be…”

“Don’t finish that sentence Barnes,” you spit out.

Both Bucky and Brad look taken aback then Brad breaks the awkward stare down between you and Bucky with a question.

“Do you two know each other?”

Bucky keeps his eyes on you when he answers with, “will you excuse us Brad. We need a minute alone.”

Brad looks between the two of you. “Ok, no problem.” But before he walks away he says to you, “hope to see you tonight.”

Bucky glares at Brad’s back then gently takes your arm and hauls you down to the nearest office. He opens the door and ushers you inside.

“What is your problem?” you ask before he even shuts the door.

“Why were you talking to Brad?” he asks.

You groan and fist your hands at your sides.

“It’s just like he said. We met in the hallway and he asked me to come out for drinks tonight!”

Bucky grunts.

“What is it with all the grunting? And I can’t believe you were about to make some shitty comment about my drinking!”

His shoulders sag and his eyes soften slightly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that but….”

He growls and turns away from you.

“But you broke my heart doll!”

When he finally turns back your way there are tears shining in your eyes. At his words, at the use of the endearment he saved only for you and at the way he looks once again, like the boy you fell in love with all those years ago.

“Yeah, well…you broke mine too,” you whisper as you look down at your feet.

You stand there in silence for what feels like forever before quietly saying. “We have to work together now. We can’t let our history be a problem. I want this job. I’ve worked hard for it.”

He scoffs and meets your gaze.

“Friends?” you ask, holding out your hand.

He stares at your outstretched hand but doesn’t’ take it as he steps incrementally closer.

“History?” Is that what you’re calling it?”

His voice is a growl, low and powerful.

“Bucky,” you try again.

“No doll. I can’t do friends with you. I know what you taste like when you come screaming my name.”

The memories wash over you, making your skin heat and your head dizzy. You’re reeling between feeling aroused and ashamed and angry.

“I’m not friends with people who give up on everything and bail for something new and shiny.”

His words hurt, hitting right where he wants them but you gather your strength and remind yourself that you’re here because you should be and what happened between you and Bucky has nothing to do with it.

“Seriously? It was so long ago, Bucky. Something tells me you haven’t been locked away and pining for me all this time.”

Your eyes slowly devour every inch of him. “No, I think you’ve been just fine without me.”

“See something you like doll face?” he murmurs.

He stands up straight and tall, crossing his arms over his chest and causing the fabric of his suit jacket to pull tightly at his bulging biceps and his long legs are spread wide as he smiles sardonically.

You can’t stop your gasp before it passes your lips. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” he mocks.

You don’t want to answer his question because it’s true. You do like it. More than you want to admit.

His long hair curls at his shoulders, neatly styled and framing a sharp jawline that’s lined with dark scruff, some spots even peppered with gray. His full lips are soft and kissable and his hands…you know what those hands are capable of.  Long fingers that are now adorned with rings, the shining gold glinting under the bright lights of the office and drawing your attention, spread wide over his arms.

It’s suffocating but you can’t stop your blatant perusal.

Your eyes drop to his long legs and what’s between them, his suit pants straining against what’s behind his zipper, the thick cock that stretched you for the first time.  

His smile is filled with arrogance as it widens into a grin and his gaze sears you, rooting you in place as he leisurely looks his fill.

“I certainly like what I see,” he says, licking his lips. “But none of that matters any more, right? Old news.”

“I won’t let you ruin this opportunity for me,” you tell him, willing your voice to stay even. “And I know Steve suspected something was up when I walked in the first day so don’t…”

“I already told Steve we have a past but don’t worry I didn’t tell him all the shitty details,” Bucky retorts. “Your secret is safe with me.”

He stands there with an expectant look on his face.

“Are you waiting for a thank you!” you almost shout. “I can’t believe it.”

You see his mouth opening to interrupt you, but you hold up a staying hand.

“Let’s just agree to be professional so we can do our jobs.”

You take a step around him but he blocks your way, his body large and imposing in the small space and when he leans down, his breath tickling your ear, and whispers, “I’ll see you on Monday then,” an involuntary shiver shoots down your spine.

He meets your eyes, his own sparkling with the same desire you know is in yours then reaches around you to open the door.

With a rush you shoot down the hallway and back to your office, silently praying no one caught you coming out of the room.

Once you’re safely inside with the door shut, you lean against it and finally let out a shuddering breath, swiping at your eyes.  

“I’m exhausted,” you explain to Nat after telling her about the events of the day.  “Even if I had wanted to go I would be asleep on the bar in minutes.”

“Well, just don’t let him dictate your social life. You have every right to go out and relax with coworkers. Especially cute ones. And you know I’ll come with you if you want.”

Nat’s words bring a smile to your face. “Thank you. Let’s just hope I can make it through next week.”

Later that night, after trying and failing to find something to watch that will keep your attention you crawl into bed and dream.

Your laid back on his bed as his stubble scratches along the sensitive skin of your neck and his whispered words reach your ears.

“You want my cock doll?”

You moan out his name, arching beneath him.

“Tell me.”

“Yes, yes I want your cock Bucky,” you purr.

His chuckle vibrates along your stomach as he moves lower. “Just need a taste first.”

“Please,” you beg just before his tongue flicks over your clit.

You push your hips into his face and he growls in approval.

“More,” you demand, and he obliges as one thick finger teases your opening.

You wake up just before he fills you, panting and disoriented. Looking around your dark room you can barely remember where you are. Or when. The past mixing with the present and creating something dangerous.

Your arousal is evident in the stickiness of your panties and you squeeze your thighs together in search of some relief. You sit up and take a sip of water from the glass on your nightstand, wishing it would quench more than your thirst. You consider finishing yourself off, it won’t take much, and he’ll never know, but you will.

Monday morning arrives faster than you’d like and you find yourself dragging your heels, literally, into the office.

You see Bucky in a meeting later that day and you notice him glancing your way several times, words and thoughts and emotions crossing over his face but you can’t decipher them.

The problem is you feel the same way. Confused and unsure…well maybe not unsure about everything. You definitely want him but that’s a line you know you shouldn’t cross, especially after the harsh words you exchanged last week.

The meeting ends and so does the day. And the next and the next until it’s Friday. It’s past five pm and you’re still in your office working on something for Steve. He pops his head in and tells you to leave but you wave him off and explain you’d rather get it done now and relax this weekend. He bids you goodbye once you promise not to stay too late.

You’re in the middle of a thought when the door opens again and without looking up you say, “don’t worry Steve, I should only be another hour then I promise I’ll go home.”

“Another hour and it will be dinner time.”

You look up at the sound of Bucky’s voice, your eyes wide and your lips lightly spread with surprise.

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “Thought you were Steve.”

He smiles and for the first time you can tell it reaches his eyes.

“I’m going to be done at about the same time…dinner?”

You stare at him, not sure if you heard him right.

“Unless you had other plans toni…”

“No,” you interrupt. “I don’t and uh dinner sounds good. I’m starving actually.”

“Great, then I’ll see you in an hour. There’s this little noodle place we can walk to from here.”

You smile gratefully, waiting until the door shuts behind him to let out a whoosh of air.

“I don’t see a table,” you say as you look around Bucky into the restaurant.

He grabs your hand and you ignore the tingles that shoot up your arm as he drags you through the place. In the back corner, there’s a lone table, small but empty.

He holds his arm out, gesturing for you to sit. “I usually come hide in the back here if I have work to do but need food,” he explains.

You sit and he follows, plopping down across from you. The table’s so small that his knees bump yours underneath.

“Ow,” you hiss.

“Shit, sorry doll,” he mumbles as he moves his chair, bringing him closer to your side.

“I forgot how big your are.”

Your eyes go wide as you hear your own words come out of your mouth.

“Man doll face, you sure know how to hurt a guy’s feelings.”

His tone is light and teasing but you look down, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as you fidget with your hands and try not to remember exactly how big he really is.

Thankfully the waitress stops by to ask for your drink order. Once you tell her what you want you sit quietly and peek over at Bucky.

He looks nervous and for some reason it makes you feel better.

You both start to speak at the same time then laugh over your jumbled words.

“Go ahead doll,” he says.

“I was going to remind you of how much we used to talk. Remember all those nights we stayed up late either on the phone or hanging out in our favorite spot on the roof.”

His eyes sparkle at the thought. “Of course I remember. There never seemed to be enough time.”

The waitress reappears with your drinks and sets them down.

“Still like that whiskey huh?” Bucky teases. “I remember the first time you tried whiskey.”

“Oh gosh, I try not to,” you groan.

He suddenly looks sad. “I’m sorry about that comment last week…about the drinking. And about most of what I said. It was harsh. It’s just. This is hard,” and he gestures between the two of you.

“I get it. Believe me.”

“What happened to us?” you say after taking a sip of your drink.

“So much,” he responds. “But I feel…”

His words are interrupted when the waitress appears with your food. You take a few bites, focusing on chewing and swallowing as you muster up the courage to say the next words.

“I never gave up on us,” you start, your voice pained. “I never bailed…I heard so many things…people were talking.”

“What did you hear?” he asks, his fork held tightly between his fingers. “What are you talking about?”

“People were telling me you were with Sharon all the time…studying…and I wasn’t sure what else. You pulled back, we talked less…I don’t know it just didn’t feel the same. I was losing you.”

“Losing me?!” he says, far too loudly for the space. He squeezes his eyes shut then continues, his voiced hushed but still angry. “I was just trying to keep my grades up. I was struggling. I missed you so much and I couldn’t handle it. My grades slipped and the idea of you thinking I was a failure was too much on top of everything else. Sharon was just helping me. Nothing ever happened between us.”

You stare at him, your eyes glassy as they fill with unshed tears. “I don’t understand. When I asked you to come visit so we could talk…you…you were so hesitant, I thought it was because you were going to break up with me and then…you never showed.”

“I did. I did show,” he says quietly. “But you were with Matt.”

“What?” you gasp. “When? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“I was too ashamed. I figured you had moved on to someone better, someone who was able to keep their shit together and I didn’t want to mess that up for you.”

“Bucky,” you whisper. “I wasn’t with Matt. We were just friends.”

“But it didn’t stay that way,” he says, his tone accusatory.

“No. But that wasn’t until I knew it was over for us. I was completely heartbroken and it never worked out with Matt. He couldn’t get over the fact that I was still in love with you.”

That knocks the wind out of him and the two of you sit there, staring and uncertain.

He abruptly stands, knocking into the table. “Come on, let’s dance.”

“What?” you screech as he grabs your hand. “There isn’t even any music. This is a restaurant!?”

You don’t fight him as he tugs you away from the table and to the other side of the small room and when you spot the jukebox you can’t help the smile forming on your lips.

“I should have known you’d take me to a place with one of these,” you laugh.

He looks over his shoulder and winks before he starts scrolling through the songs. He stops on one but you can’t see the name then presses a few more buttons before he takes your hand again and pulls you to him.

The music starts and you almost stumble into him, recognizing the melody immediately.

“Your favorite,” he says quietly, drinking you in with his eyes.

You sway together and he spins you slowly, his hand teasing along your lower back. He takes your hand and lays your palm against his chest as you move back and forth. It’s not really dancing, more like you’re pressed together, shifting on your feet.

When you move your fingers across his chest you feel his sharp intake of breath. Your eyes trace the movements as your hand spans his broad chest then grazes over the gold chain peeking out from the open buttons of his shirt.  

“I like all this,” you say quietly, pressing the chain into his skin before you glance at the rings on his fingers.

“Glad to hear it doll,” he rumbles, looking far too pleased.

Your hand slides to his bicep and he flexes, smirking when you look up at him through your lashes.

“When do you have time to work out?” you whisper into the small space between you as your gaze wanders over his arms.

“Early in the morning,” he answers. “And you should see the rest of me.”

Need rumbles through his voice and you look up to meet his eyes.

“Bucky…”

He kisses you before you can finish the thought, stealing your breath. You freeze for a single heartbeat and then kiss him back with everything you have.

“Fuck doll.”

He wraps his arms around you tighter, pulling you against him and you lean into him willingly, a moan vibrating through you. His hand slips around to cup your throat, his thumb brushing over your jaw as he tilts your head back, deepening the kiss.

The music stops and you hear a few catcalls from some random guys at another table. It breaks the spell and you take a step back.

You start to panic and he can tell, his hands tightening at your waist.

“Doll…”

“No, we can’t.”

“Yes we fucking can,” he answers back. “We’re adults and we can do whatever the fuck we want. And make no mistake,” he continues, grasping your chin between his thick fingers to force your eyes to his, “I want you.”

You audibly swallow and sway into him. He holds you close, his eyes wandering over your face expectantly.

“I just…I panicked. I need a minute,” you admit.

He visibly relaxes and slides his knuckles along your curves to find your hand before taking it in his and pulling you toward the door.

“Where are we going?” you ask once you’re outside.

“I’m walking you home,” he says quietly, not letting go of your hand. “Just like when we were kids.”

You smile and press closer to him, loving the feel of his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The walk is mostly silent as your mind races to find the right words. You want this. Want him. But is it too much too quickly? It’s been so long but even so your body remembers him, has his touch memorized and seared into your skin and your heart…your heart has been full of him since the day you met.

When you reach your apartment building you stop. “This is me.”

He waits patiently for you to speak but when you don’t he asks, “so now what?”

“I want this. You. Us. I never stopped wanting it,” you confess. “But we’ve both hurt each other and I think we need to take it slow.”

“I’ll do whatever you want if it means you’re willing to give this a chance,” he answers. “But I can’t promise I’ll behave…I’ve been dreaming about being inside you for far too long and my hand just ain’t cutting it doll.”

You bite your lip, desire written all over your face even as you try to shoot him an admonishing glare.  

“But we’ll start with a date,” he says softly. “And I know just where I’m gonna take you.”

With a small nod you lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth, your lips lingering on the taste of his skin before you pull away and move from his embrace.

“Tomorrow?” he asks. “Or too soon?”

“Tomorrow,” you repeat.

“HE KISSED YOU?” Nat screeches and you have to move the phone away.

You’re nodding before you realize she can’t see you.

“Yes, right there in the middle of the noodle place.”

“Well?”

“Well what?” you ask.

“How was it?”

You sigh almost dreamily. “Better than I remember which I didn’t think was possible.”

“And you’re sure you’re ok with this?”

“I’m feeling so much but the thing I’m feeling most is the fact that I want him. I’m hoping it’s more than a physical thing. It feels more than that because to be completely honest I never stopped loving him.”

“I’m glad you’re giving this a chance,” Nat says. “Just go at a pace that makes you comfortable.”

“So I should have sex with him tomorrow…? Because I’m perfectly comfortable.”

You can hear Nat’s snicker. “Girl, if you do I better get every dirty detail.”

You giggle and cover your mouth, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

“Just keep them closed ok?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and hold tightly to his hand, stepping on the backs of his feet several times as he leads you to your date spot.

“Sorry Buck,” you laugh.

“It’s ok doll, just another few steps.”

You hear something metal creak open and then a blast of cool air hits your face.  He throws his arm around your shoulder and tucks you into his side.

“Ok, open your eyes.”

You’re met with a scene that takes your breath away. It’s both familiar and new, the old roof top a space you frequented when you were younger but now it’s been brought to life in a whole new way.

Soft string lights hang from a make shift canopy where underneath you see a small chaise lounge that’s covered in a plush blanket and cocooned by fluffy pillows.

“Oh Bucky,” you gush. “You did all this?”

He smiles and kisses your forehead. “I remember how much you loved it up here.”

“It’s beautiful. All of it.”

“I have one last thing to show you. C’mere.”

He pulls you along with him and pauses near the old fire escape.

“Close your eyes,” he orders again, slipping his hands over them from behind.

You laugh and reach up to hold his wrists, fiddling with the gold bracelet that dangles loosely there. “What are you doing?”

“This,” he whispers along the shell of your ear.

He moves his hands from your eyes and you gasp and cover your mouth, but then reach out, tracing one finger over the etched lines in the metal.

Your initials are carved neatly into the rusted metal, still standing out against the weathered material after all this time.

You spin in his arms, your eyes falling to his lips just as you lick your own, his eyes tracking the movement.

“Thank you Bucky.”

And then you kiss him. He grabs your face gently between his large hands, nipping at your lower lip and you open for him without hesitation. You press into him and he slides his hands down your back, brushing his thumbs over the sides of your breasts.

You whimper his name, moving your lips to his neck to trace down the muscular column.

“Fuck,” he groans as he walks you back toward the chaise lounge. With a spin he sits down and pulls you into his lap, your thighs on either side of his.

You pull back, your eyes bright and your lips swollen.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”  

Your whispered thanks gets lost in the moment as he dips his head and drags his nose along your skin, inhaling softly.

“Whatever you want doll. Anything, nothing. Say the word and it’s yours.”

His words are rough even as his hands move delicately to caress your body.

You lean forward, softly kissing along his jawline toward his ear, your breath fanning his skin when he squeezes your ass.

“Touch me.”

“Touch you where doll? You want me to fill you with my fingers?” You want my mouth. I’ll lick up every last drop of whatever you wanna give me.”

You tremble in his arms, tugging at the button down that hangs loosely over his shoulders, your fingers splaying over his exposed skin as he shrugs it off. You rake your nails over his tight white tank, desperate for more of him but instead he tucks his fingers under your shirt and pulls it up and off.

His large hand covers your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple through your bra and you arch your back, pushing your chest into his face.

Your hips rock, rubbing up and down over the hard ridge of his cock.

“I’m gonna come in my pants if you don’t stop that baby doll.”

You don’t stop. Can’t. And when his fingers pop open the button of your pants you grind down even harder, needing more.

His fingers move lower and he hisses at the softness of your skin before he finds you soaked and ready for him.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “More.”

“Right here?” he teases, lightly brushing his finger over your clit.

He spreads your juices all over you, coating his fingers and your skin until you’re completely wild for him, writhing as you try to fuck his hand.

Two thick fingers sink inside you, his rings hitting your skin as he meets every one of your thrusts, going faster and harder when you mewl for more with every stroke.

“Bucky. I’m gonna come,” you warn.

“Come for me doll. Come all over my fingers. Squeeze me tight.”

His words send you careening over the edge and you cry out his name but he doesn’t stop the slow pumping of his fingers, drawing out every last bit of your pleasure.

You collapse against him, your head laying along his shoulder. His skin is warm and soft beneath your cheek and you can’t help but press your lips there. You spasm on his fingers once more before he slowly pulls them free and brings them between you, staring at the glistening proof of what he does to you.

With a predatory gleam in his eyes he holds you gaze and pushes his fingers into his mouth, licking them clean one by one.

“Fuck doll, you’re so sweet. I almost forgot how good you taste.”

You turn your face to his as your fingers tip toe down his chest, catching on the gold chain that rests against his warm skin, before moving lower.

“What about you?”

He rests his hands over yours, stopping you from undoing the button of his jeans.

“Not yet baby doll. I want to at least give you a real date first.”

“Are you being all gentlemanly now?” you pout. “We’ve had sex up here before.”

“I’ll fuck this pussy anywhere and anytime you’ll let me, but you want to go slow and this is more than just fucking. It always has been. When I get back inside you, it’ll be because we’ve worked through all this shit for good, all the shit that never should have gotten in our way. And there won’t be any going back. You’ll be mine again.”

Even though you always have been.

@sstan-hoe @lookiamtrying @hallecarey1 @kmc1989 @blackwidownat2814 @buckysdollforlife @late-to-the-party-81 @randomfandompenguin @hiddles-rose @sebstanwhore @book-dragon-13 @littleseasiren @justkinsey​ @beccablogsthings​ @laineyreads​

[foli-vora]

without you, part 2

matt murdock x f!reader

A/N: hey the title rhymes. Hi angels! Part 2 is finally here, by heavy demand! And uh... for those who thought I was gonna fix everything with this part?? No, I'm here to make it worse! Woo! (Don't hate me, I did warn you lmao). So, enjoy the angst! Hope it's worth the wait x

Summary: continuing on from Part 1 - You return after the ‘blip’. Five years is a long time, and a lot of things can happen in that time. Where does that leave you now?

Word count: somewhere in the 2.7k zone idk

Warnings: ANGST. Angst squared, if you will. Broken hearts everywhere. Broken hearted reader. Broken hearted Matty. A brief broken hearted Frank coming in for the rescue. Not a happy ending. Mentions of divorce and the religious thoughts surrounding that, the Blip and the devastation it would've caused, break ups, brief jealousy, heavy denial, anxiety, lots of crying and I just want to hold onto him forever & ever. This is unedited coz I'm lazy and like to just throw things out into the void and die like a warrior.

There’s a vicious, relentless pounding behind your temples when you finally begin to feel the darkness pulling at your mind recede. With the constant stab of pain, everything returns—the apparent lost time, the strange new world that had grown during your absence, the relationships that had also changed during those five years.

Five whole years.

It might as well have been an eternity.

Your whole life, everything you knew—gone. It doesn’t seem real, it’s just not possible, and yet here you are. Here you are in a world that still feels so familiar, and sickeningly not. Your thoughts are a vicious storm in your mind, merely intensifying the throb running along your forehead. Your system flutters between confusion, denial, mourning.

It’s enough to make you want to simply fall back into the blissful void of unconsciousness, until—

“Sweetheart?”

Matt. 

Your heart still jumps at his gentle rasp, a part of you longing to just soften into his hold and cling to him like you’d done so many times before, but you can’t. He’s not—he’s not your Matt. Not anymore. 

It’s hard to pull away from the fingers tracing your cheek, and when you open your eyes, they wince from the light shining through the large windows. He’s knelt on the floor beside you, a frown of concern creasing his brows as you slowly shift on weak limbs until you’re sitting upright on the leather.

You study his features through raw, hazy eyes, and it’s only now you notice the subtle changes you had missed upon your return to the apartment—the few more creases lining his face, the extra spatterings of grey strands amongst his dark tresses. His hair… it’s shorter too, now that you’re really looking. How had you not seen that? Not noticed?

Maybe it was the panic. It had to have been. You didn’t notice anything else when you ran in. Your surroundings had changed within a second, everything was all just so confusing and mad—you had just wanted him, you wanted home. Turns out, you had no home to return to. No one to return to. 

There must be so many others. The pain must be immense throughout the world. Lovers returning to mere memories. Parents returning to kids left behind, now years older and practically strangers. Children returning to homes that were no longer there, lost amongst the new world and without anyone familiar around them to find comfort in. God, they must be so scared.

Matt’s hand returns to your face, the backs of his fingers testing the feel of your forehead before ever so slowly trailing away until they rest where your pulse thrums through the skin of your throat. It’s not necessary—he’d hear it across town. Maybe he’s seeking physical reassurance that you’re really here, right in front of him.

“Talk to me,” he pleads quietly, “say something, anything.”

You find nothing worth speaking. You doubt you’d even have the strength to speak with how dry and heavy your tongue feels in your mouth. His hand moves, fingers hot on your skin as he cups the underside of your jaw and this time, you don’t quite have the strength to pull away.

All you want is this.

His touch, his presence—him.

“Sweetheart, I—” he stops, head tilting ever so slightly towards the door.

You watch him stiffen, tension rolling through his shoulders as he rises from his knelt position before turning towards the door to the apartment expectantly. It takes longer for your senses to catch up, but eventually the dull thud of boots hitting the flooring outside of the apartment hits your ears—

Frank.

Where was he through all of this? Had he been left to carry on with life, trying to make sense of a world left in ruin? Or had he been washed away with the breeze, just like half the planet? Universe? You want to ask Matt, but words seem to fade away on your tongue. 

He doesn’t bother knocking—he never has.

While there had been some stirrings of indifference between him and Matt after everything that happened, there was still a solid foundation of respect, which quickly extended to you the more you attempted to coax the beaten and bloodied man into your clutches for some much needed medical treatment. You were more than acquaintances, a little less than friends—just close enough for him to feel comfortable coming and going from the apartment should he have ever needed patching up.

“Apparently it’s been a while,” Frank mutters gruffly as a somewhat greeting once he’s stepped into the apartment, and you feel the same air of confusion and denial radiating from him.

He had been gone then, like you. How is he handling this? Does he feel as lost as you? As scared? You’d always thought him to be someone not exactly immune to the feeling, but at least stronger than others. As much as you feel for him, hurt for him, knowing exactly the type of thoughts and feelings that plague him, you find comfort in the fact that you weren’t alone in this.

Matt doesn’t respond, and Frank sighs tiredly, eyes flashing briefly to the side under his heavily bruised and swollen brow.

“I ain’t here to fight, Red.”

Matt’s tongue flicks over his lips and he gives a humourless huff, still not relaxing from his defensive stance. Maybe he was expecting Frank to be pissed and burst in like a raging bull with red in his vision, seeing as he and Karen had something brewing slowly between them all those years ago, but Frank doesn’t seem to be interested in any violence whatsoever.

You’re not even entirely sure what he’s here for.

“Well, Karen’s not here—”

“I know, she was with me,” Frank rumbles deeply, head tilting as he appraises Matt, “told me the happy news—congrats.”

It’s not insincere, but it’s damn near close. 

His gaze moves to you.

He studies the way you sit, drawn in on yourself and cuddling your chest in an effort to hold yourself together. You can feel how raw and swollen your eyes are, and when you finally manage to tiredly lift them to meet his, Frank seems to soften.

It’s only slight, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know his mannerisms well, but you see it.

“I was thinkin’ you might need a place, after hearin’ about—” he swallows, jaw rolling ever so slightly. He exhales sharply and shifts on his feet, “You got anywhere to go?” 

He’s here for you?

Matt intervenes immediately. “She’s staying here, Frank—”

Staying here? In the apartment you used to live in? That he now lives in with another woman? Was his idea to leave you sleeping on the couch alone, while they sleep in your bed together? No, it’s not your bed anymore. It’s their bed. Their apartment.

Five years of Daredevil and regular concussions must’ve really killed some of his brain cells. Is he even still Daredevil? Maybe married life changed his perspective on his dangerous nightly habits. Maybe his perspective changed on a lot of things. Is he even the same Matt you had left behind?

Frank’s head tilts, his eyes narrowing into a scowl as they flick back to Matt. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t askin’ you—was I, Red?”

“No,” you finally rasp in reply to his earlier question before Matt could retort, voice rough and weak in your throat, “no, I don’t.”

He nods, expecting your answer. “You got a bag?”

“I don’t know if I have any things left,” you mutter, bitterly wondering where your belongings went. Storage? Donated? The trash? How long did they leave it, did Matt leave it before tossing it all away? Like you’d never even existed, like you’d never even mattered. “Do I have anything here, Matt?”

Matt baulks at the ice coating your tone, and it’s unfair. You know that. Deep down you know you’re being unfair, a part of your mind gently reminding you that you probably would’ve thought and done the same in his position should it have been reversed, but you don’t care.

The familiar bite of anger, pain, still stirs relentlessly in your system and it trumps all reason and logic.

You had a life, and now it’s in complete ruins.

What are you supposed to do with that?

Frank nods sagely, “We’ll get you some things, ain’t gotta worry about that. You comin’?”

As much as you want to reject the idea of leaving, as much as your heart screams at you to stay with Matt because he’s all you know, he’s all you have, and he was telling you how much he loved you only mere hours ago… you give a minimal nod, and shift to stand from the couch.

It wasn’t hours ago—it was five years.

Five years.

Matt instinctively steps in front of you to keep you from moving any further, his tongue darting across his lips in an apparent panic, “You’re going with him?”

“Can you give us a minute? I won’t be long,” you ask Frank quietly, aching at the way Matt’s anxiety seems to heighten at your words.

Frank gives a single nod, and then slips out, the door clicking quietly shut behind him. Matt ignores it, every sense focused in on you and the way your heart beats a broken rhythm in your chest, the way your nails pick at the cotton of your sleeves, the way fresh tears smell building on your lash line—

“I have nowhere else to go,” you mutter, body now numb to feeling and just utterly exhausted from the onslaught of emotions the day had thrust upon you. “I can’t stay here, Matt. I can’t. Seeing you two—God, it’ll kill me. I can’t do it.”

Why you? Why did it have to be you? 

A part of you wishes it would’ve been Karen in your place, uncaringly and unknowingly torn from her life to leave everything she ever loved behind, only to return to a world that had survived, that had moved on without her… and you don’t even have the energy to feel guilty for such a thought yet.

It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t even Matt’s.

“Sweetheart,” Matt pleads softly, hands seeking and taking your hands tightly, “just—just tell me what to do. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

The thought is immediate—would he leave her? Could you ask that of him? Could you expect him to just drop and abandon everything he’s built during your absence?

You want to.

You want to tell him to break it off with her as soon as physically possible, to kick her out so you could be at home where you’re comfortable and with him and just act like nothing happened—

—but you can’t.

You can’t bring yourself to say the words.

What would he think of you asking a question like that? Would he even do it? You know how he feels about divorce, what his religion thinks of divorce. His whole belief system, his life, his God… would he abandon it all for you?

Looking at him now, how he physically pleads with you with those soft, lost eyes looking for guidance, you believe that maybe, just maybe, he would. 

But you can’t ask that of him.

You could never, and would never, ask that of him.

Unless—

“Were you happy?” You ask softly, eyes bouncing between his where they rest just left of your face. 

He blinks, a slight frown forming between his eyes in an effort to make sense of your unexpected words, “What?”

“Before I—” you take a breath, tongue rolling along your lips to moisten the sudden dry skin, “—before I just materialised back onto the street… were you happy? With your life? With her?”

Without me?

Say no.

God, please say no.

You begin to wonder why you asked. Maybe you’re a glutton for punishment, maybe you think nothing could possibly hurt any more than it already does, but when his expression falters, when his mouth opens and nothing seems to make it past his lips, you know that’s not possible.

This… this seems to hit the hardest.

He was happy.

He was happy before you came back.

He was happy without you. 

And it’s… good.

It is.

Of course you don’t want him to be anything but that. He had found what he wanted from life—some normality, some peace, and it’s with that understanding that you realise you have no place here anymore. At least not with him. You have no part in his life now, and it shreds that last little untouched piece of your hopeful heart to absolute ruins.

Denial still pulls at your mind, still blatantly refuses to accept that five years had actually passed. You’d been nothing but a distant memory to him, to your friends, to the world, and yet, everything is still so vividly fresh for you. You only got out of bed, held him, kissed him, a few hours ago—a few fucking hours!

Five years.

“It’s okay,” you mutter, as his saddened eyes flutter in a panic, “I want that for you, Matt. I’ve always wanted that for you, even if that means I’m not—that we’re not—”

You ache at the thought of being apart from him, a feeling he had already experienced and endured. 

“Three years,” he says quietly, brokenly, a slow gathering of tears building along his lash line, “three years I searched, I waited, I prayed… if I had known—if I had known you… I wouldn’t have—”

—moved on. 

You envision Matt lost in the organised pews with dozens of other faceless mourners, on his knees and weeping into his closed hands, begging for the strength to finally let you go. He was granted it, after enduring agony for such a stretch of time, and now it’s all fallen to pieces at your return.

“It’s okay,” you repeat softly, the feeling of your heart beating in your throat choking the words, “it’s okay.”

“No,” he shakes his head, face creasing as the tears begin to make their way down his cheeks, “no, it’s not. I’ve only just gotten you back. You’re back, and now—now I—God. I can’t say goodbye. Not again. I can’t.”

“So don’t,” you say simply, a fresh build of your own tears streaking your cheeks, “we won’t say goodbye. Just… just forget. Forget I ever came back, Matt. Everything will be as it was.”

He recoils sharply, as if you physically struck him. “I can’t do that—”

“Yes, you can. You have to, we all have to.”

“No, I won’t—”

“You told me to tell you,” you croak weakly, the feel of his coarse stubble piercing the soft skin of your palm as you cradle his cheek, “you told me to tell you what to do, and that you’ll do it. Well, this is it, Matt. This is what I’m telling you to do—forget I ever came back. It’ll be easier for everyone. You can keep what you had—what you have, and I—”

And you?

What will you do?

Where will you go?

Your hand falls from his face, only for it to be snatched up and returned to its previous spot with his own pressed tightly against it to keep it there. His tears smear against your skin, the evidence of his heartbreak an obvious reminder that he never let go completely.

There’s something still held for you within him, it just wasn’t the same as when you left.

His forehead comes to rest against your own, and you weaken into the familiar comfort of his touch, just for a moment. You don’t want to let go, don’t even know if you can. There's nothing left to be said, nothing left to be worked out. This is just it.

Why does it have to be this way? Your stomach churns at the idea of walking out for good. How can you? Nothing has changed for you—everything you feel for him is right there, right there where it’s always been, and you can’t do anything with it.

You indulge in the moment a little longer, stretching out to softly press your lips to his with the bittersweet taste of a loving goodbye—one last time. You savour the feel of him, his lips, so warm, so soft and sweet and familiar—

—and then pull away, the air filling the space between you lingering with the memory of what could have been.

He lets your hand fall away this time, pained haunted eyes scrunching closed as you further the distance between you until you’re at the door to the apartment. The quiet exhale of a sob reaches your ears as you open the door, and you dare not look back at Matt falling apart as you close it softly behind you.

[chaosheadspace]

Hiii I hope you feel better soon!

8 or 46 for the kiss prompts?

@embroiderling

HI, thank you for sending in an ask! I did 46 (out of jealousy). I tried combining them, but what came out of my brain has really nothing to do with secrecy lol. Enjoy!

In theory, it could have been a good day. In theory. It had been Hob’s day off, teaching part-time and all, and he’d wanted to just relax for once. Don’t get him wrong, he loves life, but the last few months have been hectic with school, finding new staff for the New Inn and sorting out the veritable mess with his oldest friend. He’d come out on top of that, though, because (Hob still can’t believe it) said friend is now his boyfriend, and Hob has vowed to himself (and to Dream, for that matter), to make him as happy as he possibly can be.

Dream is busy tonight though, and so Hob had planned on a bath and a nice dinner, maybe a film. These plans are thoroughly derailed just as he’s putting in a load of laundry. His phone rings, and his barman for tonight barely has a voice, and according to him also a fever, maybe even RSV. Apparently the test said so. Remembering that Jon has asthma, Hob sternly tells him to go to urgent care, and then hangs up to curse a bit.

He’s got no one else to cover that shift.

Hob tries to see the bright side. He loves working the bar, to meet new people, to chat with regulars during (admittedly rare) lulls. So he does what he has to, moves his bath to the afternoon and then puts on a haphazard bun, his best apron and his best smile.

Upon entering the New Inn proper though, the smile quickly slides off his face again.

Dream is here, sitting at one of the tables, full wine glass in front of him, and opposite him a very stunning woman. Both of them are absorbed in conversation, like the world doesn’t matter to them right now, and Hob can’t help the familiar, sickening lurch his stomach gives.

Hob might be old, but he’s not been a good man for long stretches of his life, and even with six hundred odd years to work the kinks out of his personality, some of his faults run deep. Like his jealousy. Oily bitterness on his tongue, an older friend than even Dream. They look good together, right in a way Hob knows he could never be. And he trusts Dream, really he does, he trusts Dream’s heart more than his own.

The thing is, he doesn’t trust himself to be good enough, because he knows he’s not. His own light is a candle to Dream’s supernova, easily outshined, swallowed up.

No, Hob is not a good man at all, because the first thing he does is go right over to them.

“Hi love, can I get you anything else or are you good?” Hob’s got many faces. He’s managed to be polite in front of the queen once, he can manage it now. Maybe.

Dream looks up, startled out of his concentration, and the way his face lights up is a small consolation, but not enough to calm the burning acid in his stomach. He can’t let them know. Can’t let him know. If Hob could get any more jealous, he’s sure there would be poison dripping out between his teeth.

“Hello Hob,” Dream says, his voice like velvet, “This is Calliope. My ex-wife, I believe you would call it.”

Hob swallows. Contradictory feelings tear his heart apart inside his chest. Surely there is a reason they are apart now, but there had been something once, enough to get married…

Hob’s cruel mind reminds him of his recent daydreams , flashing images of a silver ring with rubies and a small cottage in front of his eyes. If he were alone, he’d shake his head and tug his hair and maybe scream into a pillow a bit.

Deep brown, soulful eyes look up into his, and Hob swallows again and forces his smile wider.

“Nice to meet you! I’m Hob, his boyfriend.”

Calliope raises one eyebrow and shakes his outstretched hand as if she could see through him down to his last secret. Which she probably can, let’s be honest. In all his years, Hob’s never gotten as good at subtlety as he wished, and maybe his rampant jealousy is painted on his face.

“Really?” Calliope says, and Hob is gone, finished, his anger vaulting him over the edge.

He whips to the side, takes Dream’s face into his hands and kisses him in the middle of his own inn, apron and all, in plain view of the whole floor. Doesn’t keep it strictly appropriate either, instead he kisses Dream like it’ll be the last time, like the end of the world was upon them, filthy, with tongue. A very tiny, quickly squashed part of him tells him he might come to regret this later. But he has to, he can’t help it, can’t push down this feeling any longer, and so he stakes his claim.

Dream purrs under him, his chest rumbling, his neck tilted almost too far to be comfortable. There’s hands on Hob’s hips, fingers in his belt loops, tugging him down into Dream’s lap. Hob doesn’t care enough to resist. It’d be a bitch and a half to relocate his life fifteen years before it’s time but right now there’s no place else he’d rather be.

Dream remembers too late that Hob, unlike him, has to breathe, so by the time Dream lets him go just an inch, he’s panting like he’s run a marathon, and more than a little dizzy.

“I see,” he can hear Calliope’s amused voice behind his back.

Dream hooks his chin over Hob’s shoulder, possibly to say something, the rumbling purr still rolling through his chest and into Hob’s.

Calliope doesn’t let him get a word in, though. “It’s fine,” she says, “but do keep me out of it next time. We can catch up at a later date.” Then there’s only footsteps and the din of the Inn around them.

A stray thought slowly filters into Hob’s brain, through the mess of feelings and lack of oxygen. He takes another breath, clears his throat.

“Did you…did you do that on purpose?” he asks.

The purring intensifies, then Dream speaks, haughty, vague. “Maybe.”

Hob laughs. He knows he should be mad, but right now he’s just relieved to be accepted, wanted even in his messy imperfection.

send me a kissy prompt or read the finished ones here

[syrupfog]

AU where Sanji never actually left Germa, and Judge made him a test subject early on, successfully getting rid of his empathy after years of torture.

But like, he has those years of bullying from his brothers first, and his empathy’s gone but his anger’s still there. Also with no Zeff, he fights with his fists and doesn’t treat women Like That. Because Zeff’s the one who instilled in him to never hit a woman (and made it weird but that’s not the point).

He’s out on some mission in the Grand Line when he runs into the Straw Hats and he sees Zoro’s green hair and associates it with Yonji and he just haaaates him on sight.

The fight is super evenly matched and Zoro manages to knock him out eventually but he’s like what’s the guy’s DEAL. Wtf is his problem.

Maybe Law’s with them when it goes down and he recognizes that costume and fanboys…

Oh actually yeah— Law’s with them! And after Zoro knocks him out, Law goes into Creepy Surgeon Mode and is like for the love of god please let me get my fingers in that chest cavity

And everyone else (bar Robin ofc) is like Σ（ﾟдﾟlll）

But Law gets a room going and finds all sort of odd Germa technology literally implanted in him and starts pulling it out and messing with it and suddenly Sanji wakes UP and he’s— he’s scared. And overwhelmed. He’s in real time having to reckon with years of torturing people.

And Law’s like oh the emotional part of this is not in my pay grade this is not my job anymore and dips.

So Sanji’s there in the Sunny’s infirmary like “I’m a monster I need to be put down oh my god” and Luffy shows up like HEY you’re cool as hell join my crew.

Zoro is not a fan of this option and also it turns out neither is Sanji BUT sanji has nowhere to go so he makes a deal to sail with them until the next habitable island. So Zoro watches him like a hawk bc he’s like “you’re definitely faking this and are gonna turn evil and try to kill people again right”

But instead he just keeps finding Sanji being really pathetic and sad and looking longingly at the kitchen (Robin doubles as the cook and her food is damn near inedible but that’s just the life of a pirate innit)

Late one night Zoro comes off watch and he sees Sanji sneaking into the kitchen and he thinks OH he’s going to try to POISON US so he sneaks in after him and confronts him, swords and all. And Sanji, who knows what an awful person he’s been and knows he deserves death, just starts crying and is like “yeah you can kill me just let me cook one thing once I just want to remember what it feels like”

So Zoro lets him cook, and is like yeah I’m killing you after this, and Sanji spends a long time sniffling as he re-familiarizes himself with pots and pans and spices and knives and ends up making something garlic-y and delicious that smells strong enough to wake up the crew, and everyone traipses in enraptured by the smell. So Sanji serves them and Zoro tries it first because if it’s poisoned he’s not letting EVERYONE go down. But it’s not poisoned and it’s really good, and anyway Zoro can’t kill him now in front of everyone.

But three nights later the same thing happens— he sees Sanji sneaking into the kitchen and follows him and Sanji says “I know you should’ve killed me last time but you couldn’t, I get that, but I’m dangerous. So let me cook just one more time and then you can kill me.”

And it doesn’t happen of course. Everyone comes in and everyone eats and Zoro watches Sanji recover a little of himself.

And so it goes. At first every few nights and then every other night, and then every single night.

And whenever Zoro comes in, Sanji says, I know I deserve to die but let me cook just one more thing.

And at some point Zoro stops thinking about killing Sanji. He’s a part of the crew now. He’s proving himself, and anyway Zoro can beat him and hold him down and Law can reverse whatever it is again if needs be.

So it’s just a thing they do. Zoro lightly threatens him and Sanji begs for his life and they move on. It’s routine but it doesn’t actually MEAN anything anymore.

That is, until one really bad night where Sanji doesn’t show up in the kitchen like he always does, and Zoro goes looking and finally finds him deep in the steerage, and Sanji says, “I can’t keep living like this, please just kill me. I can’t keep living knowing I’m going to die the next day.”

And Zoro’s like ???? You’re not gonna die the next day wtf

And Sanji says, please, just get it over with.

Zoro realizes that Sanji has continued all this time assuming Zoro really is coming to kill him every night

But it’s been MONTHS at this point. Surely he wouldn’t still think—

But Sanji’s wracked with more than a decade’s worth of guilt, is so sure he deserves the worst the world possibly has to offer.

Too bad Zoro’s a little in love with him at this point. And says anyone who wants to kill Sanji will have to go through Zoro first.

Which Sanji DOESNT UNDERSTAND and he doesn’t understand the kiss Zoro follows it up with, but he returns it. Greedily.

Because as much as he knows he deserves death, he also relishes every moment of life, every chance to feel the emotions he wasn’t allowed. And Zoro goes from jailer to protector in his mind. Slowly. Hesitantly.

He spends years working through the trauma, decades really, but the simplicity with which Zoro sees the world helps. Zoro doesn’t blame him. Zoro loves him. Sanji doesn’t know much but he knows he’ll defend this ship that saved him with his life.

And he knows Zoro wouldn’t let Sanji defend HIM with his life, because Zoro views his life as precious and important.

Which is something Sanji is still learning.

He’ll get there.

[ghcstao3]

Can we please have more Makarov's son Soap?

yes for sure. unfortunately i don’t know more than basic russian so we’re just gonna stick to italics to represent that (also from what i’ve found? ivan is the russian equivalent of john? i may be wrong but that’s what we’re going with here)

(part 1)

-

“Johnny,” Ghost murmurs, for maybe the nth time, but Soap still refuses to tear his eyes away from Makarov for even a second. Like even a single blink would erase the mission’s progress.

Makarov’s expression is smug as always. Ghost wouldn’t be surprised if that smarmy look was permanently etched into his face.

“Is this how you treat all of your hostages?” asks Makarov. His eyes flicker between Ghost and Soap, nothing but amusement written in his gaze.

“Criminals, not hostages,” Ghost corrects. He looks over at Soap, whose glare is still fixated on his father. He shrugs off the gloved hand that finds his shoulder.

Thankfully, for Soap, there isn’t much resemblance between the two. Maybe their height, the width of their shoulders; maybe the colour of their hair, their wicked intelligence. But that’s about as far as it goes, for being labelled father and son; Soap’s eyes are warmer, his skin sun-kissed, his limbs thick with muscle.

And Ghost might argue that Soap is actually human.

Soap’s lips are moving, but the noise around them is too loud for Ghost to make anything out.

“They said your name is MacTavish?” Makarov directs his attention to Soap. He says the name with a poor imitation of a Scottish accent. Soap doesn’t blink. “Sounds familiar.”

Soap sits back, squaring his shoulders, finally broken from whatever trance he’d found himself in. His voice is clear, firm, commanding when he speaks. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

“Since your captain decided?”

“Since you taught me how to use a gun when I was six,” Soap spits. “Six. Just in the hopes that I could start doin’ your bidding sooner.”

There’s a flash of recognition in Makarov’s face, a slight shift in expression—a feat Ghost thought impossible.

“Ivan,” Makarov says, almost disbelieving. He then lifts his chin, pleased. “It all comes full circle.”

“No,” says Soap tersely. “This is where it ends.”

A silence falls over the craft, the tension between Soap and Makarov suffocating. Ghost waits on a taunt, a break, anything predictable, though he certainly knows better.

Ghost barely catches Soap’s subtle reach for his holster. He seizes the sergeant’s arm before he has the chance to do anything rash, sending him a look that says not yet.

Not yet, because while Ghost may not fully understand his situation—he knows what it’s like to hate his father. Not yet, because he knows what it’s like to have one so horrible.

And not yet, because Ghost doesn’t need Soap getting in trouble. Makarov’s time will come soon enough.

“I can’t wait to watch the light fade from your eyes,” Soap snarls. “Father.”

Of course, Makarov isn’t perturbed in the slightest. “I can’t wait to see you try to make that happen. Son.”

[toxicanonymity]

The Barbecue. Silence can never be bought, only rented (pt. 5 of 6)

5k / dbf!Joel x f!Reader, 18+ / pt 1 / master list

The long-awaited HOG (hot old guy) barbecue. Joel watches in the reflection of the window as you get out of the pool and grab a towel.  You follow him inside. "Don't tell me that made you jealous," you say. "Turned me on," he responds, and you can tell.

NEXT: part 6 / Story Master List

WARNINGS/NOTES: NSFW 18+ dry humping, vaginal fingering, jacking off, brief oral (M receiving), semi-public-ish, swallowing, alcohol, irresponsible cook-out behavior, DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE, some angst, reader wears Joel's shirt, lack of PIV, blue balls. Do not read the dad as your actual dad!

Tags - This story: @jbcalway @daddy-din @angelmenace @silkiers @axshadows @legs0pen4dilfs @fan-fiction-floozy @grnherbs @icuminurbutt @lokanda @not-a-unique-snowflakewflake89 @likeanimagepassingby2 @witchy-jadda @mxtokko @missannwinchester @cannolighost @anxiousankylosaurus @montenegroisr @97cityy @lillyrob @billyloomiswhore4 @cloudroomblog @boysddontcry @blackvelveteen1339 @twsssmlmaa @call-me-doll-facee @str84pedro

All Joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea. @evyiione. ty @dark-scape for the support as usual.

Lmk if i missed you. Idk why some are buggy.

-

You don’t hear from Joel for days.  The first day, you’re a mess of feelings, pinballing between numb and smitten.  

You feel like you don't really know anyone in your life.  The people you thought were closest are perfect strangers.  You don't trust anyone.  Your roommate is spending all her time with that friend of Chad’s.  Your friend from home is on a trip overseas and won’t be back until the day after Independence Day.  You feel like you don’t have anyone to hang out with, talk to, or even sit in silence with.  You’re lonely and pensive.  

On the other end of the spectrum, your mind (and body) frequently drift to that long-awaited kiss, and everything that happened in that hotel suite.  You almost feel like if you can sleep with Joel, everything will be right in the world, even when it’s all wrong.  Even when he’s part of what’s wrong.  You know it’s illogical.  

-

One afternoon, for a change of scenery, you go to the bookstore with the cafe where you work.  Maybe you’re clinging to the last bit of familiarity that’s left.  On the bulletin board at the entrance, there’s a flyer for Chad's band playing at your favorite spot.  That must be why he originally came by the cafe the other day.  

While you’re in the middle of the bookstore, you get a text from Joel and your face burns when you open it. It’s a disappearing dick pic.  Not just his dick. It’s a blow job POV including his dick.  “Your souvenir,” he says, like that’s all that happened.    Your blood boils but also rushes to your loins.  

That’s all he has to say to you?  You respond, “really?” He’s trying to act like that whole car ride never happened.  

“Wanna talk about it?” he responds.  It’s nice that he offers, and your heart probably swells a little too much at the basic decency, but you’re actually not sure you want to talk about it.  You’re almost afraid to find out more.  You already wish you could rewind and live in blissful ignorance. 

-

After an exhausting day of stewing and sulking, you decide to go to Chad’s show.  It feels pathetic, but who cares? The way you see it, you don’t have anything to lose.  Chad can’t hurt you anymore.  It’s hard to imagine anyone who could.  You text Chad to let him know you’re coming.  He doesn’t text you back.  

When you get to the venue, you don’t see anyone you know, at first.  There’s still another band to play before them, so they should be hanging out near the merch table and you make your way over there.   Finally, you see their drummer behind the cash box, then you see Chad’s hair from the back.  The drummer says something to Chad, then Chad looks over at you.   Your stomach turns when you see his face.  You can only see half of it, but there’s a gauze bandage across his eyebrow and upper cheekbone.  His mouth is scabbed over.  Joel.  Chad makes himself scarce as soon as he sees you. 

You finally respond to Joel, “not really.” And that’s that.  But you don’t know how you’re going to face him or your dad when you go home for the holiday.  

-

On Independence Day, you’re so anxious that you drive right past the turn onto Joel’s street.  You don’t forget, you just decide not to turn.  You go to your friend’s house, even though you know she isn’t there.  It’s a familiar place to park your car and try to calm yourself down.  You sit there for almost an hour doing nothing but scrolling tumblr and listening to music.   

When you don’t arrive at the barbecue, your dad and Joel separately call you and you don’t answer either of them.  Based on your degree of dread with each respective call, you realize your dad is the one you least want to see.  You’re not really harboring much negativity toward Joel at this point.  

Frank texts you and you finally take a deep breath and decide to show up.  Your plan is to detach as much as possible and let yourself leave as soon as you’re uncomfortable. 

-

You pull up to Joel’s house wearing a bikini and the flannel with a change of clothes in your Billy Loomis tote.  Pretty much everyone is already at Joel’s house.  Tommy and Maria, Bill and Frank, your dad and stepmother, a couple of Joel’s neighbors, and two of your dad’s work friends, rounding out the requisite hot old guys (HOGs), according to your friend, at least. One of the HOGs, Steve, always looks at you like a piece of meat.  You used to think he was just an old  creep, but now he strikes you as a bit of a DILF. 

A light breeze carries the smell of propane and pork butt as you approach the pool gate.  Only Frank is in the pool.  You’ll probably hang out with him the whole time.  Joel is at the grill in swim trunks and t-shirt, talking to one of your father’s work friends.  He doesn't even look up when you open the gate.  His swim trunks sure do show a lot of thigh. 

Your stepmother is all over your dad.  You pry him off with a hug out of spite and to face your fears.  Then, you go to the grill and hug Joel from the side. It’s way too hot to stand there long.

“There she is,” Tommy announces on the other side of the grill.  He’s talking to a guy you don’t recognize who turns around and does a double-take.  

“This is Jesse, he works with your dad.” 

He extends his hand and says “I’ve heard a lot about you.”  

“Hmm, that sounds ominous." You can imagine being very attracted to Jesse even a week ago, but suddenly you don't have interest in anyone under 40.  

"Well I heard you like to swim, at least. I didn't wanna swim alone," Jesse says.

-

Frank has a tray at the side of the pool with a glass of wine and his phone on it.  He puts his glass of wine down when you walk up. 

"Thank God, I've been drinking by myself," he says. 

"And what kind of pairing is this for your pork butt?" you tease him as you sit down on the edge and put your feet in.   Bill just barely raises his glass to wave at you.  He's sitting alone under the shade of an umbrella, wearing khakis and a button-down shirt. 

"Hey I think I have this shirt," Frank says, and takes the flannel between his thumb and finger.  He studies it contemplatively for a moment.  You catch up with Frank for a while.  

-

You call over to the grill, "Joel are you gonna swim?" 

"I'm on butt duty," he says. 

Frank gives you an inquisitive look then asks if you're gonna get in.  

You put your stuff down on a chair, take the shirt off, and start applying sunscreen.  Joel watches as you rub it into your bikini top. Then you turn around to give him a side view as you rub it into the part of your butt cheeks hanging out of the bottoms. 

Jesse moseys over within seconds and takes off his shirt. And well, damn.  When Jesse raises his eyebrows at you, you realize you've been staring while lazily reaching over your shoulder and applying sunscreen.  You were really just looking at his tattoos.  Mostly. 

“Nice ink,” you say.  

"Need a hand?" He asks. Why not? You hand Jesse the sunscreen and watch his face as he squirts some into his palm. He bites his lip. 

You turn around facing the pool – facing Joel – and stretch out one leg in front of you, keeping the other bent, while Jesse rubs lotion into your back.  He doesn’t do  it in an erotic way, but you curl your toes and subtly bite your lip as though it is. You let your legs fall open a bit. 

You lower yourself into the pool and have small talk with Jesse for a minute, then Joel says your real name for once and it makes your eyes go wide. He doesn't say it that loud but you still hear him from across the pool.  "Gimme a hand?" He asks. 

Jesse stays in the pool and awkwardly makes small talk with Frank. 

-

Joel watches in the reflection of his big living room windows as you lift yourself out of the pool and get a towel.  You follow him inside to the small, secondary kitchen and he closes the door behind you..

He pins you up against the counter, already aroused, and further hardens against your wet swimsuit, flooding you with desire from your core to your chest.  

"Havin' fun?" He growls in your ear. 

"Don't tell me that made you jealous."

"Turned me on," he says, low and horny. 

He kisses your chin, then your neck.  Your hands wrap around him and grab his ass, pulling him into you harder with your own soft grunt.  

He slips his hand under the damp cup of your bikini top, his fingers curving around the side of your breast, thumb resting at your cleavage.  His warm palm pushes your cold, hard nipple as he firmly cradles your breast, his hand applying slow pressure in rhythm with his hips.  Your knees are weak.  You're dripping, not just from the pool.  

He wraps his arms around you and slides his warm hands into the sides of your swimsuit bottom, grabbing hold of your cold ass cheeks. He groans, "God almighty.”  

He kneads your ass, pulling you into him and his rock-hard length.  He kisses your neck and grinds himself into you.  The feeling of his warm, thick rod slowly rutting against your clit drives you mad.  You couldn’t get any wetter.  If you don't have this man inside you soon, you might actually die. You reach into his shorts and use your other hand to try to take them down.  He doesn't stop you. 

But there’s a knock at the door.  Good Lord.  You know who it's going to be.

Joel puts his dick away and removes a big pan of coleslaw from the fridge.  He hands you the coleslaw while you open the door.  

"Am I interrupting anything?" She asks. 

"No," You say, then cock your head and add  "Am I?"  You hold eye contact for several seconds, then hand her the cole slaw and ask, "don't you and Dad have some catching up to do?" 

Your stepmother takes the coleslaw outside.  

You close the door behind her.  “Basement?,” you ask, and start toward the pantry at the back of the space.  There’s a hidden staircase that opens into the movie theater downstairs. 

Joel groans and rubs his beard.  “Later,” Joel says with a sigh.  “We better go back out.”

You scoff.  “Really?” 

“Go on back outside.” He opens the door to the main kitchen.  

-

When you get back to the pool, Jesse's already gone, talking to your dad.  When you get back in, Frank says, "You little minx."  He's got Instagram pulled up on his phone and shows you a picture from several years ago of Joel and him together,  both wearing the shirt you arrived in.  "Tell me everything."

Your face gets hot.  “Seems to be a popular shirt,” you say. 

"No," Frank says. "Shirt's just the kicker. There's something about the way you say each other's names. They sound like a secret."  Frank is good at reading people.

"What, you think I fucked him? I didn't." At least you don't have to lie about that. 

"Maybe not yet," he scoffs.  Frank looks behind you and covers his mouth, then says “Look at his shirt."  Yeah, Joel’s shirt has just the right wet spots.  In theory, they could've been from a hug. It basically was a hug.  

"Ever heard of a hug?" you say. 

Frank raises his eyebrows then holds up his glass of wine and "accidentally" clinks his wedding ring on it before downing the rest.  Bill hears it and comes over with the bottle.  Frank gives him a look with the slightest nod across the pool, like he can't even wait a couple hours to share his new gossip.  Bill's eyes dart over to Joel, then meet Frank's eyes again. As usual, no reaction is visible on Bill's face, aside from a twinkle in his eye.  "Everything to your liking, sir?" he asks Frank.  

Frank smiles, "Come on, at least dip your feet," but Bill leaves. Just as well, Frank's not done prodding you. 

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me," Frank shrugs.  "But I know you want to. . . and my lips are sealed. . ."  

Frank is one of the most trustworthy people you know, so you don't worry about him spilling it.  You just don’t feel like saying it out loud and putting words to it.  Once it exists in the air, it’s something that can be broken. Something that can fall apart.  

You panic and tell Frank about Joel and your stepmother instead.  You claim you're just keeping Joel close for now while you decide what to do.  You leave out any details about what close means.  

The initial look on his face is horror, then Frank looks like he's going to cry.  "Are you okay?" 

"Chill," you say, looking around nervously. "Jesus, how much wine have you had?" 

"Sorry, I just.  I'm sorry.  I know it's hard.  That's all."  He hugs you, and over Frank’s shoulder, you see Joel looking across the pool with his brow furrowed even more than usual.

"Well, don't forget my dad cheated on my mom with her, so, whatever," you say.

"Well, exactly. That's why I worry-" 

Your face tells him to stop, so he changes the subject.  "So what about that guy from the band, is that still a thing?"

You sigh.  "Chad? No. Nothing juicy, just no."

"Got it," he says and you know you can trust him not to bring it up again.  He follows your eyes back to Joel.   You’re not off the hook, but at least you don’t have to talk about it.  

-

The actual meal is relatively uneventful. It’s hard to be around your father right now.  Deep down, you knew there were secrets.  You knew he wasn’t the most upstanding man.  You never fully trusted him after what he did to your mom.  But at this point, he feels like a stranger.  You’re almost glad his wife is cheating on him.  

Steve, the hotter of your dad’s non-Joel friends, tries hitting on you.  Asks if you like to party.  Says he bets you get pretty wild after a few drinks.  Pressures you to do shots with him.  Why not, you think.  You do one shot, but make Joel join in.  

“Bad fuckin’ influence over here,” Joel says and gives Steve a slap on the back.  Steve tries to egg you on to do more, but you don’t and neither does Joel.  

"That's why we call him Mr. One Shot," Jesse says. laughing at his own joke. 

Joel bristles at the nickname and crosses his arms, jamming his hands under his ungodly biceps.

Steve lowers his voice and asks Joel,  "How many shots in Uvalde?" Joel doesn’t answer. 

"One," Jesse says. "Miller’s too modest, you're embarrassing him," he laughs. 

Joel tenses. "Give it a rest, Jesse. Have some discretion." 

Jesse looks at your end of the table and swallows. “Right”

Your stepmother abruptly changes the subject.   She asks Jesse how old he is and why she hasn’t seen him before. She’s drunk, and every time she looks at Jesse, she looks like she could eat him alive. 

Your dad elbows Jesse.  “I think my wife likes you,” he says with a wink.  It’s awkward. 

-

Joel’s face is a little pink from the sun, and it looks good on him.  He’s looking at your face, but not making eye contact. He seems to be in a trance.  You kind of feel like you should still be mad at him, but for some reason, you’re not.  And you’re not going to deprive yourself out of spite.  You can feel Frank noticing every detail of this.  

Bill pours the last of a bottle of wine, and you volunteer to go to the wine cellar.  Bill says they’ve had enough.  Frank protests that he wants one more glass.  He asks you for a German Riesling, with a wink.  You subtly shake your head at him, falsely denying what he knows you’re up to.  

-

You stand in the wine cellar, enjoying the cool air, then sit on a cabinet that spans the whole back wall.  It’s only a few minutes before you hear Joel’s flip flops echoing down the stairs, presumably with the pretext of helping you find the wine.  He crosses the cellar without even glancing at the wine.  “Leavin’ for the fireworks in 15,” he says.  

He has that horny look in his eyes and there’s already a bulge in his swim trunks. The way his t-shirt stretches over his pecs and arms — God damn. 

When Joel reaches you, his massive hands part your knees, then lightly stroke your bare thighs.  His lips brush your temple as he says, “You’re gonna get me in trouble one of these days.” 

“That’s the idea,” you say as his hands wrap around your back and he slides you closer to the edge of the cabinet.  When your crotch comes to rest against his, an acute desire floods your breasts.  You squeeze his sides with your thighs, then roll your hips into his arousal and hook your hands under his arms, bringing him closer.  

You slide your hands down his back and into his swim trunks, feeling his ass and bringing the trunks down.  At the same time, you pull his hips into you and the swell of his hard-on against your clit makes you throb with need.  You start to untie your bikini bottoms while he gropes a breast.

His mouth latches onto your neck. You let the front of the bottoms fall between your thighs, and tilt your hips in just the right way. He brings a hand between your legs and drags his flattened fingers up and down your slippery seam, then thrusts two of them inside and you moan. 

“Fuuck,” he breathes.  

You grab his cock.  “Come on,” you beg as you tug him.  He takes his hard length from you, holds it in his hand, and furrows his brow as he pumps his fingers slowly in and out of you.  You try to read his face.  He breathes heavily as he fingers you.   

“Fuck me already,” you beg.  

He looks down at himself and shakes his head no, but looks pained by his own answer.  

“We both know it’s gonna happen,” you say.

He takes a deep breath as though to restrain himself.  “Maybe so, but not tonight.” 

He removes his fingers and brings the tip of his cock to your dripping entrance.  A bolt of need shoots through you.  He dwells there for a moment, takes another deep breath, then lays his stiff manhood vertically against your seam and pulls you tight against him.  Then he grinds wetly against your aching clit, and your hips roll into him.  Your head falls back and you moan.  Your eyes are watery.  

“God, Joel. . .this is . . .so dumb. . . just fu-” 

You cut yourself off with a moan as he quickens his pace and grunts.

“Pleeease.” 

“Shhhhhhh,” he says.  You’re on the verge of coming and on the verge of tears. He holds you tight for leverage then goes jackhammer pace. 

“Joel. . .”

“Come for me, sugar,” he pants.  And not long after, you do.  You clench around nothing, pulse against him, and you hear the echo of a breathy “Joel” you didn’t know you said.  

He takes his cock in his hand again and looks at you with his pupils blown wide. His breath is ragged as he strokes himself.  You find yourself slipping down off the cabinet.  He doesn’t deserve what you’re about to do, you just want it for yourself, for whatever reason.  He steps back and you squat down to face level with his cock.  You hover your mouth over it, then wrap your lips around the head, and he comes with an echoing groan before you take any of the shaft into your mouth.  His cum even tastes unattainable.  Your eyes sting. 

You fix your swimsuit and compose yourself.  

“C’mere,” he says and hugs you.  You don't really hug him back.  You wipe a tear off your cheek.  He tries to kiss you, but you’re too upset, and it would make you need him even worse than you already do.  

-

Joel’s phone rings and he picks it up.  “We’re comin’,” he says.  “C’mon, let’s go.”  He puts his arm around you but your demeanor doesn’t soften.  You’ve had it with him depriving you.

“Ya know, maybe it’s a good night to talk to my dad,” you threaten as you near the top of the stairs.  

“Damn, Trouble.” You can't tell if he’s impressed or judging you.  “I said not tonight. I didn’t say never.”  

That makes you think twice, at which point you realize what you just did. . .You tried to blackmail Joel for sex. 

He adjusts his shorts.  God, what’s become of this situation in just a few days - you try to put it out of your mind.  You can beat yourself up over it later. 

Joel stops you with his hand on yours before you open the door. “Look,” he continues.  “Before you do anything stupid, there’s somethin’ I should tell you later.”  

You lean against the wall and cross your arms.  “Lemme guess, you and Dad are up to some shady, dangerous shit.” 

“Nothin’ to do with that,” Joel says, lowering his voice. 

“So you are.” 

“Dangerous, yes, shady, no. We’re the good guys. Less you know ‘bout that, the better.” 

“Why?”

“For your safety.” 

You open the door to the living room and people are milling around deciding who’s riding with whom to the fireworks.  Frank says, “hey, she didn’t get bricked in,” and hands you your bag from outside so you can change.  

-

You and Joel ride with Bill and Frank to the fireworks. Frank keeps looking back and making small talk, but you and Joel mostly look out your opposite windows. You get to thinking about what Joel said.   Not tonight. . . I didn’t say never. . . If he means that, maybe it’s worth the wait.  Maybe you should hear him out, whatever he has to tell you.

During the fireworks, you come around a little.  Joel playfully covers your ears, knowing you’ve always hated loud noises.   When Bill and Frank drop you off at Joel’s afterwards, everyone is going their separate ways.  You're relieved to see your dad and stepmother drive off before you have to say goodbye.   

You start to go to your car, wanting to quit while you're ahead and not end up begging for it again. Joel stops you with gentle hands on your shoulders.

"Come in for a minute. Let's talk." A pit opens in your stomach. 

The two of you go in through the pool gate.  “Lemme make you a drink,” he says.  That sounds even worse.

. . .

Joel hands you your favorite cocktail, then comes around the bar with his own drink to sit on the stool next to you.  He takes a deep breath and puts his hand on your knee.  He seems almost as nervous as you are. You can't remember seeing him nervous before.  

“Yeah?” you prompt him.  

He nods and takes a sip of his drink, then looks you in the eye.  He puts his glass down, then takes yours out of your hand and puts it down on the counter too.  

He swivels you toward each other.  He looks like he's about to say something, then something changes in his eyes.  He cradles your head with both hands, lays his lips into yours, and kisses you slow and hard, his tongue dipping into your mouth. 

After a few seconds, you don’t even notice the taste of his whiskey, and his hands trace your body on their way down to your thighs.  It’s intense but tender.  You can’t help but feel like it’s some kind of a kiss goodbye.  It scares you.  He slides off the stool and gets in between your knees, tries to put your legs around him again, and that’s certainly where your legs want to go.  But you want to hear what he has to say first. 

You pull away and your hand drifts up to your lips.  They buzz from his fervor.  Your chest rises and falls.

“Spit it out,” you tell him.   

“Right," he says.  "I dunno if you’re still gonna wanna. . .”  He downs his drink.  It’s hard for you to imagine anything that would make you not want to fuck him anymore.  

Finally, he begins.  "Alright. . . ‘member what I said at lunch the other day, 'bout how monogamy isn’t for everyone?"

"Yeah." If this is all to say it’s not for him, it’s not hitting like much of a bombshell.  Now, if he's going to tell you about other people he's fucking–when he's not even fucking you—that's a different story. 

"Well," he clears his throat and looks away.  "Your dad-"  

You interrupt him with a loud sigh.  "Just because he cheats doesn't mean you can sleep with his wife."  You’re annoyed he’s even going there.  

Joel holds up his hands as though to tell you to slow down.  "Lemme finish.  'member what I said, how even in a marriage, some couples. . . ."  He tries to make you fill in the blanks for yourself, but you won't. "Okay,”  he shifts in his seat and begins to gesticulate vaguely.  “Your dad and stepmother, they have an arrangement."  

You feel the blood drain from your face.  You think about the way she was eyeing Jesse. "Gross," you say.

He swallows and nods regretfully as you process this.  He waits patiently as your heart races along with your thoughts, then you spill them out all at once.  "I dunno why I would believe you. OR why you would believe her.  Is that what she told you?”  You laugh.  “Whatever. Even if it's true, you aren't just any guy-"

"He knows," Joel says almost somberly. “About me.”

"Oh, he knows?" you laugh. He couldn't possibly. This is a terrible attempt at defusing the whole situation for himself.  And yet, he looks like he feels bad for you. 

"The first time, he talked me into it." 

Deep breaths.  "That's insane.  That's. . .this is your new plan? Try to convince me my dad is some perverted cuckold?"

"No, not like that." He shivers in disgust. "Damn, Trouble. That's where your head went? No. . . when he. . .it was like. . . a swap.” 

Your stomach turns.  

“Okay, remember my date to Bill and Frank's wedding?  The stripper?”  Your heart sinks.  “Your dad, um, really liked her, and-"

"I get the picture," you say, closing your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose, recalling that your dad did in fact really like Joel's date.  It was embarrassing.  

"It was casual with me and. Shit, what was her name. Anyway, we were all stayin' in that hotel gettin' sloshed at the pool, an-"

You open your eyes and say, "Yeah, I got it, okay?" Then, you walk over to the sofa to sit down.  He follows you.  You feel sick to your stomach and don't want to hear another word about it.  You cross your arms and slouch, sitting in silence for a moment.  

He hesitantly puts his hand on your knee, sending a rush of blood to your loins. You don’t know what to feel.

"Did you really end it with her?" You ask. 

He sighs.  "More or less." 

Now rage starts simmering in your chest. 

"Told her I wanted a break.”

Unbelievable.

“That just — it lessens the blow.  But trust me, I'm not doin' it again. Especially after how she’s been actin’." 

You wish you could believe him. 

You ask, "Why'd you let me think it was some huge secret?"

He's quiet for a moment.

"I don’t think your dad would appreciate you knowin’ about it," he says.  "But I was gonna tell you anyway."

“Yeah, right.” 

“‘Yeah. . . ‘member all those calls you ignored?”  

“But then I got to thinkin’ about it, and I guess. . . .” 

"What?”

"I," he pauses and sighs.  "Shit, I dunno, it was hot.  Really hot.  The way you acted, thinkin' you had somethin' over me. . .never saw that side of you before."

Now this you can believe.

"Next day, still thought about tellin’ ya.  But after the pool, there was no goin’ back.  I mean, damn."  

There’s a sparkle in his eye as he reflects on that.  He adjusts himself, which always makes you tingle, even now.  Especially now?  God, you have no idea.  

"Guess it kinda did somethin' to me,” he says.  He raises his eyebrows and gives your thigh a rub, but you flinch.  It isn’t personal, you’re just on edge, but his eyes get sad and he takes his hand away, resting it in his lap as he sits back lazily on the couch. 

You ask, "So why tell me now?"

"I dunno, maybe I'm growin' a conscience."  

You try to make sense of that, but you can’t.  Why would he feel guilty about you doing something as depraved as blackmailing him into sex?  

"Woulda been hot as hell though.  Maybe I shoulda let ya go through with it.  Damn.” 

It sounds like everything is up to him, and apparently, it is.  

He hesitantly rests his hand on your back and slowly rubs it.  You take a deep breath and sigh audibly.  You’re melting under his fingertips.  

He lowers his voice, “So, now that you know everything . . .”

His phone buzzes.  When he looks at it, he tenses and sharply inhales.

“Your dad’s here,” he says.

And your car is still parked outside in the turnaround.

-

Planning for the next chapter to be the last in this story. . .

[junosmindpalace]

may i request a gojo x reader one shot where y/n is gojo's former student, after she graduated she went out of the country then after 5 yrs she comes back to work at tokyo jujutsu high as a teacher like gojo. y/n used to have a crush on gojo back then (maybe she still does 😋) and now that y/n's back after a long time gojo kinda missed her so they often spend time together. y/n keeps convincing herself it's just some kind of friendly reunion, nothing more but one day during the sister school goodwill event she gets jealous when she sees gojo teasing utahime and interacting with her. gojo wonders what got y/n into a pissy mood and y/n is like "why do you even care? just go back to your flirting session" then that's where gojo finds out she's just jealous. he'll tease her and idk maybe a confession between them will follow? i'm rlly sorry i suck at explaining things but i hope you get most of it and this gets accepted 😭 thanks! 💓

UNKNOWN / NTH

hi anon! thank you for your request and patience! i changed a couple of details in this request and it turned out soo weirdly angst but the main idea is still there! i hope that’s alright!

3.2k words. a little all over the place.

“call me every single day, you hear me? you can’t leave me all alone with this guy.” 

shoko doesn’t even look over her shoulder as she jabs her thumb toward the white haired teen standing behind her shoulder, who drops his mouth open in disbelief at her insulting tone. the tension in your chest eased up as you laughed.

“of course.” 

leaving your friends so soon after graduating was hard to wrap your head around, even with a car waiting to take you to the airport outside the gates of the jujutsu tech building and the occasion bump into your suitcase as you shifted your weight between your legs. 

with the assassination of the star plasma vessel and the suguru incident that made your worlds turn upside down, it seemed reasonable that you’d want to stay; immerse yourself in something familiar. but staying at jujutsu tech--in japan all together--was overwhelming. you needed time to figure and sort yourself out; cope without having to relive painful memories every time you passed where the incidents took place. 

leaving the two people who helped you cope during the ordeal with suguru was difficult, but though they too were pained to part from their friend, they also understood the importance of your leave. they weren’t too stressed, though. you’d stay in touch. you promised. 

shoko stepped forward to give you one final departing gift, wrapping her arms around your neck as you immediately reciprocated, and in shoko’s arms did you mull over whether this was the right choice for you for the nth time. 

a couple moments pass before the two of you pull apart, with shoko whispering a threatening “you better call.” one final time, jabbing an accusing finger at you as if you had already broken your promise, before stepping off to the side to allow satoru to get his own affairs in order. he stepped toward you with a roll of his eyes. 

satoru gojo has been an insufferable ass ever since you met him in your first year. to you, he once came off inconsiderate and ill-mannered, and to satoru, you once came off stuck up and uptight. yet somehow the mutual distaste you two had for each other upon first meeting turned into a friendship filled with teasing.

it felt weird leaving satoru behind especially, because somehow along the bumpy road the two of you took to get to where you were now, something yet again shifted in the way you viewed him, a shift you were still unfamiliar with. it felt strange leaving without it figured out. but you’d get a chance to, you hoped. like with everything else in your bizarre life. 

your usual banter insued as satoru took hold of the handle on your suitcase, swinging it back and forth before loading it into the open trunk. you threatened satoru to look out for himself and not be too much of a nuisance while you were away as he did so. he clicked his tongue as he brought the trunk down with a thud! and waved off your false threats. 

”don't miss me too much, y/n.” he smirked over his shoulder, tinted glasses sliding down the slope of his nose as he stepped back up on the sidewalk. cerulean eyes shone under the morning sunlight, fixed on you with an intense gaze in contrast to his easy smile. you looked over your shoulder as you opened the rear car door, mimicking his expression. 

”won't be a problem.”

the first couple of months went strong. you upheld your promise of calling shoko frequently, and satoru would often squeeze himself into the frame of shoko’s camera to tease or hurl an insult toward you. she’d shoo him off or laugh along, because she too missed the playful banter you all once immersed yourselves in. and though you were far from the paths you once trekked with your friends, only ghosts of those moments lingering on them now, at least there was no trace of your dying friendship.

more time passed and contact became less frequent. life went on, and keeping in touch as regularly as you once did became increasingly difficult. only on occasion were you able to organize a chat, so much yet so little to be said. each new life event shared left you to ponder over even hours after you had hung up the phone. 

and soon enough, a decade had passed. ten years you thought you’d spend in agony over being away from the people and places you considered home flew by considerably fast, and the thought nauseated you slightly as you reminisced on memories from your youth. 

the nostalgia of your teenage years lingered like a light fog in your mind, always finding some way to trace even the most mundane of things back to your old friends, especially satoru gojo. even after ten long, busy years, you still found that annoying white haired friend of yours lingering in the back of your mind. 

though so much time had passed, you hadn’t gone cold turkey with your communication from your friends; only infrequent. you knew of the important things: the promising new students at jujutsu tech, satoru becoming a teacher, the curse that was rika, the night parade of a hundred demons, toji’s son that satoru was now looking over—suguru’s death. all things recollected to you from your texts with shoko and gojo. though neither of them were quite big on details.  

ten years has definitely granted you time to think, to organize, to consider and try new things. you worked through complicated feelings, you met new people, you saw and experienced new things, and certainly had all those things teach you a couple of important lessons. 

and ultimately, after over a decade, you made the decision to return to japan as a teacher at jujutsu tech. 

around this time, you felt a consistent nagging as if there was still a missing, unsorted piece of your life. you believed that perhaps the decision to return home was spurred by the growing intensity of it. it built up slowly over your less frequent phone calls and text conversations with your old friends and the ever growing amount of changing of their lives back home. though perhaps suguru’s death compelled you to return as well. 

you returned the following year after the night parade of a hundred demons. you convinced yourself it would just be a friendly reunion like with the rest of your old friends, but the second you were standing face to face with satoru, your heart said otherwise. 

it wasn’t unusual to feel anxious when reuniting with someone, but the painstakingly long pause that followed upon being reunited after so many years made you suppress a shudder. It was hard to believe the man in front of you was the troublemaker you used to go to school with. It was hard to believe he was even real. 

you used the silence to get a good look at him, just to make sure it was truly him (and you think satoru was doing the same, regardless of his six eyes.) he had gotten even taller, and he now wore his messy locks of snow white hair up. his uniform was still fitted as it used to be, always just a bit baggier than his tall frame. 

but the most prominent difference was his new defining feature, and so you decided to comment on it first. satoru was still in a sort of trance (of shock you guessed; your only indicator were his slightly parted lips) when you broke the ice with a smirk and the words he had parted with you over a decade ago.

"hope you didn’t miss me too much, satoru. what's with the tacky blindfold?” 

and the grin that followed on his lips stretched from ear to ear.

satoru your coworker wasn't all that different from satoru your classmate. he was still as childish as ever, irritated by the higher ups and an irritation to all those around him. you found that out rather quickly when reuniting with yaga and nanami. you made a dramatic fuss over how much they both had changed, nanami shyly looking down with a slight frown reminiscent of the signature one he wore when he was younger. you didn’t feel it was appropriate to bring up haibara or suguru at any point. 

but your relationship with satoru your coworker was off from your relationship with satoru your classmate. It had been years, and you’ve fallen into your normal rhythm with satoru pretty quickly and easily on the surface. but the passage of time was still evident in your conversations as it was with the changes in your appearances. time matured him (or most likely his ordeals with suguru). even his manner of speaking was so serious sometimes that it caught you off guard. it felt even worse than having him hate you, treating you as if you were a stranger hurting that much more.

so much yet so little had changed. you were taken aback by the amount of maturity in his reasoning for wanting to become a teacher, even if it was so out of place for him, over a catch up brunch. it almost made you feel as if he were a stranger, with a new sense of maturity coupled with his new, more distant look and behaviour.

he’d tease you like he always did, but it didn't have as much bite. he'd show you around tokyo, treating you to desserts and jokingly gifting you funny souvenirs; but because satoru had become so unfamiliar, it didn’t feel as comforting as you thought it would. 

and that nagging feeling that you couldn’t quite put your finger on arose again.

you reunited with mei mei and utahime during the sister school goodwill event, with the latter enveloping you in a large hug reminiscent of the ones you received when you left them over a decade ago. they had all stayed relatively close, with utahime becoming a teacher like satoru at the sister school in kyoto. 

you were good friends with her, always defending her from satoru’s insults and indulging in her (in your case, faux) hatred toward satoru. you two had also stayed in close contact, appreciating all the emotional support she provided and her updates on the events in her life and the jujutsu world (with complaints about satoru tossed in here and there). 

which is why your jealousy was irrational, you thought to yourself as you watched satoru and utahime in the monitoring room. you knew satoru and utahime being the last two people in the world wouldn’t make them fall in love. even if they were, your jealousy was still out of place. if anything, you should feel happy for your two old friends.

but perhaps it had more to do with the distance and familiarity satoru and utahime were able to maintain, even if it was their regular quarreling and distaste for one another. perhaps the way they were able to slip into the routine they’ve kept up for so many years, no matter how ruthless it was, ate at you, reminded you of how different things were between you and satoru. you weren’t two teenagers who’d sometimes catch each other’s stares from across a room. you weren’t attending school together and going on missions. 

and the distance was bound to strain your relationship. but you figured that if there was anyone you’d be able to break back into routine with, it was the troublemaker you had known since the two of you were fresh faced students like the ones he now mentors. 

it was all those little things stacked atop each other, that casual and distant demeanor satoru treated you with as if you were a stranger, time staring back at you in the mature way he, shoko and utahime carried themselves, and satoru slipping into a routine that you were sure you and him would be able to maintain with someone else, made that whole tower of unease fall apart with that final crack. 

he had walked off after you after you had excused yourself from the room, feeling sick the more you thought about the large gap in memories, in time, in knowledge, between you and the others. 

“jealous?” he smirked, clearly amused by your sudden outburst (and deeply curious, since it was so out of character for you). 

“not a chance.”

not in the way he was suggesting, at least. you waved him off. “go back to your flirting session.” 

and Satoru stopped in his tracks, recoiling in disgust over the mere implication. because even he knew that you would never think such a thing of his relationship with utahime, even if he were to one day tell you that something was going on. 

perhaps it was the distance, satoru thought to himself sadly. because while to you satoru didn’t seem to be all that affected by your return, he still saw in you that old classmate of his that made his face burn with simply the strength they exhibited, with only a short meeting of gazes from across a room as a teenager, and his heart ached at emotional distance. there was no way that classmate that knew which treats to bribe him with and what games were his favorite would ever assume such a thing about him. 

getting through to one another was never easy, both of you equally stubborn in your resolve. and when you throw this terrible distance, these horrible feelings of insecurity and confusion, it made the miscommunication between the two of you that much worse. 

but satoru remembers the day you left as if no time had passed at all. he remembers the rising lump in his throat as he watched you say your goodbyes with shoko. he remembers the wave of fear that washed over him as he watched you turn your back from him, reminiscent of the event that took place when his best friend left him for good. he remembers the confession on the tip of his tongue as he looked down at you and into your sharp gleaming eyes, words he’s debated with himself for years over whether or not he was a coward or a hero in not saying.

and right now, as he stares at your confused and hurt expression, your back turned to him yet again, all those feelings wash over him and he feels as if it may be the former, because now he’s let his insecurity hurt you. but he also knows that whether he was a coward or hero then doesn’t matter now. he wouldn’t allow a repeat of what happened all those years ago. he wouldn't let himself hesitate.

he reached to grab your wrist, and you harshly recoiled, shooting him an angry glare from across your shoulder. “what the- hell, satoru? would you just-”

“i wasn’t flirting.” 

“whatever. I don’t-”

suguru knew him better than anyone. shoko knows him better than anyone. you know him better than anyone.

“utahime? really? i would think that you know me better than that.” 

the pout on his face seeped into his voice, and you further struggled in his grip. “things change with time, satoru. you can’t expect me-”

the distance was fine. satoru could do distance. but it was this misunderstanding that made his stomach churn uncomfortably. it was the fact that he seemed so unknown to you. that you seemed so unknown to him. who knew that such a minor misunderstanding would carry so much emotional baggage, invoke such strong reactions from the two of you? 

“can’t use that excuse if i’ve always been in love with you.”

you immediately stopped fidgeting, staring at satoru’s serious expression with wide eyes. his pout settled into a deep frown, and you’re absolutely despising the fact that you can’t see his eyes with that stupid new blindfold. stupid time. stupid change. 

“i’m in love with you,” he said again with a shrug. “and that never changed.”

silence. all you could do is continue to stare at him as he held your wrist. but then you inhaled sharply and satoru released his grip. you took another deep breath, and then…

“how the hell am I supposed to know something like that? it’s been over ten years, satoru gojo. everything feels different- you look different!- and you expect me to know you’ve been in love with me for how long?”

you ranted all your anger toward him as you jabbed a finger into his chest, while he continued to stare down at you with a frown and his hands now buried in his pockets. his lack of a reaction only added to your frustration, and you still felt as if you were staring at a stranger. 

“take off that damn blindfold.” 

his mouth drops into a small o for a moment, before he brings a hand to his face. it feels as if an agonizing amount of time passes as satoru slips the blindfold down from his eyes to hang over his neck. his hair falls into that familiar disheveled heap, and you’re immediately met with a familiar rush of anxiety rushing through your veins as you make eye contact with his blue ones. 

big and bright, and staring down at you with so much longing. his hand stays on his blindfold, and the frown stays etched into his face, but you can finally see those eyes. the ones that sent a wave of warmth over you when they connected with yours. the ones you found yourself gazing at as you leaned your head against a desk, admiring them from a sideways angle as they glistened in a ray of sunlight. one’s you knew you could rely on, not because they belonged to the strongest or because of the power they held, but because they belonged to your best friend, to the boy that made your heart stutter. 

and you’re too emotional finally seeing your satoru gojo to care about the fact that you were now sobbing into satoru’s chest in relief over something familiar, and you cried even harder when his arms wrapped around your frame, head resting sideways into your hair. and you felt stupid for breaking down over something so childish, so minor.

but maybe some things didn’t change and maybe some change was for the better. because you’ve had over ten years to figure yourself out and so did satoru, and with your decision to return home was your decision to return to satoru synonymous with it. 

and you felt satoru finally smile a genuine and childish and familiar sort of smile, into your hair, and you couldn’t find it in yourself to care about how stupid you felt in that moment. 

and that final unsorted piece of your life finally stopped nagging at you, as if satoru had exorcised a curse that lingered on your back these past ten years. those confusing and unidentifiable feelings you felt for satoru way back when. together, you’d be able to rebuild your relationship with satoru into the way it used to be all those years ago, not a single detail unknown, so you could put all those insecurities and fear to rest. 

[buzzcutlip]

Cracks and Gaps - The Worst Day (part I) Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Mature (Explicit in the following parts) 7434 words ao3

You meet Carmen in Copenhagen through a mutual friend and bond over shared experiences. After following his rising career from afar, you reconnect in Chicago when he renovates his late brother's restaurant. As an editor, you can't miss an opportunity to find out more about the comeback of this chef prodigy.

A/N: I've started writing this story a looong time ago last year. There will be two more parts. I would like to thank @carmyboobear for being the most incredible beta and helping me out on the rocky journey. They're a very special person to me, and also a fantastic and inspiring writer themselves. Please, check their Carmy stories if you haven't!

THE WORST DAY

The first time you meet Carmen, you are both a little over twenty and in Copenhagen. He is staging at Noma, and you are interning at a design studio where everyone is very “green.” From one of your conversations with Carmen, you learn that Pop-Tarts and Cheetos are illegal here. In Europe. Most of the sodas that stained your tongue crazy colors when you were a kid are banned too. He lectures you on Scandinavian agriculture and food production.

Carmen is skinny and short—still a bit taller than you, though—with sharp, high cheekbones and bulging eyes. You don't know enough about each other to be “friends,” but he is a good companion. Your high school friend Becky knows Carmen’s older sister; that’s how you found each other in Denmark’s capital.

On two rare occasions, you get drunk together, and that happens only when he is stressed from work. Like, stressed STRESSED. You'd think he only drinks special natural wine from Lofoten or something, but his choice of poison is canned Budweiser. Maybe he misses home as much as you do. Maybe that’s what leads you to almost kiss him the second time. Carmen lives on a boat, and he takes you there, where you drink vodka mixed with herbs and licorice that Carmen concocts, his tongue peeking out between his lips as he concentrates. The drink tastes good. Weird. You don't hide your grimace. Neither of you comments on the alcohol ratio. It's more vodka than anything else, that's for sure.

Carmen is not your type, physically or character-wise—you are an introvert yourself, so you need someone to bring you out of your shell. Obviously, doing an internship on a different continent is a huge step, one that is only on you. He also smokes a lot and probably doesn't wash his hair. You've heard about his crazy mother and bonkers family from Becky, so you understand why Carmen is Carmen. Why he’s run off to Europe. It's just—his face—his eyes, when he's telling you about his dream job at Noma or Alchemist—they glow, and he becomes so animated, the quiet excitement seeping to the surface, and there's fondness blooming in your chest. He also knows a thing or two about sports, as you do, the subject bringing you back to Chicago, and the longing for “home” and “familiar” is terribly strong in the moment, enhanced by the alcohol. And Carmen, the boy sitting opposite you, with burns on his hands and ripped jeans, is both of those things put into one.

Nothing happens between you two, but the urge to press your own lips against his lingers after you leave in a taxi, not brave enough to ride a bike under the influence.

You try to stay in touch after Copenhagen, messaging Carmen on his empty Facebook profile, sending a text once in a while, mainly at Christmas, and when you have some terrible junk food, just to make fun of him. When he FaceTimes you, he’s in Paris, and you’re in Dublin. The next time, he’s in California.

He rarely ever answers messages on the phone. Usually, it's an emoji, sometimes a word or two. Soon, there are no answers, and you can't be bothered. You carry on with your life in Chicago, and it doesn’t take long before you start seeing Carmen Berzatto in the paper, on the internet. The young prodigy chef, everyone says. Reluctantly, you read the articles, thinking about the Copenhagen Carmen, smiling at his photos. He's grown up, filled out. His hair is curlier, his shoulders wider, his biceps stronger. He looks good. Good and sad, you think to yourself, and decide not to text him to congratulate him on his star career. Carmen is not one to care about what you think of it.

It's only when you hear from Becky that Mikey Berzatto has died, that you think of Carmen properly, after years full of work in the magazine office, one shitty almost-boyfriend, and summers spent in Europe, writing about sustainable travel and solo adventures. Becky says that he's inherited a restaurant from Michael. You decide against sending him condolences—too personal.

But about ten months later, there's whispering that a fancy restaurant, The Bear, is replacing The Beef of Chicagoland, and it's actually your boss who tells you that you should go check the place out.

You are not into that whole haute cuisine thing, to be honest. You never understood those tiny little portions and strange ingredients and their combinations. You prefer good pasta with Bolognese sauce or roasted chicken with mashed potatoes. Sometimes you wonder if Carmen's strange relationship with his family is what's keeping him away from his Italian roots and forcing him to work in pristine, starched whites in sterile kitchens, cooking intestines and antlers, making it art.

---

Becky gives you Natalie Berzatto’s phone number to get in touch with her to try to schedule an interview for the magazine feature. Your boss, Rob, hopes that Carmen could even make it to the cover soon when The Bear takes off. You’re not sure how you feel about bypassing Carmen completely and going straight to his sister.

So one Thursday, in early May, you decide to walk there, unannounced. You corner the building, passing a big glass window, and before you make it to the main entrance, you nearly collide with a very wonky wooden stepladder. With Carmen Berzatto on top of it, fiddling with a screwdriver or a similar tool, and a signboard.

The second you make contact with the ancient stepladder, Carmen shouts, "Fuck!"

“Sorry,” you yelp, and one glance at the man high up confirms that you are indeed dealing with the Chef himself.

“Could you watch out?” he says angrily as he makes his way down, measuring every step carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, waiting anxiously for Carmen to—hopefully—recognize you. To anyone walking by, you must look like an idiot, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting motionless and stiff for a guy to climb down a ladder.

You don’t know what you had been expecting but definitely not Carmen staring at you with his huge, bloodshot eyes for seconds that feel like minutes. You nearly turn around and walk away, no joke.

He looks—

“You look—” you start. Terrible. But also, like, gorgeous. Terribly tired but hot. Is it awful of you to think that?

“Hi,” Carmen says, one hand going into the big mess of his hair, the other one into his pants pocket. He's avoiding your eyes, which makes you even more nervous, makes you think it was not such a great idea to come here.

“Hi!” you say, probably overly enthusiastically. “You're back in Chicago,” is the first thing you can think of.

He nods. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, congrats on the new place,” you say, gesturing to the building behind him, newspaper covering the windows. “I'm really sorry, I thought it was already open,” you explain, tugging on the hem of your lilac sweatshirt nervously. Can he tell you’re lying? “Becky mentioned something about it.”

“No, we’re opening next week,” Carmen says, holding a cigarette between his fingers.

“I'm really curious,” you smile carefully, testing the waters, wondering how he's going to react. You haven't seen each other in more than five years, and Carmen's never been exactly friendly. Not like mean, but definitely not easily approachable. “I work for this magazine, and we would love to do a feature on this,” you say, leaving out that it's you who would be writing it. Who wants to write it. Not only about the place but about Carmen, the enigma, the quiet boy, the excellent chef.

He only nods, clearly not sharing your enthusiasm. “Maybe later,” he taps the cigarette against the palm of his other hand. “When we're ready for this kind of thing.”

“Of course,” you agree quickly.

“Might be a while.”

“So what is the big plan?”

Carmen looks at you, measuring you. Like he thinks you have some ulterior motive. He lights up the cigarette, taking a long drag from it, and you fight not to scrunch your nose in disgust. The older you get, the more you hate the smell. Especially when someone is blowing out the smoke aimlessly—almost—in your face.

“My partner—Sydney, she’s hung up on the stars. So I guess a fine dining kinda place,” Carmen says, flicking the cigarette butt in the general direction of the gutter. The second sentence comes out more like a question than a statement, but you are still processing the first one.

“You run a business with your girlfriend?” you swear you don’t mean it to sound so accusing.

Carmen takes a step back, physically—bumping into the stepladder behind him—and mentally, too. “No! She—Sydney’s my business partner.” The defensive tone tells you exactly how your words sounded though. You wince. “We’ve been working on the new concept together with Nat, and the whole crew, actually. It’s—it’s a family business, I guess—uhm. We had only like three months to finish, and—”

You can see he’s really flustered. He’s starting to stutter, hand nervously scratching his neck. You hate the sight, hate that you’ve made him feel like this.

“I’m sorry!” you interrupt him. “It came out all wrong. I shouldn’t have said that,” you say urgently, hoping to see him relax back to his non-caring, nonchalant, tired-looking self. How could you mess up so quickly? Is that your special ability or a curse?

“‘s fine,” Carmen says, and he does relax a bit, shoulders dropping an inch. He doesn’t look friendly though. Or in the mood for a chat. “I just—she’s a business partner,” he repeats obstinately, face red.

The moment grows awkward. In your coat pocket, you touch a pack of chewing gum and start fiddling with it. “I—my office is nearby so I thought I could come around and see the progress,” you say into the void, trying not to cringe too much. “Maybe I would take a few colleagues for dinner.”

“The reservations aren't open yet,” Carmen says in a flat voice. You can’t call him out because it’s probably true anyway. Plus, you just lied again—the offices are not close; you had taken the L—and you feel bad about it.

There’s not much left to say, you realize. He’s not giving you any space to turn this “accidental” meeting into a proper conversation. You shuffle your feet nervously, feeling stupid.

“Alright. It was nice seeing you!” you say, as it’s about time to end this. “Hope everything’s gonna work out great!” you add in a cheerful tone, already setting to walk back to the station.

“Yeah. Thanks. Bye.” Carmen says back, lighting a second cigarette.

What a nightmare, you think as you walk through the busy streets.

—

In the following weeks, you almost forget about The Bear. Rob complains about the nonexistent article on the new, already hyped-up restaurant and wasted opportunities, but what can you do? The not-at-all-accidental meeting with Carmen had been a disaster you actively try to erase from your mind. Working on your regular column and material for the website keeps you busy. Then Becky calls out of nowhere, and you two arrange lunch at The Marq. You end up swapping hilarious stories from the last two months you hadn’t seen each other, and you secretly pray she doesn’t ask about Natalie Berzatto or her brother. You're out of luck, because she does—of course she does—and you have to lay the cards on the table.

“You did contact Nat first though?” is the first thing Becky asks.

“I didn’t,” you shake your head. “I didn’t want to exclude Carmen right at the very beginning,” you admit.

“Oh god,” Becky rolls her eyes at you, taking a small bite of her salmon cake sandwich.

“I knooow,” you quickly stop her, feeling like ordering something stronger than the simple soda you’ve been drinking.

“I think you should still call Natalie,” Becky says, pointing at you with a determined frown. “I went to see her and her new baby just last week. She asked about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Apparently they could really use some help getting the word out about The Bear. A good excuse to talk Carmen into an interview maybe? An exclusive one?” She wiggles her eyebrows, knowing how cool it would be for you to come up with this.

“Maybe,” you muse, playing it cool. Inside, you are already hyped up about the possibility of scoring the first interview with the former best chef in the world. Is he still good at all? Why did he disappear? Why is he back?

—

The anxiety of the following days forces you to actually text Natalie. You’ve been checking online websites and Instagram accounts apprehensively, worried that a medium might publish something about The Bear before you get a chance. Rob isn’t a dick, but you wouldn’t want to look incompetent in his eyes. So far, you’ve been able to steer away from conversations about the new Carmen Berzatto restaurant at work. Your work ethic makes it difficult for you to let The Bear go without a fight.

That’s how you find yourself in front of Natalie’s door. When she opens it, she doesn’t hide her fervor.

“Oh, finally! Hi! Please come in.” She ushers you inside. You’ve never seen her in person, only on Becky’s Instagram, maybe, and even though the exhaustion is apparent on the woman’s face, you can spot the similarities with Carmen in her features right away.

From the dark hallway, she leads you to the sitting room. When you look around, it’s hard to find a clutter-free space. Every surface is covered with baby clothes, baby diapers, baby wipes—clean and dirty—bottles—full and empty.

“Sorry for the mess,” Natalie appears next to you, snatching away a baby muslin from the sofa. “Have a seat, please,” she nods. “The baby’s asleep. Hopefully for the next—” and she checks her watch, “another twenty minutes.”

As you sit down, Natalie collapses into an armchair, not minding what appears to be a pile of freshly washed newborn onesies and other clothes underneath her.

“Thank you so much for stopping by,” she says sincerely, and you notice the many stains on her purple t-shirt.

You smile. “No problem.”

“Becky said that you know stuff about Instagram and social media and marketing and all that?” Natalie’s eyes are wide and hopeful.

“I would say so,” you nod.

“I’m not sure what Becky mentioned already,” Natalie says as she starts pulling the baby clothes from under her and folding them absentmindedly. That definitely says something about the state she’s in, without Becky describing the situation to you—not only with The Bear but also Nat herself. “Carmy’s putting so much into the restaurant—we all are—so much hope,” she babbles, “none of us have slept properly in weeks—months! And now the baby...” Natalie’s gaze becomes unfocused for a moment before she blinks rapidly. “The timing’s not so great,” she forces out a weak laugh, and you smile again, already feeling bad for her, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

“I understand. It’s hard,” you empathize, feeling genuinely bad—not for The Bear—but for Natalie.

“I’m not a marketing guru, but I can research things,” she carries on, more confident now. “But I can’t be there all the time, y’know? It’s just not possible. If—if someone could help with keeping the place afloat and spreading the word—” she stops talking and folding, looking directly at you. “That would be just so awesome,” she finishes quietly, her bottom lip wobbling.

You know that Nat’s not trying to emotionally blackmail you, even though the situation kinda feels like it, and you do feel for her.

“I can help, yes.”

“I’ll talk to Carm and Sydney, and we’ll figure out how much we can offer you!” The relief and excitement are apparent in the way Nat jumps up from the armchair.

“That’s alright, really,” you say calmly, putting a hand on her arm now that she’s closer. “We can discuss this later,” and you give her another encouraging smile.

The unmistakable sound of a baby crying comes from somewhere in the house. Poor Natalie freezes, her hand going to touch her chest. She takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank you. Thank you,” and she takes a hold of your hand, squeezing it. “I’ll tell Sydney to get in touch with you—or you can actually just go to the restaurant; they know about you.”

That makes you slightly uncertain as you remember your first attempt at an unannounced visit to The Bear.

“Alright,” you nod with a polite smile. After all, you’re getting something out of this too.

—

Sydney texts you exactly 22 minutes after you leave worn-out Natalie and her baby behind and invites you to come to The Bear the next day. To make yourself appear more untouchable, you reply that the soonest you’re available is next Monday. Make them wait.

It gets you on edge, though, and more than once you think of Carmen in his tiny Copenhagen kitchen, how things used to be. How easy it is to grow apart. Not that you’d been friends exactly. Hard to be anything like that with a person as closed off as Carmen Berzatto.

On the agreed Monday, you dare to finish early at work and take the train to The Bear. Your stomach is in knots, even though you’ve been pretty brave about the whole thing. It’s just—you’re not sure how Carmen’s gonna react when he sees you, and you’re already thinking about the worst possible scenarios. Just stop! you tell yourself resolutely, forcing yourself to concentrate on the simple but well-thought-out marketing plan you prepared to present. Without being asked. If Carmen sees that you actually KNOW things, he might change his opinion about you. Not that you KNOW his opinion, but—maybe he would actually acknowledge you finally.

It’s just after the family meal when you arrive. A tall man who introduces himself as Richie lets you in instantly, and he’s clearly been informed about your arrivall. As soon as Sydney is notified of your presence, she rushes to you from the kitchen in the back, wiping her hands on her apron. You notice right away that she’s friendly and calm, and it relaxes your nerves. There’s no doubt she loves the restaurant and her job, and you see that she worries as much as Natalie does, or even more.

“We’re opening in two hours, so it’s a bit wild in the back, but maybe you wanna see the kitchen?” Sydney offers as she’s showing you around the newly restored restaurant, opening the heavy door. “A quick peek,” she adds as a loud cracking noise comes out of the exact door.

You’ve been to a couple of kitchens, and you must say that this one’s definitely on the chaotic side of the scale. People in white aprons run here and there, no one’s still, not even for a second. There’s a good amount of shouting and a huge amount of swearing. In the middle of everything, there’s Chef Carmen Berzatto. He looks like a character from Cartoon Network. His wild hair is sticking out in all directions, dark tattoos covering his arms and hands, face sweaty, eyes ready to pop out of his head. He’s shorter than most people you see circling the kitchen, but the loudest one. He shouts orders, and you notice the vein on the side of his neck—it sure is ready to burst. You wonder how far he is from having a heart attack.

“Or maybe next time,” Sydney mutters, gently pushing you out of the way and shutting the door again. She leads you to one of the brown wooden tables where you settle again.

“Is he always like that?” you ask Sydney, actually glad that you’re not in the room where the storm’s currently happening.

“Only when he’s stressed,” Sydney explains shortly, an apologetic smile on her lips.

When it comes to money, it’s obvious The Bear doesn’t have much to spare, that much is clear. Sydney is extremely apologetic and sweet about it.

“There’s a marketing budget—previously non-existent—that we’ve set aside and can offer. It’s just not much, I’m afraid,” she tells you, jittery.

You want to reassure her, to tell her that you're doing it for Carmen, for an old "friend." But from what you've gathered, Sydney doesn't even know that Carmen knows you.

So you just smile and reassure her anyway. "I'll put it on my resume. I can use more cases with social media for hospitality," you lie.

Nodding, Sydney clarifies, "Yes, just Instagram. Please. Carmy doesn't want to put anything in the press. Yet."

When a curious Richie joins you at the table, you present the Instagram plan to both of them. Even though Richie can't help making a few rather stupid remarks that only he finds funny, they both listen carefully. You see a lot of skepticism on Richie's face, probably because he doesn't understand some of the big words, you guess, but Sydney seems to be really into everything from pictures of the food and the weekly specials, to quick reels showing potential customers a little bit of behind-the-scenes action.

"Oh, I'm sure Cousin will be thrilled to have people sticking their noses into his business," Richie says, and you're not sure how serious he is. But Sydney shushes him, and you carry on, showing her the mock-up of the possible Instagram feed to set the mood for the profile.

For the next three weeks, you go to The Bear twice a week to gather some content—photos and videos. You talk to the crew and film those who are okay with it. Your presence is met with mixed emotions, but Sydney's gratitude and kindness make up for every suspicious glare and exasperated sigh when you find yourself in someone's way. Besides the restaurant, you take your neighbor's dog for a long walk every Saturday morning, call your mom and dad to check in, scroll Instagram instead of finally starting an actual book, and often wonder why Carmen is so hostile towards you.

Generally, you try not to hang out in the kitchen directly, especially not when Chef Carmen is present. Being uncomfortable in a new environment makes you positively anxious, causing you to go through a whole pack of your favorite cinnamon Simply Gums a day.

You also remember to always tie your hair up—not that the staff there wear hairnets or anything, but you don't want Carmen to find another reason to frown at you. He's been basically only frowning or ignoring you. Hard to tell which one is worse.

You always clean your hands super thoroughly, like during COVID, singing the "Happy Birthday" song to time it before daring to even stick your finger in the restaurant. Sydney offers you an apron to protect your work clothes, which you refuse. You sense from some people there that you're not entirely welcome.

But the more you avoid Carmen, the more likely you are to bump into him. You know Murphy's Law. So one morning, he just appears from around the corner, carrying a tray of mushrooms.

For a second, you're actually horrified that he's going to introduce himself. Before that can happen, you blurt out, "Uh—do you remember me? Copenhagen?"

Carmen stops and looks at you, wiping his wet hands on the towel attached to the string of his white apron. "Yeah," he confirms, "yeah, I do." He says your name, all soft and correct, along with your surname, and with his eyes fixed on you, you're frozen to the spot, affected whether you like it or not. Then he leaves to taste Tina's roasted peppers.

Obviously, your mind can't let the episode slip away. As you type copy for the upcoming Instagram posts, you pause every so often to cringe at how embarrassing you behaved. Of course, he remembers you, for fuck's sake! You're working in his restaurant—kinda.

"Hey! Copenhagen! You wanna see this?" Carmen yells a bit later from the other side of the kitchen, and you falter, deciding whether you're really going to answer to him calling you that.

You bite your tongue and trail hesitantly to the station where Carmen is with Tina and Ebraheim, gathered around a saucepan.

"Tina, chef, this is excellent. Well done," Carmen says to her as you approach, then turns to you.

"This is what we wanna share with the world. Perfect red pepper sauce. Simple but delicious."

"Okay," you respond, taking in the expectant way all three of them are looking at you. Like you're some kind of magician. Or a fraud.

"Just," Carmen adds before he sets off, "no recipes leave this kitchen," and he waits for you to confirm.

"Right."

Slowly, you start to question why you're helping The Bear. Is it because two years ago you thought of Carmen and what you might have felt for him? What could have been? More than the chef himself, you find yourself growing fond of the place and the employees—some of them! Seeing the Instagram followers number increase fills you with pride and satisfaction. Fuck Carmen.

---

Mornings are usually the only time when Carmen isn’t around, and you try to time your visits so your paths don’t cross.

Wanting to snap photos of the new tableware and make a quick, fun video reel, you head into the kitchen. There's no one around—Sweeps is probably hiding somewhere, and Sydney might be in the office. Not wanting to bother anyone, you set your always-heavy handbag on a chair and start looking for everything you need. There's no reason for you to feel like you're sneaking around, but you can't help feeling nervous. That’s when your clumsiness strikes, and you manage to knock over a glass of water. Rolling your eyes, you get on your hands and knees to wipe the spilled water with a rug that you hope is meant for cleaning, as you’re very aware of every item having its particular function here.

You straighten up and stretch to get one more plate from the shelf. Then you lose your footing on the still-wet tiles. Your foot slips, and the top plate falls to the countertop with a loud cracking noise. You react quickly, trying to break the fall, but there's no use. The plate shatters to pieces.

Of course, it’s Carmen himself who emerges from the door leading to the office, and you wince—both physically and mentally—preparing yourself for a very unpleasant collision.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he approaches you, eyebrows pinched. He’s not wearing his chef whites, just a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans.

“Sorry, I—” you start apologizing as Carmen stands next to you, assessing the damage.

“What—what’re you doing here?” he asks in a very flat voice, staring at the pieces of ceramic.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to tidy this and also pay for the plate, obviously,” you ramble, reaching down for the shards.

“Don’t,” Carmy barks, stopping you by grabbing your shaking hands in his. His hands are big, the tattoos making them look harsh and crude, even though the touch is gentle. “Don’t cut yourself,” he adds quietly, holding you until you relax your arms and then a second longer.

He must sense your nervousness. “It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Carmen assures you, catching your eye. “Hey,” he lays a soft hand on your arm, “step away, I’ll clean this.”

Nodding, you step back and wait patiently, disconcerted, watching as Carmen carefully handles and discards the shards, then checks the floor for any tiny fragments. He turns back to you.

“Are you okay?” he checks.

“Yeah.” And you’re more thrown off balance by having Carmen pay attention to you, all of a sudden, than by damaging the kitchen’s equipment.

He studies you for a moment, his face unreadable, and you’re the one to look away first. Which you hate, by the way.

“You wanna see some stuff I’ve been working on?”

“Sure,” you agree, taking a deep breath to relax further. “I’m sorry. The loud noise—” you wave your hand in the air vaguely, rolling your eyes at yourself. “Just scared the shit out of me, I guess,” you finish with an apologetic smile.

“You’re alright,” Carmen confirms and disappears for a bit. In the meantime, you have a small meltdown, shaking your head at yourself for being so, so very terribly lame. Luckily, before he returns with a tray of different dishes, you pull yourself together.

Carmen sets the tray down, revealing an array of colorful and sophisticated meals that instantly catch your curiosity.

“Any allergies?” he asks.

“Passion fruit—easily avoidable. Sometimes kiwi,” you list. “And grumpy chefs,” you add cheekily, feeling bold.

Carmen pauses. “I’m not grumpy. I’m focused.”

“You weren’t like this in Copenhagen,” you say softly, leaning a bit closer to him, your body language signaling that once you had been comfortable around each other.

“I’m more focused now,” Carmen retorts, stubborn and maybe a bit offended. “Back then I—uhm—I felt comfortable around you. It was easy.”

“And now?” you almost whisper.

But Carmen ignores the question, pushing the first bowl closer to you. “Here, taste this… or take a picture and then taste it.”

And you understand that the re-bonding is over.

---

Soon, you drop the habit of visiting the restaurant only in the mornings. One reason is that spending time with Carmen, talking to him or watching him cook and explain things, makes you late for work twice in a row. That usually never happens as you take pride in being on time at the office. You don’t work at The Bear for money, but you hardly think about it that way. When you decide to pop in during the morning, Carmen shares his deadly strong black coffee that he mills himself with you. It’s bitter but heavenly. Secretly, you like drinking it while chewing your favorite cinnamon gum, which somehow makes the taste even better—smoother and richer.

The second reason—you discover that Carmen is much calmer in the evenings after service. Less jittery, more relaxed. His blood flows slower, you think. His heart pumps with more ease. Sydney and he share thoughts and plans for the restaurant with you while you all sit at an empty table. It’s nice, you think, while watching Carmen’s hands play with a napkin. His hands are especially nice.

It’s Saturday and raining as you find yourself sitting in Gordon Ramsay's Burger. Nothing could’ve surprised you more than Carmen asking you to go out eat together. Had he felt bad for ignoring you at the beginning? You’re watching the rivers of raindrops on the big glass window, waiting for Carmen. As usual, you’re ten minutes early, and after you order a Life’s a Beach, the first thing on your mind is you're just early, he didn't stand you up, and then: this is not a date, babe! Which instantly startles you into sitting up straight and looking around, as if someone could see your embarrassing thoughts. Why are you even thinking about this?? Then Carmen arrives, wet patches on his shoulders and jeans that cling to his thighs. He chooses the Chicago hot dog and three different burgers with a bunch of sides. While he only nibbles on them and writes down notes on his phone, you feel bad for wasting the food and eat more than you should. Carmen studies the buns very carefully and asks you a lot of questions about the food, some of which you find amusing and actually—endearing. When you go to bed that night, your belly’s uncomfortably full. You dream that you’re pregnant and about to go into labor, and you’re pretty sure that Carmen’s the father. And, honestly, do you need a book of dreams to explain the meaning? Fuck.

---

All goes to hell next week when Carmen sees you eating a sandwich from the corner shop down the street. Instead of having your regular lunch with Becky, you’ve chosen to run to The Bear so you could see Marcus unveil his new dessert. But before that, you popped into the nearby deli to order a mozzarella and sundried tomato sandwich. No one at The Bear had ever explicitly invited you to the family meal, and you would never dare to have free food there. But the way Carmen looks at you while you sit on the step by the back exit, eating the rather dry sandwich, is indescribable. The stern look on his face is back, with a closed-off facade. His eyes are cold. Before you take it all in, you wave at him awkwardly, chewing. Carmen retreats back inside wordlessly, leaving you confused and a little hurt.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere surrounding you doesn’t improve when you return to work, the stupid sandwich sitting in your stomach like a heavy stone. You have a big argument in the meeting room while planning the next month's issue. Then one of your co-workers makes a nasty remark about your single life. The afternoon drags on painfully slowly, which forces you to message your cousin—an astrologist extraordinaire—to check what the heck is going on with the universe.

Tuesday morning is rough. The second you wake up, you know you’ve overslept because you never get up without the alarm ringing angrily. A single glance at your phone proves it to be true. Right after, you notice three missed calls from Sydney and two from Nat. There are no text messages, though.

At first, you intend to call Rob to beg for a home office day, something you rarely ever use. But as soon as you check your calendar, you’re reminded of the big conference happening from 11 a.m. until 5 p.m. You rush to work, finishing your makeup on the train, then enter the office building to quickly run through notes with your colleagues. The first time you have a chance to make a quick phone call is when you finally go to the bathroom. It’s Natalie who you manage to reach first, as the lunch rush at The Bear is just unfolding. Over the cries of Natalie’s baby, you hear half-sentences about a recipe, Carmen, and a leak. It’s hard to put it all together. At 4 p.m., Nat finally sends you a text. It says: “Recipe’s published in Taste of Home. Carm’s mad. Says someone leaked it.”

It contains a link to the Taste of Home website, with Carmen’s perfect Berkswell Pudding recipe in the Top Recipes of the Week, marked “Chef’s tip.” You check it again to make sure, and surely—it’s one of the dishes Carmen introduced to you just last week. You didn’t dare to photograph it, much less taste it. You remember concentrating on the way his lips moved when he explained the preparation process, not much on the cooking itself.

What’s clear to you is that the "Someone" from Nat’s message is actually you.

A gloomy dread settles in your stomach as the meeting goes on and on. You barely pay attention, which makes everything even worse. You’re scared of what’s happened in the restaurant, and you’re worried that you’re going to miss something important in the meeting.

When you run for a second quick bathroom break, instead of peeing, you think of your next step. You could try to call everyone in the restaurant, try to find out what the hell is going on. But you don’t want to be seen as hysterical. You check Instagram and possible messages to find traces of a catastrophe. There’s nothing. Again, you open the website with the recipe. The photos are pretty sloppy, definitely not something Carmen would prepare. As you check the ingredients, you notice there are some major differences from Carmen’s dish. All in all, the only thing that stops you from texting Carmen is your pride. And true fear.

Absolutely dreading facing Carmen, you make it to The Bear during dinner time. Which, obviously, is the worst possible timing. You’re only praying that he’s not in the kitchen but hiding in his office, deep in paperwork.

It’s Sydney who you meet first as you sneak into the restaurant through the back door. She grabs your arm.

“Don’t go to talk to him now! He’s in a really, really bad mood. Natalie and I were trying to call you.” There’s genuine worry on Sydney’s face, her eyes big and honest.

“I don’t understand what happened,” you frown. You can feel a headache approaching from the intense day in the office. “I think he should tell me himself if there’s a problem.”

“I’ve been trying to work it out with him, to explain—”

“Explain what?” you question, more sternly than you usually are around Syd.

She falters. “It’s just this stupid thing—and we love having you—don’t let Carmy upset you,” Sydney half-explains. It doesn’t make much sense, and you shake your head, heading to the office. You’re more mad than afraid now.

You don’t wait for an invite after you knock shortly. Closing the door behind you, you find Carmen leaning against the desk, a bottle of water in his hand.

Everything inside of you drops the second he lays his eyes on you. There’s no doubt he’s angry.

“Didn’t Natalie tell you you don’t have to come here again?” Carmen asks curtly. “I’m surprised you think it’s okay to be here.”

Not expecting Carmen to be this harsh from the beginning, you swallow instead of answering.

“I hope that you’re happy now,” he says meanly, putting the bottle down on the desk.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you croak out, sincerely meaning it.

Carmen straightens up, watching you like a feline. “The recipe. It’s out. One fucking thing I asked not to get out, and now the whole of America can see and fucking even cook it at home.”

You’re frozen to the spot. From the very beginning, you knew that Carmen is not a person to mess with, hoping that you would never experience his anger directed at you. Now it’s happening.

You want to say something about no one being able to cook the way he does, but it’s pointless. Instead, you’re fighting off the flush on your face from embarrassment. You feel like a child being scolded, but you don’t want to look like one.

The muted but still loud kitchen noises bleed through the closed door. A shout, clattering. Not loud enough to stop Carmen from piercing you through and through with his ice-cold eyes.

“I promise I didn’t do anything like that,” you say, desperately wanting the chef to believe you. “I swear!”

Carmen pinches the bridge of his nose, one hand propped on his waist. You wait, breathless, for his next move, scared to death. The shirt you have on is wet with your sweat. The really badly smelling kind—the one your body produces when you’re stressed or scared. And you’ve been stressed since the very morning. You flinch when you move your arm and the odor hits your nose, hoping that Carmen can’t smell you. You would be mortified. The strap of your tote bag is digging into your shoulder painfully, but you don’t dare to move to put it down to relieve your arm.

“This all doesn’t—it doesn’t make any sense,” Carmen starts pacing, looking down at the floor and not at you anymore. You’re not sure if it’s better this way. “You come here, wanna do a fucking interview with me, or some shit, then you show up again—this time wanting to work here. For free! So, please, tell me—how does it sound, huh?”

Petrified, you realize how exactly it all sounds. When Carmen says it like this, it makes you look like a fraud. Like a terrible, terrible person. A liar. Your mind goes weeks back, back to the moment you actually thought of maybe digging some scoop in here, maybe convincing Carmen to do the interview after all. But it’s far from how he’s making the situation sound.

“Carmen,” you start without knowing what you want to say. Carmen’s stopped walking around the tiny office like a caged animal, and he’s again looking at you. There’s so much tension in his face, back hunched. “It sounds bad, but may I explain—”

“You may not,” he cuts you off briskly. His neck—normally a place you find sexy—is all red, and the thick vein there is getting more and more prominent by the second. “No one fucks with my business, you understand?” Oh—and he’s shouting now.

The natural defense, you didn’t know existed, is to make yourself smaller. Somehow, anyhow. You hang your head, avoiding looking at his face. You just can’t meet his eyes, even though Carmen’s bowing and tilting his head to force you to.

“It’s like I have to start asking the staff to sign an NDA,” he carries on.

Carmen’s getting slowly closer and closer to you, pushing you against the wall by the door. He’s not touching you but only because you’re not allowing it. You’re sick with humiliation. Lost for words, probably for the first time in your life.

“—and Nat fucking leaves me here—us, all of us—and that’s just not fair. I would expect so, so much more from my sister. Not that my brother was much better,” he chuckles humorlessly, but you see it’s more like an effort to catch his breath. “Lousy fuckers… Do you think you do your job well here, chef?”

He’s scaring you now. The hair by his temples and above his forehead is damp, and his gesticulation is wild and weird.

“Do we disgust you here, is that right, hm?” Carmen probably finally sees your frightened expression because he adds, “Why would you buy food somewhere else and then come here to eat it?!” You understand that he’s referring to the day he saw you eating the sandwich by the rear exit. Unsure whether he expects you to reply, you decide to stay quiet. Your knees are starting to shake, from exhaustion after the long day and perhaps, from Carmen’s current behavior.

“It made ME sick,” he says, his face just inches from yours when one of his hands slams into the thin wall right next to your head. The noise echoes in the room, and you’re desperately hoping it’s not loud enough for the others to hear from outside. You would die on the spot if they knew what’s going on here.

“Who do you think you are?” Carmen shouts some more, loud, by your ear. It vibrates through you and never stops. You’re shivering all over, you notice. It’s not okay, not okay!

At last, you raise your head, chin jutting out. “No one’s going to talk to me like this. No one,” you spit out in the chef’s face, taking him by surprise. “Don’t you ever shout at me again,” and you jab him right in the middle of his chest, instead of punching him there like he deserves.

When you’re leaving his office and rushing to the back exit, you hear Carmen yelling.

Everything feels tense and your hands are shaking. Your jaw is set so hard your teeth could crush from the pressure. The fresh air hits your face, and you focus on breathing deeply through your nose. The sounds remind you of a steam engine. You walk for about a minute, mind blank with the shock. Only when you turn a corner do you allow yourself to stop, which causes the first tears to fall. You’re so mad at yourself. Why the fuck are you crying?! There’s so much frustration in the crazy mixture of emotions you’re feeling. You’re completely overwhelmed with it, not knowing what to focus on at first.

Out of habit, you look for your phone in your handbag to check the screen. The fucking heavy bag that’s been killing your shoulder. Frustrated, you let it slide off your arm and down to the sidewalk. You don’t even care if it breaks, as it lands with a noisy, dull sound. It had been years since you got properly yelled at, and you’re angry that it affects you this much. You promise yourself to take a few seconds here, in the middle of an empty street, then call a cab. At home, you can cry.

PART II

[cha-melodius]

For the snippet game: 💚 (magic kiss) for FirstPrince

Also can't wait to read the next chapter of the spy-soulmate au. You're a genius. What an au!

(I already did one magic kiss that you can find here, so here's a bit of a different version. thank you so much for your kind words, I hope you enjoy this little fairytale! read all the kiss ficlets)

Alex stumbles toward the edge of the lake, toward the rushes that gather there and the glimmering water beyond. He knows he’s dying, that’s not in question, but the animal instincts in his brain refuse to give up. He’s just so thirsty, and maybe if he gets a swallow of water, he’ll be able to gather enough strength to get to the village healer. Who will absolutely not be able to do anything for the wound currently stretching across his abdomen.

He’s so delirious, he doesn’t even realize who’s lake he’s approaching until he’s slumping to the soft, damp ground on the shore. His knees press into the mud as he shakily draws the clear water to his mouth over and over again, though it makes no difference to his thirst.

“Alex?” comes a familiar, musical voice. One that’s filled his ears and his dreams since he was a small child who ignored his family’s warnings not to go near the lake. He looks up into blue eyes as deep and clear as the lake itself, now wide and filled with fear as they take in Alex’s state. Henry comes closer and reaches out, pressing a hand to Alex’s wound. When he pulls it back, the bright red blood stands out starkly against skin so pale it’s almost translucent. “What happened?”

“Bandits,” Alex coughs. Normally, he’d be able to handle himself, but not when it’s ten against one. “I was coming home from the market and they got the drop on me.”

“Oh, darling,” Henry murmurs as he presses a gentle hand to Alex’s cheek. His long blond hair hangs wet over his shoulders and spreads into the lake, where it mingles with Alex’s blood in the water.

“Don’t suppose you can do anything?” Alex ventures, though he knows it’s a long shot. He shudders, curling in on himself. “‘M so cold.”

Henry bites his full, pink lip, a furrow appearing between his brows. “I could save your life in exchange for a kiss.”

Alex may have struck up an unexpected friendship with a water spirit, but that doesn’t mean he’s ignorant to their dangers. He smiles a little. “What’s the catch?”

“You’ll belong to me,” Henry says softly. “Forever.”

“Is that all?” Alex replies with a harsh, wet laugh. “Kiss me, sweetheart.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking for,” Henry protests.

“I understand well enough.” Alex summons what’s left of his strength and reaches out for Henry, though he can’t manage to pull him any closer. His thumb presses to the inside of Henry’s wrist, but the only pulse that thrums there is his own, steadily weakening. “I already belong to you. Forever. Just kiss me. Please.”

Henry’s lips part as he stares at Alex in shocked disbelief, but then he’s moving, pulling Alex into the lake. The frigid water knocks the remaining air from Alex’s lungs and he has to fight against the survival instincts that tell him to fight Henry’s grasp, but Henry’s not dragging him down to drown him like all the stories warn. Henry’s holding him close to keep him safe, and when their lips finally meet, Alex feels warmth flood back into his body despite the coolness of Henry’s skin against his.

Alex chases his lips when Henry tries to pull away, kisses him longer and harder like he’s wanted to for so long, not because of Henry’s beauty but also his intelligence and his humor and his heart. Because Alex loves him, and has since the first day he met a young Henry by the lake, though it took him a while to realize it. For a moment Henry just lets himself be kissed, but then something seems to snap and he’s kissing Alex back just as fiercely, and the warmth grows between them until Alex realizes it’s not just him that’s warm—Henry is, too.

That finally makes Alex pull out of the kiss, frowning at the water spirit. “Henry, what…?”

In answer, Henry grabs his wrist and presses Alex’s palm over his chest to feel the steady thud of a heartbeat that wasn’t there before. 

“Magic is tricky,” he says with a little, cautious smile. “I belong to you too, love.”

[fogwitchoftheevermore]

making yourself up as you go (a 12x100 about ESMP S1 and transgenderism)

(fic can also be read on ao3 here. cw for gender dysphoria and mild transphobia)

Katherine has, as far as anyone knows, always been Katherine. Always been the beautiful, lithe, perfect fairy they expect when they hear her name.

There is a certain image faer titles bring to mind, to faer fellow emperors and fairies alike. And if Katherine’s magic is any good- and it is good- that is the image they will always get, whenever they think of her.

It is only Katherine, now, who remembers that small and gangly child, hair too short and eyes too bright. He lives only in her mind, now, and Katherine is quite content to keep him there.

---

Shrub still doesn’t really get it, the gender thing. She grew up with something almost similar, but the words he used then, the words people used for his parents and baby sister, sound foreign and wrong on her new friends’ tongues.

So instead, Shrub looks at herself in the mirror, at her stocky build and choppy hair and mismatched socks, and she takes it in stride. It’s not wrong, the words her friends suggest- sometimes they even feel nice. They’re just not his, in the way nothing here truly is. In this way that means he’ll take what he can get.

---

Joey doesn’t understand what all the fuss is about. Maybe when he was younger, when becoming a boy was a much darker bruise, he would’ve understood better all the stress his new friends feel about the thing. Nowadays, however, Joey’s settled so well into the feeling that it’s hard to remember he was ever something else. 

It certainly helps that no one he knows nowadays knew him as a kid, or that his closest friend and neighbor is a gnome who doesn’t understand human gender anyways. Joey is a man, now. Does there need to be anything else to it?

---

Fwhip has been grasping for whatever parts of manhood he could reach since he was young, and he still feels less than halfway there. It’s the small things- reminding ambassadors that it’s Sir, trying to match the bulk and height of his fellow emperors, making his voice sound deep enough to be believed. It’s the big things too, the things that make him taste bile when he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

But it’s easier to ignore the persistent ache, these days, with people, people like him, drowning out the voice of the angry little girl in his brain.

---

Gem sometimes feels like she hasn’t grown past the little girl she was 10 years ago. Sometimes, the face in the mirror isn’t hers, but a child in their mother’s clothes who’s about to discover her greatest secret, greatest joy.

It was hard, for a long time. The Crystal Cliffs only ever knew her as Gem, but she couldn’t help but feel like they could see right through her, through her dresses and long hair to the core of her person, to the too-tall little boy with knobby knees and broad shoulders.

Nowadays, though, all they can see is Gem.

---

Sausage knows how she looks. With her strong, tall build, her dark, coarse facial hair, her deep voice, she knows how she looks. And most of the time, it doesn’t bother him. He finds joy in the familiarity of masculinity the same way he does the novelty of femininity and androgyny.

But Sausage can’t help but be jealous. For all they love their body, they long for the beauty Katherine holds in every step, the androgyny Scott has never had to convince anyone to respect. Jealousy runs deep in Sausage’s bones, and she does her best to push it down.

---

Pearl has been pretty lucky, if she might say so herself. For the most part, her people have been quite accommodating when she slips in (or occasionally out) of being a woman. Farmer Queen or King, as long as Pearl can harvest, can defend his kingdom with fervor, how specifically he does it doesn’t tend to matter.

Pearl finds freedom in her gender, in her fancy dresses and heavy armor alike. In a world that becomes more complicated by the day, it feels good to have something, anything, that Pearl has full control over, and that makes her so happy.

---

Scott was much more of a pushover when he first became King. He let his advisors make decisions, he let the people around him form opinions of him and didn’t dispute them. It came with the territory of being a kid, of being thrown headfirst into a mass of worlds you didn’t understand. Nowadays, Scott has a century’s worth of ruling under their belt, and is much more willing to bite back against these incorrect assumptions.

He cannot deny, however, that people got one thing right. That ethereal androgyny humans tended to assign to elves? Yeah, that one was pretty spot on.

---

Joel doesn’t answer questions about her gender. There are simply more important things they could be talking about. Not only does it not matter, but it never has. No one ever cared about his gender when he was small, why should that change now that he was grown? Now that he was in charge? Lots of things that mattered as a kid didn’t matter now that xe was in charge, and in Joel’s opinion, that’s how it should be. The more power Joel gets, the older she grows, the less the world should place on her shoulders. It’s only fair.

---

When Jimmy washed up on the shores of the Codlands, the fisherman who found him called him a girl. He didn't speak the language yet, so he didn’t know what that meant. Once they learned the language, they still didn’t really understand. But sea knew it didn’t feel right, that calling searself she left a pit in sear stomach that sea couldn’t understand.

Even now, Jimmy doesn’t quite know why this new gender feels better. Codfather, Codboy, man, he doesn’t understand it in the way his human friends do. But that doesn’t matter as much as knowing it feels right.

---

The first person Lizzie met on land was a beautiful woman, tall and slender and suddenly, Lizzie understood everything she’d ever wanted to be. Lizzie molded herself on the humans of Pixandria, the fishfolk of the Codlands, and she took their words that sounded nice in her voice, looked right next to her name, until she’d made a person that felt entirely, totally, hers.

As time has gone on, that person has evolved. They’re taller now, they remember where they came from and what they originally wanted out of life. But Lizzie doesn’t think she’ll ever forget that beautiful woman.

---

Pix is beginning to get sick of being people’s queer awakenings. They’re happy to help, of course, but this is getting ridiculous.

Pixandria has always been removed from the cultures of its fellow humans. Being so far away, it was only natural that its people would care less about the customs that mattered so greatly to their fellows. So Pix gets it, when these young kids stumble through the gates of his city and take in all its differences for the first time, get exposed to the idea of more. He does, really!

But does it always have to be them?

[laura1633]

Maybe 1 would be good with Charles or Max helping one of the younger grid members building a nest.

Part 3 of the Omegaverse prompt game.

So I went with Omega Charles helping Omega Oscar. I threw in a little Alpha Max and Alpha Logan in here and some Lestappen <3

“This is a bit embarrassing,” Oscar nervously runs a hand through his hair, “but you are my grid father now,” the Australian gives Charles a wry knowing smile, “so I thought I could ask you something and you wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“What’s happened?” Charles’ nostrils flare as he takes in the way Oscar’s scent is bitter around the edges. Charles can’t quite work out if that is normal for the Australian omega or not. Scent blockers are mandatory at the paddock so he’s not too familiar with what Oscar’s normal aroma is but omegas normally smell sweet unless anxious, “Did something bad happen?”

“No nothing bad” Oscar starts to bounce up and down on the balls of his feet.

“I can get Max to sort them out for you” Charles offers. His alpha can actually be really intimidating when he needs to be. Charles’ offer is not completely selfless, seeing Max growling and baring his teeth is actually a bit of a turn on, especially when he’s in full on protective mode. Then again Charles also loves the soft gentle alpha Max who is perfect for snuggling up in the nest with. 

“I don’t need anyone sorting out.” Oscar laughs, Charles’ offer at least cheering the younger omega up momentarily, “It’s about an alpha, kind of.” 

“Kind of?” Charles cocks an eyebrow curiously, he absolutely loves a bit of gossip, although he’s almost certain he already knows which alpha Oscar is talking about.

“I invited Logan to come nest with me tonight” Oscar’s cheeks start to glow as his shifts his eye line so he’s not looking directly at Charles anymore, “It is actually the first time we are going to nest together.”

“You want sex advice?” Charles’ mind immediately jumps to his first time ‘nesting’ with Max. 

“No. God no, I don’t need advice on that” Oscar blushes even redder as soon as the words leave his mouth, “Nesting. I need help with the actual nesting part.”

“Oh!” It’s Charles’ turn to get a little flustered as he realises his error, “You need nesting materials. I have some spare or reception would send you more up if you ask. I always get them to send up extra stuff.”

“It’s more - ” Oscar pauses and gives the nest on Charles’ hotel bed a good glance over, “- more how to build one.” 

“How to build a good one?” Charles steps to the side so Oscar can admire his handiwork, the Monegasque omega is very proud of his nests, Max always says they are the best around and Max doesn’t lie so Charles knows it must be true.

“How to build any nest” Oscar mumbles as he inches himself closer to the bed, his brow furrowing up as if he’s trying to make a mental note of how the pillows and blankets have all been placed together, “I have never built one before. I don’t know what is good and what is not.”

“Well this is a very good nest” Charles beams, “Wait,  you’ve never built one? Ever? What about when you are stressed?”

“I guess I just get into bed” Oscar shrugs, “Is that weird?”

“Weird?” Charles has always loved building nests, even long before he presented. He’s pretty sure that even if he had have been an alpha he would still have been chief nest maker in whatever relationship he found himself in. It’s fun and comforting, he’s never met an omega who doesn’t nest. Weird makes it sound so negative though, “No, it’s not weird at all.”

“So I thought, I want to make a nice nest. Logan has - , he is not having the best time and I want it to be nice and relaxing for him but also - “ 

“You want it to be more than just a friendship nest?” Charles’ lips curl upwards, he can’t help it, he loves playing matchmaker. It drives Max insane, mostly because Charles’ efforts sometimes go awry and Max somehow ends up having to be the one to sort things out. Charles is never going to give up on helping people find love though. 

“I think whether it’s a friendship nest or not will be up to him” Oscar smiles faintly, “We’ve known each other for so long, I am not sure if he is interested in me like that. I suppose the nest, the evening together, I thought maybe it might encourage him to make a move.”

Charles claps his hands together and squeals excitedly, “We will build the best nest there is. A romantic nest.”

“I didn’t even know there was such a thing” Oscar rubs at the back of his neck, “I thought it was just pillows and blankets.” 

“No” Charles shakes his head vigorously, “It can be just pillows and blankets but not for a special night. Climb in and I will show you this one.” 

“You have a special night planned with Max?” Oscar slips off his shoes and climbs into the nest after Charles. 

“Of course” Charles purrs excitedly.

“Is it an anniversary or something?”

“No” Charles smiles to himself, “Max is just great, don’t you think?” Charles has long since learnt that it’s nice to make an effort just because you want to, no waiting around for birthday or anniversaries, just living in the moment and making it special, “The first thing is the base, you want to pad all the cushions and pillows around and then drape the blankets. It’s a little like building a fort, and you can make it as spacious or as cosy as you want.”

“So cosy for a romantic night?” Oscar runs his hands over the piles of pillows Charles has arranged. 

“Exactly” Charles encourages. 

“I can do the building part, I think that will be fine” Oscar nods, “It’s everything else.” 

“So it’s the little touches that make the nest special” Charles hums, “I like to scent various little bits of clothing or fabric and tuck them in around the nest so it has my scent. I’ve also built in some of Max’s clothing, so the earthy scent, that is his.”

“Your scents are nice together” Oscar takes a long deep inhale, “I don’t have any of Logan’s clothing though.”

“That’s okay” Charles smiles reassuringly, “For the first time you can just have your scent there, once he is in the nest his scent will start to spread anyway. Or you could rip his top off and pop it in the nest” Charles giggles as he sees Oscar’s blush deepen, “If you want it to be extra cosy I would suggest pushing the bed into the corner of the room like I’ve done.”

“I can do that” Oscar nods along. 

“And then, see how I’ve hung the blanket, it’s from the curtain rail to the light fitting there. It’s just a little bonus if you can manage it.”

“Where did you get the lights from?” Oscar looks up to the fairy lights Charles has hung above the bed to create a nice ambiance. 

“I brought them with me, I have some spare, you can have them” Charles is already clambering up and over his nest to get his spare nesting materials out. The omega unravels a set of lights and hands them over to Oscar. Not all omegas add lights but Charles likes how romantic it makes everything feel. The Monegasque goes back to his extra hoard of items and pulls out some of the silk rose petals that he has scattered around everywhere and also hands them over to Oscar as well as some LED candles to pop around the place. 

“I can take all these?”

“Definitely” Charles motions around to where they’ve been placed in his own little construction, “You don’t have to have it exactly like this, just go with how you feel. I know Logan is going to love it anyway.”

“Hopefully” Oscar is back to fidgeting around nervously, “I guess after tonight I will know if he just wants to be friends or not.” 

***

“Don’t go in there feeling all defeatist” Max can’t believe he has ended up in Logan’s hotel room giving him  courting advice, especially given how many times he has told Charles not to interfere with other people’s relationships. This wasn’t Max’s fault though, Logan had been pacing the hotel room corridor anxiously when the Dutch alpha spotted him and he couldn’t exactly walk by like nothing was happening.

“I’m just being realistic” Logan sighs, “You don’t get it.”

“I am dating Charles” Max smiles, “Believe me when I say I know what it’s like to be nervous about having to approach a beautiful omega.  I’ve never been more terrified in my life.”

“It is different for you and Charles, you are meant to be together, ” Logan shrugs as he looks himself over in the mirror, “Oscar could get a much better alpha than me.” 

Max tuts and then leans in to sort out the buttons on Logan’s shirt. The American is clearly stressed because he’s managed to get them all out of sync. He also keeps wiping the palms of his hands against his trousers, another clear sign of anxiousness, “This is what I mean. Defeatist. It’s okay to be nervous but you shouldn’t be putting yourself down in the process.” 

Max knows all too well how Logan feels. He tried and failed countless times to ask Charles if he could court him before actually going for it. It’s so easy to get caught up in the negatives, to worry about being rejected, putting your heart out there is actually a really scary thing to do. 

“You don’t have to go in there and be really confident. Oscar isn’t going to care about how macho you can be” Max steps out the way so Logan can see himself in the mirror, “Just be honest about how you feel. Compliments are nice too, but most of all just be you and you’ll be fine.” 

“Being me has not worked out so well lately” Logan sighs. 

“No, no” Max shakes his head, “Lets not get into that again” the Dutch alpha has already given his very lengthy opinion on Logan’s season and given what he hopes is practical but encouraging advice, he can’t see how going over it all again is going to help right now, “This is nothing to do with racing, you don’t become a better alpha with each race win.”

“I suppose” Logan’s lips start to slowly curl upwards, “So you think I do have a chance?”

“Of course,” Max smiles reassuringly, “There is only one way to find out for sure though.”

“So should I go straight in there and ask him or wait until the end of the evening?” 

“Just see how it goes” Max looks Logan up and down again to make sure there are no more wardrobe malfunctions he needs to fix, “But given how nervous you are, I would just do it straight away. It will be less stressful. Tell him how you feel and give him these.” Max goes to hand over the bouquet of flowers that he was planning on giving to Charles. He keeps the jewellery he has also purchased tucked in his back pocket though, Charles definitively deserves to still get a gift. 

“I can’t take these”

“You have to take them” Max thrusts the flowers in to Logan’s hands, “It’s nice to show up with a gift, even if he doesn’t like flowers it’s the thought that counts.” 

“I didn’t think of it though” Logan points out with a faint laugh. 

“Well don’t tell him that, obviously!” Max laughs back, “Tell him you thought they smelt nice or looked pretty and reminded you of him”

“They do smell pretty and they do remind me of him” Logan agrees as he inhales the scent of the flowers he is clutching hold of tightly. 

“There you go” Max puffs out his chest feeling rather pleased with himself. Charles was right, matchmaking does make you feel good, “Just don’t panic, be honest, and see where it goes” Max nods as he tries to work out if he has forgot something, “Oh and most important of all, know that you are good enough.”

***

Max mouths slowly up the back of Charles’ neck as he cuddles around his omega in the nest. Each times his hips twitch forward Charles whimpers and then wiggles back down against the knot that is still pushed up inside him. 

“Baby please tell me you aren’t going to check that whilst I am still inside you?” Max mumbles as he hears Charles’ phone ping and sees the omega reaching out for it.

“Sorry” Charles giggles making his muscles flutter around Max’s knot, “It might be important.” 

“More important than - “ Max stops as he hears his own phone go off and remembers he told Logan to message him to let him know how it all went. 

“It will be Oscar” Charles slowly pulls the phone closer to him, “He came to me for advice.”

“Oscar?” Max shuffles around and pushes himself as far as he can into Charles’ body making the omega moan and grind backwards again. Max knows that if keeps the pressure just right then his knot will slowly deflate but he’ll still be hard and ready to go again. It’s a nice little trick he learnt that Charles always seems to appreciate.

“He wanted to build a nest for Logan so I helped him, with the rose petals and the lights” 

Max kisses the back of Charles’ head at the mention of all the little touches Charles adds to his nests, Max knows he might be bias but he is sure that his omega really does make the most beautiful nests around, “So does this mean Oscar wants to be more than friends with Logan?”

“Of course” Charles grins, “I just hope Logan took the hint.” 

“Oh I think he will have” Max rumbles gently as he circles his hips and draws another few pleasured noises from Charles, “I may have had a word with him.” 

“You told me not to get involved and you are off talking to Logan?!” 

Max laughs guiltily, “I didn’t mean to  get involved, he just looked like he needed advice. Come on then, check your phone, I need to know.” 

“Oh my god” Charles squeals as he opens his phone to see a picture of Oscar and Logan sat smiling broadly with their arms around each other. From what Charles can see the nest they are perched in also looks very impressive, Oscar is clearly a quick learner, “They look happy don’t they?”

“They do” Max grins as he peppers a few kisses along Charles’ shoulder blades. Oscar and Logan really do look endlessly happy arm in arm in a very fancy looking nest with a huge bouquet of flowers also making an appearance just in the corner of the shot. 

Charles has mentioned time and time again about himself and Max taking on more of a parenting role in the pack but Max has always been a little reluctant. The sight of Oscar and Logan so happy together is starting to make him feel differently though. Perhaps being the unofficial grid pack mom and dad and helping some of the younger drivers out wouldn’t be so terrible after all. 

[gabessquishytum]

In school, Dream assumes hob is kind of a bimbo. He’s a male cheerleader and he definitely has a reputation for having slept with a lot of the football team and so Dream’s attitude leads to a fair amount of slut shaming (not at all due to jealousy).

Unfortunately hob has a big crush on Dream. And he works up his nerve all year to ask Dream to prom! He gets him black roses and everything.

Dream assumes it’s a prank and rolls his eyes at him. He doesn’t even bother responding, just pushes past him in the hallway. Hob is heartbroken but he carries on, which only confirms to Dream that he never really meant it. destruction, Dream’s younger brother, takes hob to prom instead, as fwb. He also tells Dream off for being so rude to hob.

Later Dream wonders if maybe he was a little rude and if this was a missed opportunity…but nothing really changes until they both graduate and go to college.

Dream walks into his first class and sees a familiar head of brown hair (and a familiar perfect butt). It’s hob! To Dream’s surprise, hob is clearly very knowledgeable, always the first to answer questions and offer thoughtful insights. So he starts paying closer attention to him. He even works up the courage to say hello to him but hob seems to want little to do with him, offering only polite but distant greetings.

Obviously now that dream is paying attention, it isn’t long before he’s falling head over heels for hob, and is very sorry he ever blew him off. But how will he ever be able to redeem himself?

Omg YES I love that Hob kinda has Elle Woods vibes here. And I just adore the idea of him enjoying his high-school career, being a little slutty for sure, but never doing any harm. He's whip smart and lined up for university already, so he can focus on his social life as high-school comes to end. What he really wants is some time with Dream, but that turns out badly and Hob isn't the type to beg. Destruction is a lovely alternative and makes Hob very happy before they part and he heads off to uni.

And at uni, he's a little different. Still fun, still cheerleading in his spare time, but more focused on academics. He's always in the library after class, although he does make time for parties too. Dream is simultaneously jealous that Hob is clearly absolutely bossing university life and also just... smitten with him.

At the end of the semester an inevitable dreaded group project is handed out, and guess who get paired up? Dream and Hob. Hob is still polite and frosty when they meet up to work. And so, Dream heaves in a big breath........ and he apologises for being an ass.

Hob looks like he might cry, and Dream feels just awful. But honestly Hob is grateful for the apology, thankful that Dream took the time and courage to do that. Hob always tried not to let the slut shaming and vague tinges of homophobia get to him at high-school, but Dream’s reaction to him did hurt a lot because he actually cared about Dream’s opinion.

Next morning, Hob finds a big bunch of flowers outside the door of his room. His heart flutters, and he pulls out his phone to text Dream: come down to watch me at cheer practice, and I'll show you what you've been missing out on x

And if Dream gets a boner watching Hob do the splits, that's entirely his business... and Hob’s to take care of later, in the locker rooms.

[voxofthevoid]

Shibuya Swap Wednesday #1. Let me start by putting on my clown makeup 🤡

My plan was a few chapters of fun, filthy porn, with the dimension travel adding a particular kind of spice. One chapter each for Canon!Satoru/Alt!Yuuji, Alt!Satoru/Canon!Yuuji, Alt!Satoru/Alt/Yuuji, and Canon!Satoru/Canon!Yuuji.

I'm 6.5k in, and not only has there not been a single dick in sight, but I've also somehow outlined a scene where Nanami, Shouko, Megumi, and Nobara meet alt!Yuuji. I haven't reached that scene either.

This is going to be more than four chapters. Titled this (this is also part of the story) how the story changes, and well, the story sure is changing on me.

But I'm having fun! Click through to find around 1.6k of SFW Yuuji porn, ft. all my favorite JJK characters—Yuuji, Gojou, and Kenjaku.

“Good night, Gojou Satoru. Let us meet again in the—”

The parasite in Suguru’s body falls abruptly quiet, familiar eyes widening in an expression that should be familiar, is familiar, except Satoru’s mind keeps rejecting it, desperate to divorce everything about the creature in front of him from the long-gone reality of his best friend.

It’s distracting.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice the other person until there are hands on his shoulders and legs pressed against his back, somehow evading the uncomfortably warm, fleshy grip of the cursed object restraining him to bracket him in human warmth.

“What are you doing to my cute little student, Mum?” says a semi-familiar, impossible voice. “And why are you wearing Suguru-kun?”

The parasite’s face is frozen in an expression that’s half shock, half rapture.

“Oh?” they say, little of their evident shock showing in their voice. “What is this?”

“Why is the wrong question, I guess,” the newcomer says, and it’s there again, a pervasive sense of wrongness at the sound of that familiar–unfamiliar voice. “How? When, maybe.”

The parasite’s grin widens, exposing a revolting amount of teeth. It’s an expression of pure delight, utterly deranged.

Satoru’s self-aware enough to know he shouldn’t judge, but that’s never stopped him.

“Not quite,” the parasite tells the newcomer. “When isn’t enough either. Gojou Satoru is your student, you said? That doesn’t sound right to me.”

“That so?” the newcomer says mildly, their voice still making the insides of Satoru’s skull ache. One of the hands on Satoru’s shoulder slides along the slope of it, gently skimming up the side of his neck to fist tightly in his hair. His head is yanked back, the world briefly a blur. “He has grown a bit. What have you gotten yourself into now, Satoru?”

Even upside down, the newcomer’s face is distinctive, unmistakable, even as it makes Satoru’s mind writhe with the same eerie dissonance of his voice. Pink hair, warm eyes—familiar. Scarred flesh, four eyes—unfamiliar.

“Huh,” Satoru says intelligently.

The Six Eyes are just eyes now, the blockade on Satoru’s cursed energy stripping them of their extraordinary perception, but even with this disconcertingly pared-down vision, Satoru knows what he’s looking at—who he’s looking at.

Familiar lips with an unfamiliar scar on one corner curl into a kind smile. “You still get into the worst situations, don’t you? Some things just don’t change.”

That’s unfair. Satoru hasn’t been in situations in years. He is the situation.

But all that is stuck in his throat, every second he spends looking at this person cementing the reality of him in all of Satoru’s remaining senses.

“Yuuji,” he breathes.

It is and it isn’t. This is Yuuji’s face and Yuuji’s voice and Yuuji’s smile, but the man looking down at Satoru has unfamiliar scars and four active eyes on a face as old as his own, maybe older.

Man, not boy.

Yuuji, not his Yuuji.

“Me,” Yuuji agrees calmly. He’s still smiling, and it reaches his eyes too—all four of them, all that warm brown. “Don’t look so worried, Satoru. I’m here. Everything will be alright.”

No one’s said that to Satoru in a long time. No one’s needed to.

He’s not enjoying the role reversal.

The way this drastically different Yuuji is touching him doesn’t help. The hand fisted in Satoru’s hair is still there, pulling at his scalp as it keeps his head tilted back. An experimental attempt to straighten his head yields nothing. If Yuuji notices the resistance, he doesn’t show it, continuing to hold Satoru by the hair and peer down at him with that eerily serene smile.

And his other hand has crept from Satoru’s shoulder to his face, cupping the side of it. The fingers are curled under his chin, digging delicately into the underside of his jaw. The thumb is moving, butterfly-soft strokes along Satoru’s cheekbone. There’s an unconscious ease to the motions that makes Satoru’s skin grow hot and electric under them.

It’s not a reassuring touch. It’s possessive.

It’s certainly not the way his Yuuji has ever touched him.

This one looks and acts like he’s never known anything else.

“I hate to interrupt this…moment,” the parasite says, not a hint of apology in their dry voice—Suguru’s voice, even his tone, and it strikes Satoru that their desecration of his friend’s corpse, while revolting, doesn’t make his head hurt the way this older, darker Yuuji does. “But would you terribly mind telling me precisely how you got here, Itadori Yuuji? You’re making a bit of a mess, you see.”

There’s a low thud from the side, and another voice calls out, “Getou?”

Yuuji’s eyes shift to the left, all four narrowed. “Oh. It’s still alive here.”

The patchwork curse steps into Satoru’s limited line of vision—normal enough, human enough, he’s sure, but his eyes have been more since he was born.

It says, “Hey, what’s this? Itadori—”

It dies.

One moment, it’s there, tall and manic. The next, there’s just blood splatter on the floor, unusually red for a curse.

“Now I’ve made a mess,” Yuuji says. “In my view, it’s a cleanup, but I’m pretty sure you won’t agree, Mum.”

Mum.

Yuuji called them that earlier too. Satoru didn’t not notice, but he was understandably preoccupied with cute little student and Suguru-kun and the fucking dissonant voice.

“Why are you calling them that?” Satoru asks, and the angle of his throat doesn’t allow for easy speaking, his voice coming out strained, but Yuuji makes no move to release his grip on Satoru’s hair, and another attempt to wrench free of that grasp only earns him a tighter, differently angled grip and a frown that looks more confused than anything.

“Because—”

“Years of planning,” the parasite cuts in, and their voice is quiet, even soft, but Satoru recognizes very well the way Suguru’s voice would get when he was furious. “Centuries. Do you know what you’ve done?”

Two of Yuuji’s eyes flicker up; the others stay on Satoru.

And Satoru’s eyes are immeasurably weaker in this state, but he’s dead certain he’s not imagining the flash of red in the eyes Yuuji’s trained on the parasite.

“You used to say a wrench in the plans was an opportunity,” Yuuji says, and his smile is finally gone, but the considering expression on his face is just as alien. “You can’t have changed that much. What year is it anyway?”

“Twenty-eighteen,” Satoru answers, an automatic response. It’s not even the grip on his hair that’s keeping him staring at Yuuji now; he can’t look away.

“Thank you, Satoru,” Yuuji says warmly. His voice is far less warm when he adds, “You’ve lived too long, Mum.”

“What a cruel thing to hear from one’s son.”

That’s what snaps Satoru out of it.

He wrenches his head to the side, a hell of a lot more violent than the half-hearted attempts earlier, and Yuuji’s fingers do tighten at first, sending sharp pain shuddering through Satoru’s scalp, but then he lets go, even the hand on Satoru’s face falling away. Satoru still struggles to look away, strangely mesmerized by how Yuuji’s familiar face has been shaped into alien lines by the passage of time, but he manages, glaring at Yuuji and then at the parasite.

“Either get this over with or explain yourself. I’m not in the mood for games.”

It takes the parasite a long moment to pry their eyes away from Yuuji to look at Satoru, but Satoru’s briefly disgusted by how well he understands that reluctance.

“I have no explanations for you, Gojou Satoru,” they tell him. “Why don’t you ask your student—except he’s no longer that, is he?”

“Oh.” It comes from behind Satoru. He doesn’t look up. “Is that what I am here? I never thought you’d be a teacher, Satoru.”

“I hear he’s not very good at it,” the parasite provides helpfully. The earlier anger is entirely gone from their demeanor, both their voice and expression sporting the same faux-friendliness with which they were talking to Satoru before Yuuji showed up, but Satoru’s spent a lifetime living in the details, and he doesn’t miss how the whites of their eyes show a little too much, the edges shot with thin red veins. There’s a fervid edge to the way they look at Yuuji—a fascination that borders on hunger.

It flares again, that perverse understanding.

“I’m sure he’s trying,” Yuuji says. He pats Satoru, a light touch at the top of his head like he’s a puppy. It stuns him silent. “You always work hard when it matters, don’t you, Satoru?”

“Of course I do,” Satoru says without thinking.

Yuuji fucking ruffles his hair. “I’m not sure I’d like to be your student though.”

“Hey!”

Yuuji laughs.

And that—

Satoru knows that laugh. It’s Yuuji’s laugh—loud and full-bodied and real.

It’s no revelation. Satoru has seen and accepted a myriad of miracles and horrors over the course of his life. And there have been no explanations yet, no answers, but this surreal conversation has revealed enough.

This isn’t his Yuuji, but it is Yuuji, from a world where Satoru’s the student. And it’s not jujutsu theory that flies through his head, but pure science fiction—the multiverse, mirrored souls in worlds that splinter further and further apart.

The hunger in the parasite’s eyes says they also know.

Satoru hates how they look at Yuuji.

“What did you do to him?” they ask suddenly, in the resounding silence following Yuuji’s laughter. “I can’t sense him at all, but that was his technique you used.”

The hand in Satoru’s hair flexes, nails digging into his scalp. For a moment, they feel unnaturally sharp.

“I ate him,” Yuuji murmurs, barely loud enough to be audible. “Everything he was now belongs to me.”

[robo-writing]

Spoken Beneath the Stars

Pairing: Clive Rosfield/Reader (AFAB, female pronouns. no Y/N) Rating: Explicit, 18+, Minors DNI Word Count: 6.5k words Summary: After sleeping with Clive things become tense, and you want answers, even if he doesn't want to give them. Warnings: Unprotected sex, varying levels of angst, fluff. Read on AO3! Author's Note: This took me far too long to make, almost two months! This story is a continuation of a previous fic that can also be read by itself, but I highly recommend you read the first part on ao3 or tumblr!

When you two laid atop each other you wondered what would become of your relationship. Naked as the day you were born, both covered in a sheen of sweat. Worse for wear, you raise a hand to push Clive’s messy hair from his eyes. Speechless, breathless, wanting to say everything and nothing all at the same time. You part your lips, voice hoarse from overuse, but whatever you want to say becomes lost on your tongue. What could you even say? Clive seems to be going through the same internal turmoil. Staring intently where the two of you are joined, sweat rolling down his brow. His eyes move up to your own, and you don’t remember them being so expressive, bright and full of life. What felt like eons lost in each other’s presence was soon interrupted by a knock on the door. “Clive, you in there mate?” said a familiar voice. “Otto’s been looking for you, said he needs to have a chat!” All of a sudden that unknown emotion leaves his eyes. “I’ll be right down Gav,” he says, still looking at your pliant body below him. “Just give me a moment to clean up.” A hum, followed by the sound of Gav’s footsteps moving farther away. The room is now silent, uncomfortably so. He unsheathes himself from your warm heat with a groan, running his hand from your stomach to your chest with splayed fingers before pulling away. Almost as if your touch would burn his very skin. “Are you alright?” he asks. He doesn’t look at you when he does. You wish he did. “I’ll be fine…” You trail off, still admiring the hard lines of his body. “Are you…alright?” Clive huffs, rummages through a drawer to find a clean cloth for you. “I’m fine.” His tone is clipped. He still doesn’t look at you. He gently wipes around your sex, removing the evidence of what you two have just done. It doesn’t remove the ache that persists in your legs, or the fingerprints that linger against your hips. A hard stare, and then he leaves to dress himself. You move on shaky legs, grabbing your clothes off the floor before attempting to correct yourself, chancing a glance in his direction. Clive faces away from you, and by the time you manage to somewhat smooth your hair there's a dull noise behind you. A creak, followed by the sound of a door closing. You turn around to find yourself alone, without so much as a goodbye, and your heart shatters.

You almost regret having sex with him, often wondering if life would be easier if you didn’t. Doubt clouds your thoughts ever since, that it was your fault, that you had done something wrong to offend him. Maybe your words had been too harsh.

You told the man that one of his closest friends would be ashamed of him, that he’d died for nothing. The anger that radiated off him, his words in your ear, almost as if he was a different person, someone cruel and sadistic—

You wouldn’t be surprised if he never spoke a word to you ever again. At the very least it managed to get the message across, he hadn’t been throwing himself into danger nearly as much as he did before. In exchange, your relationship was now strained, pulled taut until it frayed at the edges and threatened to break. You had crossed a line, and this was your punishment. Every time you entered a room he had a new excuse, yesterday it was training, the day before he had to help Martha reclaim some stolen goods. Today he took a sudden leave to go on a hunt, grabbing a mark off the billboard before you could even get a word in. He was avoiding you, and it hurt. Like a dagger twisting its way through your very being, the metaphorical ichor staining your skin red. You missed him, missed how you would sit by the docks at night and count the stars, missed how you could see his smile grow ever brighter when you’d recount the different constellations. “My little astrologer,” He would call you, under the light of the moon. It reminded you of the Sanbreque monarchy, so in turn you had asked him:

“If I am your astrologer, would that make you my Lord?”

If it were anyone else he would deny his status, but to you, he simply smiled.

But there was none of that anymore. You had practically become strangers in the span of a day. You can still feel his touch, a brand, hot against your skin. When you lay at night you can still hear every last sentence of filth he whispered into your ear, how he pressed himself against you and relished in how your body reacted. “Let me see more of you,” He groaned against your skin. “Show me how desperate you are.”Pathetic of you, to crave the very thing that broke you apart. Haunting, in the best kind of way. You had no one to blame but yourself.

Walking past the forge, you see Clive engaged in conversation with Blackthorne, seemingly asking for a favor. You’re not quite sure why, but your ears trained in on the conversation. He needed materials, some kind of ore, but it was a two person job and Jill was away on her own errand and Gav was out scouting. As per usual, Clive made it his duty to help his fellow man in need, much to Blackthorne’s annoyance. “You don’t think I can manage by myself?” He half-joked, a smile on his lips. Blackthorne, stone-faced as ever, was unyielding, hammering away at whatever item he was crafting that day. “For all your talents, you are still just one man. Asking you to gather the materials required is too much for just you alone.” You’re not quite sure what possessed you, but you felt your voice rise before your brain could rationalize. “I can go.” A step forward, revealing your location. “Well if it isn’t our resident advisor!” Blackthorne greets you, still pounding away. “You know just when to show up, don’t you?” You take his compliment with a smile, moving further into the forge, next to Clive. He barely acknowledges you, a curt nod in your direction. You ignore him in return, focusing on the iron smith. “I heard a little bit, seems like you need two pairs of hands and well, I was getting a little bored sitting around.” You add. A pleased grunt escapes him. “Just so. Well, guess that solves our problem then.” He turns towards Clive, hammer pointed at him. “You can explain on the way, you two have fun.” You nearly scoff, biting the side of your cheek to stop yourself. About as fun as a morbol attack. You would hope that Clive would at least talk to you but he walks away in silence, making his way towards the boats. You run after him, hot behind his tail. “Clive!” You call out, but he stares straight ahead, not hesitating for a second. “He only stops his stride when you grab him by the arm, refusing to let go. “Can you at least let me get a word in before you run off?” You ask annoyed. He still doesn’t look at you, but at least he doesn’t move away. “What’s gotten into you? It’s been a week and you haven’t said a word, not even so much as a hello!” He stares at the floor, but he answers you at the very least. “I’m not quite sure what there is to say.” Ah, there it is. The elephant in the room.You still hold onto his arm, uncertain he won’t run away the moment you don’t. “Listen, if this is about our talk in the solar—” He’s quick to respond, turning around fully to look at you. His eyes close, and then—“We shouldn’t have.” You ignore how your heart drops at his words, the shame hanging over your head. “And yet, we did.” You stare at each other, unwavering. It’s Clive who breaks first, freeing his arm from your grasp and turning back towards the docks. “We should focus on the task at hand,” he mutters, before walking ahead. There isn’t a single word in the dictionary that can describe how you feel right now. Anguish? Rage? Regret? Maybe if you asked Tomes he’d have an answer, he was always more eloquent than you.

As you step on the boat, you watch the water ripple below, unable to look at Clive.

The trip was filled with riveting silence, but if Clive wasn’t willing to speak with you then you weren’t willing to chase him. Even as you entered the cave Clive was tight-lipped, only telling you the essentials of your exploration. The metal was rare, being re-discovered by Tomes by chance. Hard as anything, he told Mid in hopes that it would suit her ship-in-progress. 

As he told you the importance of it you found yourself slightly less annoyed, at the very least the thought of helping Mid made the trip more bearable. After a short walk through green pastures Clive leads you towards a cave, where your mission begins. Tools in hand, he gets to work without so much as a warning, retreating farther into the cave and leaving you to your own thoughts. Defeated, you pick up your own pair and get to work.

A small part of you hoped that being so close together would allow for some kind of interaction. A small, naive part of you wanted to believe you could fix this, whatever this was. There’s a wall to be scaled between you and Clive, but you don’t know where to begin.

You two work for hours, the sound of footsteps and banging your only comfort. By the time you sit down for a break the horizon is outlined in the slightest hint of orange. 

“How’s your search gone so far?” You shout, opening a canteen of water. Clive emerges from the darkness, sack in hand. “Got quite the haul.” He huffs, barely breaking a sweat. “And you?” You point to your own filled sack beside you, not as full as his own. You drink greedily until you can no longer, not realizing how thirsty you were until water passed between your lips. He sits farther away and counts his inventory, nodding in satisfaction. A nudge, and you look down to see Torgal nuzzling against your leg, big eyes staring up at you. You reach down to pet his head, enjoying how soft his fur is between your fingers. “At least you don’t hate me boy,” You whisper, watching his tail wag back and forth. “This should be enough,” Clive says, tying off his share. “We should leave before the sun sets.”

A noise of agreement leaves you, still drinking away. Suddenly Torgal rises from between your legs, staring at something before baring his teeth. You put your hands up, worried that you may have offended him somehow until you hear the sound of leaves crunching underfoot.

There should be no large animals this far out. Rabbits, birds, creatures of that ilk, but nothing large enough to make a noise that big. You must be hearing things, right? A glance in Clive’s direction and his brow is furrowed in concern. He heard it too. You put your canteen away, pretending as if nothing has happened. In reality you’ve already placed a steady hand on your sheath, poised to draw.

As if on cue, a man jumps from the same bush you heard the noise, followed by several more. Bandits, and a lot of them at that. Black clothes and tattered rags, the thieves begin to circle the two of you, eyes focused on your bags lying on the grass. “Well now, I have to thank you two kindly,” the first one says, words dripping with malicious intent. “Seems you’ve made our jobs much easier. Hand over your goods and we’ll let you leave with all your limbs intact, as a show of good faith.” Several of his men laugh behind him; Even the most gullible man could tell that he’s full of shit. You stand up, hands wrapped around your sword. Clive is much less optimistic, drawing it from his back the moment they revealed themselves. “And what if we don’t agree to your deal?” He asks, guarded. Torgal growls at your side, ready to strike. The bandits don’t take his words kindly, stepping forward as the leader shakes his head. “I was in a good mood, but it seems you’d rather die for some rocks.” He leers at you for a moment and smiles, something crooked and sinister. “At the very least we can take the girl with us after we leave your body to the wolves. A pretty thing like her will certainly be in high demand.” Clive moves forward, the smallest lick of flames leaving his body. Whatever mercy he had before is long gone now, replaced with rage. 

“Touch her and it’ll be the last thing you do.” he hissed.

Surprised at the ferocity in his voice, you unsheathe your sword beside him, preparing for a fight. “If you think I’ll let you get close enough to try, you’re mistaken.” He laughs like a hyena, far too relaxed for someone who’s about to come to a very rude awakening. “Kill the man and the dog, but try not to bruise the girl too much. I want her in working condition.” A wave of his hand and his fellow men come barreling down the field, weapons in hand. Clive moves first, followed by Torgal and then you, dispatching each new bandit swiftly. To say a fight took place would be a gross over-exaggeration. Under Clive’s experienced blade they had no chance, each falling one by one with little effort. You’ve seen Clive fight before, calculating and tactful. He wields a sword as if it were an extension of his own arm rather than a tool. This was not that. The ferocity of his strikes, the swiftness of it was something you hadn’t seen before. You think back to what the leader had said, about what he would do to you, and the way his eyes immediately flared open, teeth bared. Touch her and it’ll be the last thing you do.

It seems the threat had struck a chord.

In your moment of weakness a hand grabs you by the shoulders, tackling you to the ground with a cry. You hear Clive shout your name, but he’s occupied with another lackey rushing towards him. You struggle, knocking away his knife and letting your fist meet his nose with a satisfying crunch. He falls over,  red dripping across his face as you reach for your sword to deal the final blow. You don’t get the chance however, before Clive dashes towards you in a flash of orange. “Get away from her, you bastard!” He shouts. The leader has no time to react before Clive’s sword finds its mark, directly between his ribcage.

If you thought he was angry before, it was nothing compared to now. A snarl stretches across his face, animalistic, bloodied. Heaving, he watches the man die with a sick satisfaction, an orange glow in his eyes. Ifrit’s glow.

After witnessing what became of their leader the rest of the surviving men flee from the scene. You push yourself from the grass, making your way to Clive’s hunched form. “Clive?” You ask, concerned. He doesn’t look at you, still staring at the body in front of him. “Clive.” You repeat. Still no response. Tentatively you place a hand on his arm, heat exuding from him in waves. “Clive, he’s dead. You can relax now.” It’s almost as if your voice wakes him from his trance, body slowly unwinding. He lets out a breath, and the familiar blue of his eyes return once more. He turns to you frantically, eyes scanning your body with worry. “Are you hurt? Did he harm you in any way?” There's a panic to his voice, one that you quickly dispel with a shake of your head. “I’m fine Clive, really,” You reassure him, moving your arms as proof. “See? Nothing out of place.” His mouth opens, closes again. His hands still sit at your shoulders, as if you would dissipate if he let you go. He fixes you with a worried look, still searching for any injuries.

You try to ease the tension with a smile, wiping away some blood from his face. “Quite protective of me, aren’t you? That was some strength you displayed.” Your words catch him off guard for a moment before he lets out a chuckle, the slightest pangs of worry still evident in his tone. “Is that so bad?” You think for a moment, and shake your head. “Not at all.”

Poking at his chest playfully, you continue. “You’re like my own personal shield. It’s endearing.”

A half-hearted chuckle escapes him, his gaze never faltering from you. 

This is familiar, you think, this back and forth. It feels natural. 

A bark interrupts you, breaking your concentration. Torgal nosed up towards the sky, that bright orange now a dull shade of red, the sun nearly disappearing over the horizon. How long were you fighting for? Clive noticed the darkening sky as well, annoyance written on his face. “We won’t be able to find a boatsman at this time of day.” “There’s a town not too far off from here,” you suggest. “They should have an inn last I checked.”

“Then it’s settled.” He says, grabbing the sacks of ore and recounting, making sure nothing was lost. When he’s satisfied he slings them over his shoulder in a strong grip, turning towards you. “Lead the way.”

You walk side by side, the sun setting in the distance. While you lead Clive is right at your side, scouting for any more surprises that may be lurking in the shadows.

It feels nice to be cared for, or it would had it not been for his earlier behavior. Hours before he would rather do anything besides talk to you, and now it’s as if he’s an entirely new person.

A bag of gil is exchanged between Clive and the innkeeper before the two of you make your way upstairs, Torgal sleeping outside of the building. You’re greeted with wooden walls with a clean interior, two beds and plain white sheets, freshly changed. For what the price is, the room is surprisingly well-kept.

The exhaustion doesn’t catch up with you until you see the bed, your limbs turning to jelly. Soft and inviting, you drop your goods on the floor, falling into the sheets unceremoniously. “I will never go mining ever again.” You say, voice muffled. You hear Clive’s heavy footsteps stop behind you. “You seem rather comfortable.” He muses. You hear something heavy fall to the ground, more than likely his share of today’s work. A groan escapes you, flopping over to lay on your back. “So do you. How the hells are you still standing?”

“Back breaking labor is not a foreign concept to me.” He says, removing his armor. “If it helps I much rather do this than fight monsters.” You peek at him, but turn your eyes away. Every piece removed is another expanse of skin exposed, left only in his tunic and pants, which invites memories you’d rather not think of at the moment.

“Really now?” You lift yourself slightly, sarcasm thick in your voice. “I would’ve thought you’d love to fight morbols all day and night.” The name makes him wrinkle his face in disgust. “That’s a terrible joke.”

You laugh, falling back into the pillows. “I’ll make sure not to make it again.” It’s a lie and you both know it. The air is quiet for a bit, simply enjoying each other's presence. Calm, serene. A fond smile appears on your face. “Do you remember when we used to stay up late by the docks, counting stars?”

He looks towards the window and nods. “I do. We’d often wake up on the floor, Obolus was less than pleased.”

You giggle, the image of the elderly man greeting you with the light of the sun more than humorous. “Mm, said we were making an inn of his business.”

A huff of air escapes Clive, fully settling into the side of the mattress. “In all fairness wooden floorboards make for an awful bedspread, so I suppose we learned our lesson.”

You laugh, and Clive smiles. It’s the first time he’s done so the whole day. You’d almost forgotten what it looks like.

After your laughter subsides you turn to him playfully. “Want to do it again? Like old times?”

“What?” He asks, looking at you up and down. “Hardly the best spot to star-gaze.”

You nod in agreement. “But if not here, then where else?”

He blinks at you, once, twice, and then turns himself to face the small window. “I suppose you’re right about that.”

You’re both facing the small opening, you leaning against the windowsill on your elbows, head in your hands as you watch the small white lights shine high in the sky. You feel the bed sink beside you, Clive moving closer, watching your mesmerized expression.

Your finger taps against the window. “There, see that? That one’s said to help you when you’re lost. Tomes called it Polaris, the northern star.” “And that one, over there!” You point off far away, following the line of twinkling lights. “That one’s Apus, the bird of paradise.” You list off multiple constellations, rambling away to your heart's desire. You occasionally check in with Clive to see if you’ve bored him, but he’s content to sit back and listen to you. Soon enough you’ve tired yourself, watching the skies above in peace.

“What’s wrong?” He questions you. “You’ve gone silent.”

The moonlight shines through the small window. You smile in remembrance, this atmosphere. It reminds you of what it used to be.

You sigh wistfully. “What happened to us?”

He stiffens at your side, suddenly uncomfortable. “You already know the answer to that—“

“Do I now?” You interrupt. The room is silent, save for the sound of your heart beating in your chest. 

You press your hand on top of his. “Tell me then. What happened?”

His eyes don’t meet yours.

“It’s complicated—“

“Then uncomplicate it.” You interrupt. He doesn’t answer, choosing to focus on your hand on his.

“Listen, I know you might regret our…” you hesitate, gauging his reaction. “...rendezvous, but I would at least like to think we’re still friends, so talk to me. Please.”

His eyes dart back and forth, between you and the fingers currently drumming along his skin.

“I…” He pauses, as if to find the right words. “I don’t. I don’t regret it at all.”

“Then why pretend like it never happened?”

“....”

“Why, Clive?” Your fingers curl around his own, gingerly. 

“I don’t know.” He sighs. “Fear, maybe.”

“Fear of what?”

He doesn’t say anything, so you repeat yourself, pleading. “Please, don’t shut me out.”

A loud silence fills the air.

“Clive…“

His lips press together, struggling to answer. He sits like that for a while, before opening his mouth.

“I had hoped that by avoiding the topic we could still be friends, that I wouldn’t ruin what we had.” He chuckles dryly. “But it seems I’ve already done that.”

“Ruin? Clive—“ You begin, stopped by his fingers curling against your own.

“Allow me to finish.” He adds before continuing. “I was selfish. I let my desires control me; I took advantage of you and for that, I apologize, if you’re willing to accept it.”

You sit, stunned into silence at his confession.

“Took advantage?” You utter, shaking your head. “Clive, I can assure you that you did nothing to me that I wasn’t a willing participant to. If anything, I’m sorry for saying that stuff about you and Cid.”

A shake of his head. “It still didn’t warrant my…response.” He replies, the makings of a blush spreading on his face. 

His behavior for the past week makes sense now. He wasn’t avoiding you out of hatred, he was afraid, afraid of what you might have thought of him. You almost laugh at the misunderstanding. For all his talents, he can be denser than a brick.

“Clive, look at me.”

He lifts his head reluctantly, put slightly at ease when he witnesses your tender expression. “Yes?”

You squeeze his hand. “I don’t hate you.”

There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice. “You don’t?”

“Am I annoyed that you chose to hide from me instead of talking? Yes.” You move closer to him, knees brushing against his own. “But I don’t hate you Clive. Not one bit.”

He finally returns your gesture, bringing your hand towards him, lips pressed against your digits to whisper into your skin, eyes closed. “Thank you.”

Your face heats up at the action, focused on how warm his hands are compared to yours. Perks of being a Dominant, you suppose, before his smooth voice brings your attention back to him.

“May I…tell you something?”

A nod. “Of course you can.”

He’s put at ease, but still visibly nervous. “When I saw you in that field, being attacked…I didn’t know what to do. It hurt me like nothing else to see you at the mercy of that man.”

He stares up at you, eyes full of longing. “Words, actions, nothing imaginable could describe how much I care for you, and it scares me, shakes me to my very being. The thought of you getting hurt because of me is…” 

He can’t bring himself to finish the sentence, but you know. You can see it in his eyes.

Voice wavering, he speaks. “You are a beacon, my guiding light, and I’m afraid of what would happen if that light were to be snuffed out by me.”

You can’t help but gasp at the confession. He bares himself to you, exposed. You can feel the emotion, the charged air between the two of you not unlike levin.

“It wouldn’t.” You whisper. “You wouldn’t let it.” 

He lets your hand fall, before staring at the wall solemn. “There was a time where I would believe you.”

Sagging shoulders, the shadow of death across his face. It hangs over him, heavy. “You deserve a man who will give you the world, and I’m afraid that I can’t give you that.”

Your gaze softened at his words. “Clive…”

You’re not quite sure what to say. In the end, you decide that actions proved more effective than words. You pull your hand away, and before he can protest you cradle his head, lips joined together.

Is this the first time you’ve kissed him? It feels like heaven.

Soft, and warm, he freezes, then moves against you, as if on instinct. They move against your own, uncertain, clumsy. You don’t mind it at all.

You pull away and he protests, a small noise escaping him, unwilling to leave your embrace. Your forehead rests against his, eyes gazing at what feels like his soul, prettier than all the stars in the sky. Reflective pools of blue, overshadowed by the stretch of black that overtakes them.

And then you gasp, sweet, saccharine. “You are my world, you bloody fool.” 

Dazed, enamored, he doesn’t take his eyes away from you for even a moment.

“You…do you mean that?” He asks, hands hovering at your sides. He won’t touch you, not until he hears you say it, one more time.

You shake your head, lips coming to barely graze his own. “If you think there is any universe where I am not hopelessly, madly in love with you, Clive Rosfield, then you are severely mistaken.”

He’ll die the happiest man in Valisthea at this rate. You can finally identify the emotion swimming in his eyes. Love. Pure and unbridled.

“Yes, I am,” He pulls you further, ever closer towards him, placing you in his lap with little effort. “I am a fool for denying myself of your presence—“

His thoughts are interrupted by the taste of your lips, focused on how warm and soft you feel against him. He simply melts at your touch, fingers pressing at your sides, pawing at your body desperately.

“You are—“ you gasp. In the little time it takes for you to respond he latches onto your neck, working at leaving a mark against your skin. “—so you better make up for it, my lord.”

He doesn’t hesitate for a second, smiling against your skin. “Of course, my little astrologer.”

Pressed together in each other’s embrace, unwilling to separate for even a moment. You’re like a drug, an addiction he could never hope to rid himself of. Closer and closer, your fingers make a home of his tunic, tracing the hard muscle that lies underneath. You feel his chest rise and fall, his breath stuttering when you grind into his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he whines into your open mouth, hands splayed at your sides. You mumble an apology as well, a whisper spoken between his lips. 

His tunic is the first to leave, followed by your pants. A kiss, and then another; More and more follow, a confidence surging through him with every press, dragging you back down so his hardness can push against your waiting heat.

It’s good, but not enough, not nearly enough. It’s no surprise when your fingers move down Clive’s pants, pulling him free. So close and yet so far, the head catches against your clit and your eyes roll back. Again and again, you rock against him until it becomes too much to bear—

He inhales sharply when you mount him without warning, grits his teeth and forces his hips to still. Eyes closed you fall further, inch by inch until you feel him press into your deepest parts, feel him throb inside you.

“Founder, you feel so good—” He hisses, mouthes against your skin.

This isn’t the first you’ve felt so full, but it’s different now. Less aggressive, more loving. He waits for you, doesn’t make a single move until you’ve decided you’re ready and only then does he indulge.

Chest to chest, you glide yourself against his cock, desperation spilling out from your very being. A frantic rhythm encouraged by Clive’s hands against your rear, digits digging into your skin, pushing you closer and closer. 

Up, down, up, down. Your thighs burn with exhaustion but you can’t bring yourself to stop, not when he looks up at you like that, like a goddess.

He bites at the skin of your neck, groans when your moans fill his ears. He meets your every move, holds you tight when you shiver, fucks you harder when you cry his name. A sensual pace that slowly becomes more erratic.

A pull, and your tunic is removed unceremoniously, his gaze following every curve of your chest. He leans forward, licking his lips at the sight of you.

“May I?” He heaves desperately.

A nod, and his lips attach to your nipples, eyes closed in bliss.

He buries his face, bites at the sensitive nubs before soothing the ache against his tongue. Your hand rests in his hair, encouraging, begging.

Entangled in each other, little is said beyond hushed whispers and reverent moans. The air is heady with your combined need.

He didn’t know how badly he needed this, needed you. Lips pushed apart, sharing your moans as he felt himself meeting your every movement, chasing after a high only you could provide. This desire thrums beneath his skin, a heat that flows through him, unending. It appeals to his base instincts, an internal struggle. 

He wants to hold you close, taste the sweat of your skin against his lips, share in your pleasure; He wants to drive you wild, pin you beneath him until you cry out his name, fuck you within an inch of your life.

Every kiss feeds the former, every touch feeds the latter. Caught between the middle, Clive settles between your thighs, and takes what he needs with a hiss of your name.

Barely clothed, you feel a familiar pressure build at your core, thighs shaking at his sides. “Clive.”A guttural noise leaves him, an understanding shared through touch. He places a firmer grip on your hips, the slick of your pussy spurring him on, muttering at your collarbone. “Come for me my love, let me feel it.” You cry out his name, legs locking themselves around his hips, shaking against his body. The force of it nearly hurts, only overshadowed by a blinding pleasure that courses through your veins. 

Your release is soaked into the sheets, leaving a mess where your bodies join. The sight of you is mesmerizing, eyes closed in bliss, your thighs stained in your juices. Panting, your skin glistening with sweat, and yet you stare at him with longing even as your eyes glaze over.

Something snaps in Clive, his grip firm as he plunges back into your waiting heat, the snap of your bodies colliding feeding the beast within.

You cry, collapse into his chest, arms wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Clive, I can’t—“ Another thrust and your vision turns while, holding on for dear life.

“Yes you can,” He growls, a hidden message underlying in his words. 

Of course you can, you’ve already done so before. 

The tone is familiar, his touch, the way he drills his cock into you like a man starved, all calling back to that fateful day in the solar. It's a feeling of complete bliss; united, two parts of a whole. Clive's grip on your body is now as tight as it can get, his fingers moving to hold your hips, your thighs, anywhere he can touch. The pressure of his grip is nearing pain, but it only drives you wild with lust. 

It's all he knows in this moment, the heat of you, the noise of your cries in perfect harmony with the obscene sounds of your cunt. His body moves in perfect rhythm with yours, the pace quickening. 

Clive's breath, hoarse and ragged, punctuates each of his own muffled moans. “Tell me you want this,” he begs, voice almost breaking in anguish. “Tell me you want me, I need to hear you—“

He swallows your moans greedily, his kiss sloppy and unrefined, chasing after his own high. You fare no better, nails leaving angry red lines against his back. 

Speared on his cock, at the mercy of Clive. Unable to hold back your noises, you moan freely, uncaring if anyone listens.

“I want you, I want you—“ Your words jumble together, breathless. “I need you Clive.”

Every word is punctuated by a gasp, nails scratching down Clive’s back in pleasure. 

His entire being is on edge, not a thought in his head save for how slick your pussy feels around him, pulsing deliciously. The sounds you make, your face, how you squirm on top of him, it’s all too much for him to take.

His movements become more aggressive, animalistic in his drive. He wants to consume you, devour you whole, and you love it. From his bruising grip to the marks against your skin, he possesses you, both body and soul.

Tears brim your eyes, every fiber of your being focused solely on the heat consuming you. It almost hurts to speak, your breath punched out of you every time you bounce on his lap.

In a single breath you cry out sweetly. “Please make me come, please—“

“Yes, yes, yes,” Clive’s lips find their way back to yours, his voice rough when he pulls away. “I will, my love.”

He moves even faster, the pace brutal. He shifts his body and now you’re completely beneath him, his weight both suffocating and welcome, his head resting next to yours. The new angle lets him find that soft spot within you, taking advantage of it until your back arches from the sheets. 

He coos tenderly into your ear, a contrast to the strong force of his hips. “I’m going to fill you up, make you mine.”

His words strike you like a dagger, and you lose yourself, completely lost in the swell of desire. Your voice echoes against the four walls, unashamed of your volume.

Clive's face is flushed red with a mixture of effort and pleasure, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he struggles to retain his sanity. He moans your name, his eyes finding yours, and the look in them tells you he doesn’t want this moment to end.

His eyes are pleading. The sensation of you around him makes it so hard to focus on anything but this moment. "Founder help me, you feel fucking divine—"

Another gasp of your name and his fingers press against your clit, moving in circles. “I need to come, need you to come with me—“

You whimper, eyes not leaving his for a second, unable to look away from the beautiful sight. “Yes, come inside me Clive, want to feel you—“

A grunt, and then his head falls into the crook of your neck, impossibly close. "I love you," Clive whispers, lips pressing against your ear. “Tell me you love me too.”

A command, both demanding and vulnerable, one you obey without a second thought.

“Gods, I love you,” You cry, trembling. “I love you, I love you, please—!”

You’re reduced to whispers of his name, fingers caressing his hair, the desperate grind of his cock inside your heat driving you insane.

The feeling of him emptying himself inside you is like the world exploding, the pleasure all-encompassing. The whole world disappears for the both of you, lost in each other. He collapses against you, lazily kissing anywhere he can reach, the both of you exhausted.

You can take the time to study him now, details you couldn’t afford to see before. The scars that line his skin, the freckles scattered across his body, not unlike constellations. You map out each mark under your hands, taste the sweat that clings to his skin, inhale his scent. Clive lets you explore him freely, reveling in the attention. 

“Have I ever told you you’re beautiful?” You sigh, thumb tracing the lines against his cheek. 

Bashful, he leans into your touch. “I don’t believe you have.”

“I’ll make sure to tell you every day.” You chuckle softly. It’s a promise, one you’ll be sure to keep.

A while passes, the two of you tangled together. Eventually he lifts his head, sees the marks littered against your skin, the indents shaped in the image of his fingers. You watch as his face scrunches up in concern before bringing his hand towards you.

“Don't look at me like that,” you chuckle softly. “I’m fine. Better than fine, actually.” Clive raises an eyebrow at the smile forming on your face.

“Is there something I’m missing?” He huffs, focused on your ever-growing smile.

“No, not at all.” You giggle. “Just a familiar view is all.”

Confusion written on his face, it takes him a moment to realize before he starts blushing. “So it is.”

Your laughter increases, bringing him closer to your face. “Mhm, history tends to repeat itself.”

His beard tickles as he kisses your face. “I should hope that it continues to repeat.”

[constesplanetarium]

Locked out.

☼⚠︎ Marcus (Yandere! Bartender) x GN!Reader

“𝕀𝕤𝕟’𝕥 𝕚𝕥 𝕔𝕠𝕝𝕕 𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕤𝕚𝕕𝕖? 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕪 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕞𝕖 𝕒 𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕣.”

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

Darkness rating ) 4/10: “A little bruise. Want some ice?”

the reader doesn’t have any specific appearance, so you can imagine them however you’d like :)

OK SO I ORIGINALLY WASN’T GONNA WRITE A NEW PART FOR MARCUS BUT OMGG I GOT THE SWEETEST COMMENT EVER ON MY ONESHOT VER. OF HIM AND I JUST HAD TO WRITE FOR HIM AGAIN!!! <3

this is a pretty slow burn into the yandereness, so… AND I GAVE HIM AN APPEARANCE THIS TIME!!! its only mentioned once or twice if you’d rather use ur own headcanon for him :)

if ur new here. i suggest reading the oneshot ver. of him OR reading the short canons to understand the story a bit better. totally not necessary though!!! you can treat this part kind of as a oneshot too of thats the case :)

P.S, theres a new character around the end!!

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

ONESHOT: Right here!

CANONS: Right here!

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

(CONTENT WARNINGS!!!) Light mentions of rape/SA, and potential ominous/possessive behavior.

Also, there’s a small hook-up scene, so light smut/nsfw ;) If you want to skip it, you’ll know when it ends.

Word count: Around 5.8k (Sorry it’s so long lol)

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Oh, just great. You clutch at the neckline of your jacket and huff in frustration, the air around you suddenly getting colder. You can’t find your house key. Where the hell did it go? It’s not like it ran off your key ring or something. Ugh, you knew you should’ve got one of those digital keypad thingies. That’ll probably be your next purchase, yeah. You heave a long sigh and whip out your phone, getting ready to call management for a spare, or at the very most, a locksmith.

Fuck, but it’s already 11:43 PM. Who the hell can call a locksmith at this hour? And management hours are already long past operational since they close early on Fridays…

Ugh. You might have to crash at your best friend's place in the next building over, but he always tends to get too clingy once you’re preparing to leave. He probably lost the spare key you gave him to your apartment, too. His annoying voice already rings in your head and you raise a hand to your temple, trying to get rid of the thought quickly.

“Uhm.”

Oh my god!

You swivel around to see Marcus, looking extremely shocked at your reaction. His dark brown hair is as fluffy as always, and his glasses are just a little bit crooked. “Oh, I’m sorry!” The small pile of keys around his finger jingles as he waves his hand around in a panic. “I’m sorry, er, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The nerves that were building inside you suddenly calm down once you register that it’s a familiar face, a very welcome one at that.

“What’s wrong?” He peers at you and the door, and his face flashes with recognition. Yeah, you don’t have your house key, Marcus. “Oh.” He starts to giggle like a schoolgirl and you scowl, shoving him lightly. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry.” A small mischievous smile pops up on his face, and he whips out his house key off the ring, jingling both his key and the others in front of your face. “Wish you had these, huh?”

This guy…

“Ah, wait, I’m sorry, come back!” You turn and start speed walking towards the stairs, ready to spend the night at your best friend's house. Eh, he might have a sleeping bag for you or something. Maybe he’ll let you sleep in his bed again. His pillows are always comfortable. “Hey! Wait!” Your grumpy steps come to a stop as you hear him running after you, pulling you into a tight hug from behind. It’s almost like he’s choking you with the way he’s grabbing you. So tight. “I didn’t mean it…” He dramatically cries out from behind you, making you sigh as you pat him on the arm to console him. He looks down at you. “So, what’re you going to do now?”

You have no clue.

“Hmm… How about you come with me to the bar again?” You peer up at him and smile, knowing that he probably could help you with some of your work too. You wriggle out of his grasp and start to tug on him, and he cracks up at your enthusiasm. “Okay, okay.”

The dim atmosphere of the bar has eased your mind by now, and you take a glance around. There are only a couple of customers here now, a group of three, a couple, and a man sitting alone, scrolling through his phone. You’re not surprised, it’s pretty late.

…Why is he working at the bar this late anyway? Usually, his shift starts at 7:30 PM and ends at 11:30. You tilt your head at the sudden question that enters your head, and you watch him clean some dirty glasses with a wet rag. He looks up at you and a smile forms on his face once you ask.

“I was waiting for you to ask that. There's a simple answer, really.” He sets the glass aside and puts the rag in the sink. “I just had to get something from home. I’m working overtime again, as you can see.” He gestures over to the clock on the wall, it displaying 11:57 PM. “I’m here until 1:30 AM again. Just around an hour and a half.”

You take a small sip of the drink he made you, a virgin margarita. Taking a glance at your open laptop, you frown. Lord. That worksheet looks so… Bad right now.

You shut your laptop and slide it back into your bookbag, making Marcus raise his brow. “I thought you wanted me to help you with your work?” Not anymore. You shake your head and rest your head down on the bar table. You’d rather talk to him instead.

After you say that, the short silence between you two gets a little uncomfortable, and you look up to see what's going on. He’s returned to cleaning the glasses, a gentle smile on his face. You find yourself smiling as well and decide to spark up a conversation.

“How was my shift? Ah, better than last time.” He laughs at the memory and sets the glass aside. “Want another drink?” He points to your almost-finished glass, and you nod eagerly. “Anything different?” With a nod of your head, you decide to ask for a sunrise mocktail.

It would be a little embarrassing to admit that you had searched up virgin bar drinks you would like him to make you in your free time, and even during class once. You made a little list and saved it for later, deciding to go over it when he was driving both of you here.

He smiles and bends down, opening the little fridge you know is there and he pulls out a small bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling wine and orange juice, and some ice. He grabs the grenadine off a shelf behind him and sets everything down. Your mind wanders to the last time you were here, and the shirley temples he made you with the strawberry syrup.

You kind of want it again. It gave the drink a sort of bitter taste, but it wasn’t terrible. It was unique.

“The… Strawberry syrup? You want some?” He gets quieter the more he talks and he looks away, staring at the floor. Confusion fills your head to the brim. Why does he look so happy, but also in shock? Oh, maybe he’s flustered you like the strawberry syrup combo with the grenadine he made? Or maybe they’re all out? “Oh, no, uhm…” He messes with his fingers for a moment. “I don’t know if we have anymore, but I can check.” As he walks to the back, you take another look around the bar. It looks like the couple is getting ready to leave, and the group of three looks extremely tired. You take a glance at the man alone and he’s pouring all of his liquor into a silver flask, glancing at the bar to make sure Marcus isn’t coming back soon. I guess it's a policy that you can’t smuggle alcohol outside, but the bartenders probably don’t care anyway.

You turn back to the bar to see Marcus coming back, with an actual bottle of the stuff. I guess they finally listened to him, huh? “It’s a… Different kind of syrup this time. It’s sweeter, like a lot.” He chuckles and pops the cork off the sparkling wine. “I thought the other one would be too bitter for this drink.” He takes out a tall glass, opens the orange juice, and pours it into the glass so it's half full, and then the sparkling wine. “Grenadine is already pretty sweet, so I’ll go half and half on the syrup too.” He does exactly that, and slowly pours the grenadine in, then the strawberry syrup. The syrup is more… Solid. And brighter in color than it was last time. You can almost smell how sweet it is from here. He slides the drink over to you, and you stare at the pretty ombre effect both of them made at the bottom, just like your Shirley temples.

“If you want, tell me if you want it with the other syrup.” He smiles as you take a sip of the mocktail. The sparkling wine and orange juice mix with each other well, alongside the sweetness of both syrups. It’s good. Really good. It looks like he’s waiting for your rating, standing there, fidgeting his fingers. You smile and take another few sips, giving him a thumbs up. Relief washes over his anxious features and he sighs in delight. “I'm glad you like it.” He rubs his cheek a bit and keeps on glancing between you and the drink. “Uhm, can I ask you something?”

You tilt your head, but nod.

“Are you free on Sunday?” Uh oh. Not Sunday, no. But you let him continue. “We can uh,” He scratches his cheek and fidgets with the buttons on his vest. “We can just stay in my apartment and do some baking. How does that sound?” He bakes?

“Yeah! I uh, I've been working with dough stuff recently. Like cinnamon rolls and biscuits. But my favorite things to make are pies and banana bread.” Oh my god. That sounds so fucking delicious. You get to hang out with him, AND free food? That you get to take home and enjoy? Sign you up.

… Wait. Both of you are already hanging out on Saturday to study, and you’re busy on Sunday with your best friend.

“... Busy Sunday? With what?” He tilts his head at you, and suddenly he looks like a cute puppy. It won’t hurt to tell him, yeah?

“Oh, your best friend? What’re you two going to do?” The bell behind you rings as the couple leaves, leaving just the group of three and the man with the silver flask. As you tell him, you take a glance at your phone to check the time. It’s 12:30 AM. “Coffee shop? Ah, that sounds nice. I hope you have fun.”

…The silence between you two is uncomfortable again. It’s strange, too. As soon as you mention your friend he gets quiet? You look up at him and take a mental note of his expression. Is that anger? Jealousy?

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, I’m okay.” He glances around the bar for a few seconds, and then he turns his attention back to you. His eyes have a soft look in them as he looks at you. “How about instead of studying, we bake?” Great idea. Fuck that class anyway. You nod and he laughs a little, knowing exactly what you’re thinking. “Yeah, I hate the class too. The assignments are always so annoying.”

A couple shuffles and clinks of glass make you turn to see the group of three getting up, and getting ready to leave. “Have a good night.” Marcus murmurs as the three take their leave, the bell ringing above all their heads. Ah, now it's just you, Marcus, and that guy. His eyes trail over to the man sitting there, and then he looks back at you. I guess he’s just waiting for him to leave so you both can talk in peace.

“Hmm? Do I want him to leave?” He whispers to you and looks at the man. The man’s drinking away from his flask, staring off into the night from the window next to him. Marcus chuckles. “Maybe a little. It’s always better when it's just us two.” A wink from him is all it takes to send your heart aflutter. You finally finish the rest of your drink, trying to take your mind off your beating heart. He’s always been so charismatic ever since you started talking to him. “Well… Let’s just talk to pass the time faster. Time flies when you’re having fun, you know?”

Both of you chat and whispe, talking about classes to the weather, until Marcus looks away from you. “Have a good night.” He waves to the customer leaving the bar, and you turn instinctively.

You meet eyes with the same man with the flask. He looks around the age of 35, maybe a little older. You can’t see too much from here, but now that you see him standing up, wow, he is tall. Very tall. He looks you up and down for a moment, a smirk appearing on his features. He waves Marcus a goodbye, “You too,” and then you. “Have a good night, sugar.”

You wave bashfully at him as he dips out the bar, with a little ring of the bell on top of the door. You watch him walk to his car, but not without a small mutter from Marcus.

“Weird ass old man.” He hisses and slams a small shot glass onto the table, covering his mouth afterward. “Oh, uh, sorry…” He chuckles, his hand trembling a bit as he pours you a small shot of a sort of tropical, mango rum. You didn’t even ask for one, but eh, you’ll take it. It’s only one anyway.

But, weird? Hmm… You can’t say that the interaction was weird persay, he probably just thought that you were cute.

“He does that to most people in the bar. He’s probably hoping someone will bend over for him and let him fuck them.” He sighs and watches you down the shot, and he picks up the shot glass himself. “I hear him talk about how he likes to do it rough, and how he’ll do it with a girl whether she likes it or not.” Disgust washes over his neutrality and he downs his shot as quickly as you did. “Fucking pervert.” A shiver rises up your spine and spreads all over your body as you watch the man turn his car on and drive off. Ew.

Goosebumps form on your skin and you try to rub them away, but they stay there. He frowns seeing your reaction and walks over to your side of the bar, rubbing your shoulder affectionately. His warmth is so comforting. “Do you need anything?” You shake your head, but rest your hand on top of his, flashing him a smile. “Sorry to uh, put all of that on you at once.” He tries to laugh it off, but still rubs your shoulder. You shake your head in reassurance that he didn’t do anything wrong. It’s probably just a little shock. The only odd part about it was how aggressive he was, but you understand. “Well, now that we’re both alone.” He hums as he heads for the door, locking it up immediately and turning the sign from “Open” to “Closed again. You raise a brow at the sudden realization that if he’s “closing” up early, why don’t you two just head to his place for a little? You wait till he makes his way next to you, sitting down on the stool to your left, and decide to ask.

“Oh. I thought you just didn’t want to, uh, head to my place this late.” Is he nervous to have you over? He keeps on fidgeting with the buttons on his vest as he speaks, but he can keep eye contact pretty well, you suppose. “Are you sure you want to go?” You’re pretty damn sure. You miss the comfort of being in bed. But first…

One last drink wouldn’t hurt, would it?

“Another mocktail?” He smiles and steps off the stool, heading back to the other side of the bar table, and pulls everything out to make it again. As he prepares the drink, you find your mind drifting to that man again. God, what a weirdo. Shivers spread throughout your body as you think about it, and you shake your head lightly, trying to forget the memory. When you turn back to talk to him, the drink is already done and prepared right in front of you. “Boo.” It looks like in the midst of your reminiscence, your head tuned out every noise that he made.

You take a couple of sips as he swivels back around to your side, sitting next to you again. “Finish that drink, and then we’ll go, yeah?” His eyes stay planted on the glass as you keep on drinking, and he laughs. “Let me get a sip or two.” You nod and slide the glass over, watching him take a few sips from the glass. Jeez, he didn’t even turn the glass over to drink from a different spot… Not that you really care, though. It’s just a glass. “Yum.” He licks his lips and sets the drink back down. “Thanks for staying with me for my shift, by the way. I really appreciate it.” Well, it’s not like you could really do anything else, but you smile and nod.

He fidgets the buttons on his vest until, apparently, he can’t take it anymore, and he just starts to unbutton it altogether. He slips it off and places it gently on the table. Oh wow. He has a nice figure, and he does look kind of cute, actually like a puppy.

“... What? Is there something on my face?” He wipes his mouth a little, but you laugh and shake your head. How clueless. “So you just wanna laugh at me instead of telling me what you’re thinking?”

Yep.

“Well, that’s not fair, is it?” He frowns and crosses his arms, glaring at you as he looks you up and down.

… He’s staring down at your thighs longer than any other part. Embarrassment fills your body to the brim as you snap your fingers in his face, then point to yours, like a sort of “my eyes are up here” motion.

“Ah, sorry!” Panic ensues in his face and you can't help but smile. He looks so dumb trying to salvage himself. “I didn’t mean to, uh-” You set a finger on his lips to shut him up, shaking your head. After a few seconds, you don’t even care. In just two weeks of REALLY getting to know him, you’re already so comfortable.

It’s strange, honestly. It’s like you both have been friends for years.

Either way, he can look at you all he wants.

A blush creeps onto his face and he sighs, the embarrassment in his face imminent as his sigh comes out shaky and fragile. “Sorry…” He whispers as you rub his cheek, and you watch him practically melt into your touch. “You’re so warm.” His warm kisses on the inside of your palm spread warm shivers throughout your whole body. He chuckles and keeps rubbing your hand against his cheek. “Sorry, I just, uh,” He’s so cute. “I feel really comfortable around you.” Adorable. He really is just like a puppy. You take the time to run your fingers through his hair with your other hand, and he sighs again. That sounded more like a moan than a sigh, though…

“Can you, uhm…” He groans once you decide to tease him a little, tugging on his hair lightly. “If we really are gonna do something like this,” He shuffles around in his seat, and you have to fight the demons inside yourself to not look down at his crotch. “Should we really do it here?” Do you care? Does he care? He probably doesn’t.

“Do I care?” He frowns at you but shakes his head. “No, no, I, uh, I don’t.” Your hands drag themselves down to his neck as you rub his jawline with your thumb, and you can see him bite the inside of his cheek. He chuckles and looks away from you, starting to fan himself. “Oh wow, it’s kind of hot in here, huh?” He tries to laugh it off, but your hands reach over and start to unbutton his shirt.

He doesn’t make any attempt to stop you in the slightest. “Okay, okay…” While you’re in the middle of trying to unbutton his shirt, he leans in so close in an instant, he’s kissing you so passionately, and grabbing onto the neckline of your jacket. It took you a moment to register what had just happened, but you settled in quickly, and started to kiss him right back. God, are there any cameras here? There probably are. Uh oh. His tongue slips inside and almost distracts you from your thoughts. He can probably delete the footage, right? You slip your tongue against his, and he moans quietly in your mouth, pulling away.

“Sorry, sorry…” He groans softly in your ear. He doesn’t seem sorry to you. In fact, he’s so obviously enjoying this you almost want to laugh.

You hop off your barstool and grab his sleeve, tugging him over to an empty booth. You swing him around and push him down onto the cushions, and his shocked face is almost funny, but more cute. You squeeze through the table and climb on top of him, grinning as you look down at him. This is kinda fun, huh?

His hands reach up to you, one on your neck, one on your hip, and he pushes you down, pulling you in for another kiss. You finally get to admire how soft his lips are, and he parts his mouth open, letting you slip your tongue inside again. He tastes sweet, exactly like your drink. Shock overrides every emotion, just for a moment, once you notice how hard he is, and that both of you are still in the bar, but you forget about it as he pulls away, panting. He looks fucking messed up.

“Isn’t it so cold outside? We shouldn’t leave yet...” He whines, bucking his hips against yours, trying his best not to moan. “Stay with me a little longer. You don’t need anyone else, okay?” Right now, you don’t. You try to stifle a moan as you grind against him, debating whether or not his belt should come off right now. “You really like me, don’t you?”

… Like him? Holy shit, what’re you doing? It’s only a sexual attraction.

Right?

“It’s okay.” You run your fingers down his chest with one hand, and you feel his frantic breathing as his chest goes up and down. You can almost feel his heartbeat. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll get to stay with me forever anyway, yeah? You and me?” There's a strange look in his eyes, almost staring deep inside your whole being, but you disregard it in the heat of the moment and start to take your jacket off, throwing it aside on the table. There’s a small clink of something rolling on the ground, but you don’t care enough to see what it is. “Oh god, I want you so bad, it’s crazy. You drive me fucking crazy.” He whispers in your ear, and your mind registers an almost psychopathic grin on his face, but it must be your mind playing tricks on you. “Just you and me. No one else, ever. I won't, ah, I won’t let it happen. Ah…”

God, you don’t know how much longer this can go on before you do something you might regret. The keyword being “might”.

Oh well. Let's see how long it’ll last, huh?

Awkward. So awkward.

The car ride home is pretty silent. Every now and then, both of you will try to spark up a conversation, but it doesn’t go anywhere. You’re too shy afterward to say anything else.

Ah, maybe awkward isn’t the right word. It’s more... Flustered. Bashful? Not embarrassment. You aren’t embarrassed about what happened in the slightest. You’re only regret is that you didn’t get to have sex, but you wouldn’t go that far in that bar anyway.

You both finally walk up to your door, and he furrows his brows as he looks at you. A small tug on your jacket sleeve makes you take a glance at him.

“Are you sure you don’t want to spend the night at my place? It’s comfortable, I promise.” Thats… Very tempting. You aren’t even sure if he has an extra bed to sleep on. You shake your head, but thank him for his kindness, deciding that you’ll just spend the night at your best friend's apartment. At the mention of your friend, you see the corners of his mouth twitch, but those corners are suddenly pulled into a smile. “Ah, alright. Do you want me to at least drop you off at his apartment?” Hmm. It would be nice to introduce the two, but maybe later. It’s pretty late after all, so you shake your head. He fidgets with the keys in his hand and laughs a little. “Oh, ah, I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?” You nod and wave him goodbye as he turns around, waving back to you with his key ring around a finger, and his keys jingle and echo in the hallway.

“Oh, and uh.” You look back up. “Let's continue what we had going another time, okay? It felt… Good. Really good.” His voice gets quiet, but theres a clear smile on his face. He likes it too, huh?

Of course he did.

Your face gets hot, but you nod in agreement and he takes his leave. As soon as he enters his apartment, you whip out your phone, and even though you told him you’re going to spend the night with your friend, you still aren’t a hundred percent sure.

It takes a few minutes of staring at your friend's number, and you finally decide to call, but a bang and a groan at the beginning of the hallway make you turn your head.

“Oh shit, I’m in the wrong apartment building…” Drunken rambling and groans leave the man at the…

Oh! It’s that man from the bar!

Wait, what the hell? Did he follow you here? Are you fucking kidding me?

Yuck.

He looks up and sees the recognition in your face, but it takes him a few seconds and a squint to realize who you are. “Oh... Ohhhh! It’s that person from the bar!” He drunkenly laughs, but then stops and gets a good look at your situation. “What’s wrong? Can’t get into your apartment?”

You nod slowly and raise a brow as he starts to stagger his way over. As he gets closer, you can smell the strong mix of cologne and liquor all over him, and you tense up subconsciously. He towers over you, but slouches himself over to talk to you better. His light brown hair is all messy, and there's a small, dark stain on his shirt, from what you assume to be a small spill of liquor. It looks like his hair is a bit longer in the back, too, giving it a sort of wild look. His eyes are mismatched, one with a beautiful, light shade of hazel, and the other a darker shade of the same color, so much so it’s almost pitch black. “Left your keys inside, huh?” His voice is a bit raspy, and you can definitely smell the alcohol on his breath. You didn’t even notice it at first, but he’s holding the silver flask in his right hand. “What happened to your little boy toy at the bar? Can’t stay with him?” A hiccup suddenly leaves him, and he clears his throat. “Sorry.”

You can’t help but keep your guard up around him, and take a step back.

He raises a brow. “What’s wrong, sugar? Oh, I see.” His shoulders shake as he laughs. “You think I’m a pervert, huh?” He leans against the wall and pops open his flask, taking a small swig from whatever's inside. “Didn’t follow you here if that’s what you’re thinkin’. Honest.” Just because he says that, doesn’t mean you can’t have your own suspicions. “Want me to leave? Or do you need some help with that door right there?” He beckons his flask over to your door knob. You cross your arms defensively and feel a frown form on your face. What the hell does he want?

… Wait, help? He can help?

“Yeah. Want me to open that for you?” His words slur together, yet he still seems pretty comprehensive for the most part. You don’t say anything, and just tilt your head a bit at him. “What, you gonna call a locksmith or something?” He scoffs and kneels down at the door lock, taking a good look at it. “They’re gonna charge you double since it’s so late at night. Good luck trying to find one that's not asleep.” He peers back up at you and beckons to the lock. “Want me to take a crack at it, sugar?”

You’d rather not let an alleged creep break into your house for you, but damn, you’re so tired, you don’t want to bother your (probably) already sleeping best friend, and you miss your bed… Plus, if he was going to do anything, he’s already had ample time to do just that.

You nod eagerly, and he gives you a toothy grin. You take quick notice of his gold fang. “Yeah? Gimme a sec.” He pulls out a small pick and tension wrench from his pocket, slipping the flask back inside. He starts to hum an old tune you don’t recognize, and you raise your brow as he starts to work on your lock. Why the hell does he just have those in his pocket?

“Oh, me?” It looks like he can multitask pretty well, with working on your lock and talking to you. “Oh, well… Promise you won’t tell the police?”

What the fuck? You scowl, getting ready to rip his arm off your doorknob, but then he suddenly laughs at your sign of aggression.

“Kidding, kidding. I used to break into my old high school’s cafeteria for snacks with my friends. And the janitor's closet.” This guy looks way past high school age, so how the hell does he still know this skill? “I liked breaking into the teacher's desk too. I used to cheat by stealing test answers, you know?” Is it muscle memory? “And now I like to break into women's apartments too… Take their shit or whatever, like a weirdo.” He huffs, and looks up at you for a moment, but you don’t react this time. His jokes are a bit odd. He smiles up at you and wiggles the lock a bit, a small click signifying that his work here is done. He stands up and steps aside, eagerly waiting for you to open your door. You twist the knob and it opens with ease. Despite him being an alleged creep, this man knows his stuff, apparently. Awe plasters your face as you look up at him, an uncontrollable smile breaking out on your face. “I get locked out of my apartment often. I always forget my key at home, or I just lose the shit entirely, and I got tired of calling management, or having to stay at a friend’s house for the night. So I had to whip out the ol’ highschool lockpicking again.” He yawns and scratches at his stubble. “I just saved you probably a solid hundred bucks. You’re welcome.” He waves the pick and wrench around in his hand, and then slips both back in his pocket.

…He doesn’t really seem like a creep, and it didn’t take you too long to feel at least sort of comfortable with him. Maybe Marcus was wrong? As he turns around, on an impulsive whim, you dig into your pocket for your wallet and dig out a solid fifty, running up and tapping him on his shoulder.

“Hmm?” His whole body flinches as you smack the fifty in his hands. He frowns. “The whole point of me picking at your door was so you don’t have to lose any money.” The fifties suddenly back in yours. “I don’t want your cash, honey.” You wave the fifty in his face, giggling to yourself at his grumpy expression. He groans and takes the fifty, folding it in half. “Fine. If it’ll make you stop wagging that shit in my face.” He stuffs the fifty in his pocket, the same one with his tools inside and he brings his flask back out, taking a fat swig from it. What’s inside it anyway?

“Vodka.” He shakes the flask around, as the vodka inside sloshes and echoes around the bottle. He brings it up towards your face, and you wince at the strong smell. “Usually I mix it with strawberry lemonade, but I was extra exhausted today from work.” He rolls his eyes at the thought of his employment, and stuffs the flask into an empty pocket. “Just ended up asking for pure vodka to get me drunker.” Both of you are quiet as you get a good look at each other for a few seconds, since neither of you are sure what to say. Unexpectedly, he chuckles, followed by a small hiccup. “Thanks for the fifty. Probably gonna spend it on alcohol and cigarettes, though.” You giggle and shake your head, not sure whether or not to approve his future purchases with the fifty. Eh, he can spend it on whatever he wants. It’s his money now, I guess. “Have a good night, sugar. If you need me,” He starts to walk away, but then hiccups and clears his throat. “Pretty sure I’m two apartment buildings that way. Room 304.” He points to the right.

He’s “pretty sure”? You find yourself chuckling quietly at the absurdity of the situation, as you step into your apartment. You still need to ask management for a spare, if it’s not anywhere around your house. Luckily, your best friend has a spare, so you can just take that for the time being when you see him. Unless he lost it again, ugh. He’s on his, like, third spare by now.

… Wait. What the hell is his name? The locksmith wonder. All of a sudden, you have so many questions for him, and you turn back to the hallway to ask, but by the time you do so, he’s already gone.

For some odd reason, you hope you get to see him again. But for now, wow, you need to sleep. Bad.

✧─── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *.✦ .* :★. ───✧

𝔹𝕠𝕟𝕦𝕤 ℙ𝕆𝕍!

I throw my keys onto my sofa, snatching my bookbag off the cushions and ripping open the zipper. It doesn’t take long to find the key I hid deep down in it, and I stare the ridges of it in admiration. I don’t need to lockpick their door anymore, thank lord. It was becoming a hassle trying to avoid people seeing me. Luckily, there’s only a camera at the entrance of the hall too, so it’s not like security is gonna come banging on my door.

I get down on my knees and lay my head down on the sofa, trying to hold my excitement in. No fucking way that all just happened. I got to touch them, touch them everywhere. And to kiss them, their lips, oh…

My breathings become frantic, but no one else is here. It’s just me. I bite my cheek to try to distract myself from the blood rushing to my cock. It’s ok, it’s ok, it’s ok, keep it together.

Why do I care so much? They’re not here to see me right now, it’s just me. Yeah, me.

My heart beats pounding in my ears. My head. It’s kind of sickening, but I can’t stop. The way their body felt in my hands, oh my god. I was trying my best to keep it together. Did they see through me? No way.

I wish I got to have them over. Would we have had sex if so? I wish.

I’m still dreaming about that, but just for right now, this is enough.

i hope u enjoyed this one :)