#and was too stubborn to get up and take anything for it

[notjustjavierpena]

Sundays

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A/N: Season 2 of The Last of Us ruined my life, so here is my attempt at fixing my eternal wounds. Lord knows that everyone deserves better. I spent four weeks trying to perfect this. It might be the best thing I’ve ever done. Please be kind and patient with me ❤️

Summary: Joel’s Sundays are for early morning patrol and making babies with you.

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: Domestic fluff, soft but haunted Joel, banter, teasing, Star Wars reference, kissing, praise kink, dirty talk, pussy eating, fingering, breeding kink, one use of daddy, emotional and filthy sex, creampie, aftercare, cuddling 

Word count: 5.7k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65911807

Sundays

On Sundays, Joel does the morning patrols while the rest of the town sleeps. When someone asks why he has volunteered to do them, he lies and grumbles something about nobody else wanting to get out of bed during the weekend so he has to. Yet he always wakes up at the crack of dawn without complaint, showers in the miracle of hot water, fixes himself a cup of coffee, and reads his book - they have recently emptied a library on an extensive supply run and they found The Shining on dry shelves - with his glasses perched on his nose. He likes it; the quiet time for himself while feeling your presence in the house as you sleep under warm blankets upstairs. His morning routine always ends with taking off his glasses to put them on their designated spot on his nightstand and kissing your beautiful hair, watching your body curl up contentedly underneath the covers or if he is really lucky, you turning onto your back and sleepily muttering a demand for a proper kiss. 

He goes back down, ties his well-worn leather boots on a dining chair, holsters his handgun, throws his rifle over his shoulder, and then leaves with a quiet click of the door. 

The Spring air bites slightly in the morning but he doesn’t mind, appreciates the way it wakes him up a bit more and sharpens his focus. He misses you the second he steps out the door, thinks about your warm and soft skin while he checks the front of Ellie’s house, and then walks towards the stables, the gravel crunching underneath his boots. He listens for anything out of the ordinary - can’t be too careful - and even checks the fences surrounding the horses, the weak spots he keeps meaning to patch up himself because he doesn’t trust anyone else to do it right.

Patrol is as usual. He doesn’t expect any danger and thankfully doesn’t find any either, but he is a man of habits and old habits die hard. His free hand rests near the strap of his rifle in case of anything out of the ordinary, but the only time he needs to be on his guard is when Callus, his horse, gets frightened by a rabbit in the bushes along the trail. He calms the animal with a broad, soothing hand and kind words. He thinks about Sarah, about how she would have loved the nature here, and rarely anymore about how her blood felt on his skin.

He is gone for a few hours, three maybe but no more than four. He does all of his usual inner checklists and rides past each checkpoint, all the while thinking about your hair still messy from sleep, your bare foot sticking out from under the blanket.

On his way back, his thoughts continue circling around you. It’s almost dangerous how much he lets his mind drift; how easy it is to get lost in wondering what you’re up to on his way home. He pictures you in the sun coming in through the windows of the house he built for you with hands that have killed but now get to cradle your face too. He loves you most bathed in morning light that makes your skin glow. With a half-laugh, you said you’d be doing housework today, dragging your fingers through his hair last night whilst tangled up in his body. 

He wonders if you’re humming to yourself while mopping the floors or fighting extra stubborn dust bunnies underneath the couch. What are you wearing? What are you thinking about? Is it him? Are your souls really so entwined that your thoughts are full of him whenever his are so full of you? Joel doesn’t even know if he believes in that sort of thing - hearts beating in sync like that - but you don’t give him a choice sometimes, a feeling that not even Ellie has ever teased out of him.

When he arrives home, he smiles with his eyes closed at the twinkling sound of the wind chimes hanging on the porch ceiling. There is dust on his boots and his bad knee has started to ache from the slow change in temperature over the last few hours but he feels content. He removes the rifle from his shoulder to leave it by the door and then toes the boots off carefully. 

He inhales the smell of home deeply in through his nose before holding his breath to listen for any sound of you. His brown jacket comes off right after he has noticed the quiet movements upstairs that make the house creak just a little. However, it’s not the noisy floorboards but your soft curse that makes him climb the staircase.

A younger version of him - a version that was newer to you - would have first thought that you were up to something sinful and private but Joel now knows that the near-silent swear is one of quiet frustration. You don’t hear him at first, too busy muttering to yourself about the fitted sheet that keeps slipping from your fingers as you try to tug it down over the corner of your shared bed. 

��Shit,” you curse again quietly, bent across the bed in a kneeling position with one knee on the mattress and the other stretched out behind you. 

He knows he should announce his presence like the gentleman he is but he is too busy trying to catch his hitching breath from the sight of your gorgeous body. The swell of your hips and the dip of your back have his old ticker beating in his chest like a kick drum but it is, more specifically, the choice of your underwear that has him feeling downright lightheaded. Hugging your hips are a pair of lace panties and they’re see-through and barely there but most importantly cute. You probably picked them up from the trading center without much ceremony, drawn by their aesthetic rather than their practicality, and then forgot they existed until laundry day arrived. He can understand why; they are so impractical that they almost piss him off but it doesn’t outweigh the near-laughable way he is already hardening in his jeans.

“Hey baby,” he finally says from the doorway, his hands shaking slightly with how hard it is to not just walk up and grab at your hips as a greeting. 

“Joel,” you jump a little in your spot and look at him over your shoulder, the sheet still hanging between your fingers in a secure grip, “You scared the shit outta me!”

“What are you wearing?” He asks simply instead of apologizing, trying to act nonchalant as he walks to the side of the bed but you pick up on the strain in his voice. 

You glance down at yourself with a sigh but it just makes your ass jiggle, “Oh, these? They’re my last clean pair right now since I’m doing an epic pile of laundry today. Sun’s coming out. Perfect day for hanging it outside.” 

“They’re–” he replies, gaze fixed on your ass. His voice continues in the same strained tone but he doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. 

“They’re awful,” you help him and start struggling with the corner of the sheet again, “Feels like my ass is being flossed by lace.”

Joel snorts at that, “Should take ‘em off then.”

“You’d like that wouldn’t you?” You snort yourself, finally managing to pull the sheet over the edge. You flatten it with your palm, caressing it almost as if you’re apologizing for the roughness you’ve caused it and so it looks like it hasn’t been a battle to secure. Then you flop onto your back, stretching your arms out behind you to hold yourself up. The grin on your face is mischievous and sexy yet subtle, the position you’ve put your body in pushing your chest out so he can see your breasts through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. He thought he wanted you badly during his patrol but looking at you now, he thinks he might lose it if he doesn’t touch you soon. 

“You’ve got me. Take them off,” he murmurs with a smirk but when you playfully don’t follow orders, he starts leaning down over you slowly with his sore knee dipping into the mattress. You try to crawl back, squealing but he has taken on bigger things than you.

“Joel,“ you stop him by planting your bare foot on his chest but the way your leg bends at the knee just exposes that soft, intimate skin between your legs. He wants to dive into you but he’ll humor you for a moment.

He grabs your ankle to make you laugh but his mind betrays him by reminding him of how fragile his existence here with you is. Jackson remaining completely untouched by reality is a fantasy. He doesn’t tell you, never would tell you how easily it could all go wrong again, because you deserve the fantasy more than he does.

“Joel,” you repeat his name and he comes back to you if only briefly, watching your loving grin with a deep ache in his chest. He hasn’t felt this kind of ache since Sarah’s mother, a tell-tale sign that you are the real thing for him, that he built this house so you can fill it up with love and life. 

Life. It seems almost bordering on insanity to be thinking about children at his age in a world so broken but your eyes sparkle in the town square where mothers carry their babies in wraps while trading cartons of strawberries. You deserve to nurture someone other than him because your soul has so much to give. 

“If you’re not going to do anything but overthink,” you hum teasingly when time has passed and Joel feels embarrassed for having been lost to his own inner world. His thumb presses into the curve of your Achilles heel, tugging your body closer to himself by wrapping your leg around his waist instead.

“You’re the only person who talks to me like that,” he chuckles softly while his cheeks are slightly crimson. 

“It’s good for you,” you shoot back him and it is the truth.

“Was just thinking ‘bout how you do so much that I don’t deserve,” he says with his eyes roaming over your face and chest for a place to kiss. He chooses the column of your throat, “Cooking, cleaning… Lovin’ a man like me.”

“It’s not about deserving,” you muse and sigh at his stubble on your skin, “Do you want me?”

What kind of question is that? He wants you so much that it sometimes feels like it would be easier to live in your veins, to replace his tired and aching bones with yours if it meant never being without you. He sounds psychotic, sounds like something that he read in the string of horror novels he has gathered by now because they feel oddly comforting when there’s something worse on the other side of the gates. 

“Forever,” he replies simply. He would rather die than not have you.

“Not too much to ask for if you ask me,” you reach to cup his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones until he closes his eyes at the feel, and then pull him to your lips. You kiss him gently for a moment but with how much Joel wants you, he quickly lets it drift into something else, something more. He kisses you with all that want in his body, needs it to stop prickling underneath his skin. 

“Have you had breakfast?” He murmurs against your mouth, checking in, the question heavy with care for you. 

“No,” you whisper back into another kiss, fingers threading through the hair at the back of his neck, “I was waiting for you.”

“What if, after this, I take you down to the market?” Joel starts descending his lips on your body. He mouths over the mound of your breast, nipping at your sensitive nipple as it strains against the fabric of your top in its arousal, “Could get you fresh strawberries. Or blueberries we could throw in pancakes.”

You let out a soft moan that’s mixed with a breathy laugh, “I’m ovulating.”

“What?” Joel’s voice has gone scratchy. He stills his touch, moving to look up at your face to see what emotion is playing on your features. He didn’t even know you were keeping track. At first, he doesn’t understand your point but you’re quick to let him in.

“There’ll be babies all over the town square,” you grin down at him, cheeks warm with playfulness as you glow, “Just saying.”

“Maybe one of ours one day?” Joel tests the waters.

“Yeah?” Your grin turns into one of unabashed glee.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t mind it if we made a baby,” he answers quietly and moves his palm up under your top to lay it flat against your belly, “We could try. I mean, we’ve been dancing around it for months now, haven’t we?”

“Then don’t pull out,” the way you say those words, like honey dripping from your tongue, makes Joel swear under his breath and his cock jump. He watches the dizzying sight of you shimmying out of the lace underwear before spreading your legs to give room for him. Looking between your legs is like he’s been offered something holy by the devil himself, your slit already glistening and ready for him.

“Wasn’t gonna,” he smooths his hand down your belly to grab the hem of your top again, easing it up your body. You lift your arms over your head to help him get it off, the movement of your body making your tits shake. He moves backward on the bed, kissing his way down your sternum while squeezing your right breast. You arch slightly into the touch, taking it with a soft release of your breath.

Joel revels in you, revels in the fact that you have allowed him something that he hasn’t thought about in decades because the world did not allow it. He wonders if he’ll be a good father again after all these years of never letting himself think of being something to someone so tiny and fragile, dependent. Ellie had already been a mouthy teenager when he got her, and while she had relied on him, she had had one hell of a survival instinct and hadn’t needed any cradling. A newborn will be different; they will need parts of his being that he hasn’t touched since Sarah was handed to him in the hospital. He doesn’t know if he can trust himself to cradle his newborn with hands that now only know how to pull a trigger. He doesn’t know if it is like riding a bike, that it will happen naturally the second he sees them, but he knows that he wants it. God, he wants it. 

“What are you doing?” You question when he is suddenly between your legs, his feet out over the edge of the bed, and it makes him stop dead. Maybe he should stop having these thoughts when he makes love to you. 

“What do you mean?” He asks as he is halfway down on the floor to get in position. He furrows his brows in confusion. 

“You do realize that this is not how babies are made, right?” You giggle in response, sweetly enough to make his cock twitch. Oh, that’s what you’re playing at.

“Ain’t it?” He smirks.

“No!” You snicker. 

“Then I guess I’m just doing this for fun,” he replies and swings your legs onto his shoulders. He yanks at your hips to pull you towards his mouth, “C’mere, you.”

You squeak with giggles and Joel’s heart dances to the sound. However, your laughter switches to a moan the second his mouth touches you and covers nearly the whole of you. He doesn’t need to think about it anymore, has learned what you like by now from the countless times he has eaten your pussy like it was his last meal on this godforsaken earth. 

“Shit,” you gasp towards the ceiling and cross your ankles on the broadness of his back. He swears that he can hear it in your voice how your eyes roll back when his tongue caresses you in soft strokes. You taste so good that he moans into you, lapping up every drop of sticky sweetness with his tongue. 

“I know, baby. I got you,” he pauses briefly to suck on two of his fingers to wet them, following it up by turning his hand toward the ceiling and then sinking the digits inside of you. He expertly presses them upward, curling them into the spot that immediately has your hips jolting. 

“There,” you tell him with a whine, twisting your hands in the freshly-made bed sheets with a curse that he doesn’t know if is directed at him or the stupid fitted sheets slipping from the corners again, “Joel— ah, don’t stop!”

You gasp as he rubs into that spot over and over again, pairing it with his mouth circling in on the place you need it the most. Your clit is hard and sensitive, perfect for wrapping his mouth around and sucking until his cheeks hollow. 

“Oh God… Oh God,” your pitch rises as he works you open on his hand. At some point, you lose yourself enough in it to start tightening your legs around his back and shoulders. It makes your pelvis lift off the mattress until your back is beautifully arched, makes your cunt press firmly into his mouth for any friction. He grabs your thigh with his free hand for leverage and groans softly into you, taking the reward of sinful pleasure shooting straight to his cock from the way you fuck yourself on his fingers and mouth. 

Outside, the heat can’t compete with the warmth coming off of your body. He can hear another gust of wind blowing through the wind chimes around the porch, mixing with the sound of the city waking up and coming to life. He could die right here, he thinks, between your beautiful thighs with skin that smells just faintly of your homemade lavender oil but right now mostly of sex. It wouldn’t be bad, hell, the whole town would say that he died doing what he loved. 

A hand tangles in his hair now. You have relented on the sheets in case you’ll rip them, and Joel takes each painful sting of his follicles with pride as you balance on the edge. He sinks his fingers deeper, works his mouth faster to get you to tip the scales and come so hard that the world fades away from the both of you. 

It happens a moment later. You hold your breath for just a few seconds, completely quiet as you concentrate while the anticipation within your body crackles like electricity he swears, he can feel. 

Then you cry out in relief, throwing your head back and squeezing your thighs around his head so the sound in his good ear blurs as well. He can feel your muscles clamp down on his fingers, near-arrogant pride swelling in his chest from how skilled he is in making you feel good. 

He keeps his mouth on you as long as you allow him, the tip of his tongue flicking over your sensitive and goddamn pretty clit until you protest with a whimper. When he draws back, he keeps fucking you through the aftershocks with his fingers and dares look up at you, heart beating out of his chest and his dick hard enough that it is aching. His fingers are wet with your come, making your cunt squelch in the otherwise quiet room. 

“Attagirl,” he breaks the silence with a praise in his easy southern drawl, letting his fingers slip out finally, “You liked that, huh?”

You hum approvingly in your afterglow and he can’t get close to you fast enough. He crawls up from the floor, grunting at the way his knees remind him of his age, and moves up on the bed. He slots between your legs again like he was made to fit there, kneeling between your thighs. You look soft and dazed, chest still heaving from your high. 

“I love you. Every damn inch of you,” he murmurs softly. He looks at your face, how you smile with your eyes closed and your nose is slightly scrunched up as the sun dances over your features through the window. You’re glowing. Simple as that, no other word for it, like you will when carrying his kid, and he should tell you that you’re the only peace he has ever found. He should say it to you but he cowers each time. It feels more weighted than telling you that he loves you. 

“I know,” you whisper back eventually, eyes blinking open and your hands reaching for his belt. The metal clinks as you undo the buckle, a smug little grin on your face. 

“Alright, Han Solo,” he rolls his eyes for show and then moves over you, the devil in his eyes. He wipes his slick chin and lips on your face, making you laugh in the way that is enhanced by dopamine. He bumps his nose into yours, “Think you’re funny, huh?”

“Little bit,” you smile and get the fly open. You reach inside and wrap your fist around him, the playful air in the room settling immediately when you stroke him lazily, “But I’m just trying to get you to take your clothes off.”

“Fuck, baby,” he groans while you run your thumb over the slit of his dick, “You’re killing me. Gimme a sec of this.”

You give in and let him have this for a moment, stroking him with practiced flicks of your wrist until his hips start to rut so he can fuck your hand. He moans as he stares down between you, the muscles of his neck and shoulders wound so tight from trying not to come that it is a miracle his old bones haven’t snapped in half.

When you feel him near the edge, you squeeze around the base to halt his orgasm. You’ve started to breathe hard alongside him, clearly worked up by the sounds he is making for you. 

“Fuck me,” you beg him, your voice stutters as you frantically try using your free hand to yank his jeans down over his hips, “Please, Joel, I need you inside me.”

He thinks about how worked up you must be between your legs after holding out for so long. Knowing how wet you get from touching him like this, you must be soaked for him and ready to be taken care of like you deserve. It means that Joel doesn’t need to be told twice, already tugging his jeans and underwear just far down enough for what matters. 

However, despite the rush of getting undressed, he still takes the time to reach for one of the newly-fluffed pillows resting against the bed’s headboard. 

“Up,” he says without further explanation but you know what he wants to do, would probably trust him with your life even if he just gave you a look. When you lift your pelvis in the air without question, he slides the pillow underneath you so your hips are tilted just right for him to reach deep. 

Your legs are spread, your cunt practically served on a platter for him with how it is raised slightly in the air, squeezing around nothing as if begging for him. He looks down at your face as he runs the head of his cock through your folds, coating the very tip in a mix of precome and your shiny slick. 

You aren’t watching him though, too busy chewing on your bottom lip with your eyes glued to how the head of his cock sinks into your wet heat. When he starts stretching you with his thick girth, your mouth falls open in a soft moan. 

He places a hand just above your mound, holds you there while he bottoms out with a growl. Then he rocks his hips once then twice, setting up a pace that gives the both of you time to indulge in each other. You are snug around his dick as he fucks you, slick heat that makes his skin tingle and his breath stutter. The remnants of a southern gentleman in him know that he shouldn’t compare, but no other woman has ever made him unravel so much during sex, has ever made him feel so powerful and powerless in bed. 

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to,” he demands to regain some form of control, staring down at your face contorted with pleasure. 

“You,” you gasp feebly, “It’s yours.”

When he fucks you like this, you are his. He doesn’t need to second guess this fact, knows it just from the way your bodies are connected like they know it too. 

He reaches for your thighs, his knuckles going white as he lifts them onto his hips. You lock around him by instinct and force him forward, so he has to brace himself with a hand beside your head. The angle makes him go deeper, the thick head of his cock kissing at your cervix and your greedy cunt flutters like it wants to do the impossible and pull him further in. 

“Look at me,” he says in a voice that reveals just how good you feel to him, watches the way your tits bounce with each thrust, “Say it like you mean it.”

You stare up into his eyes, your brows furrowed as the tip of his cock drags along the front of your walls. He is in there deep, focused on coming just where it matters. Meanwhile, you have to concentrate on forming words, needing to start over several times with how close you are to babbling.

“It’s– ah, fuck. It’s your pussy, Joel. I’m yours,” you cry for him, your pitch close to, but not quite, the one of a wounded animal. The difference is the lack of hesitation; you are both so sure of each other that it makes him ache all over and ignore the sweaty strain on his old back. 

Your hands scramble to touch him but you make a noise of complaint when his chest is covered by his shirt, the barrier a nuisance when you want all of him. He shed the flannel earlier along with his jacket, but right now, it is the soft fabric of his t-shirt that you’re pulling at to get to his skin. 

He dips down to let you pull it over his head, it slipping down his arm unceremoniously until he can grab it with his fist and toss it over his back. Your trembling hands find his skin immediately and it makes you sigh with relief. Your nails drag through the hairs on his chest, leaving red streaks in their wake until you grab the flesh of his sides. 

He sees how your eyes roam over his torso, where scars tell stories of a life much more complicated than this. You have loved each one of them so many times that he doesn’t feel insecure about them anymore, have traced them with your fingers and kissed them enough to get him to believe that he is more than the events that brought them. 

“You’re so beautiful,” you say softly and settle a hand at the back of his neck, drawing him into your arms. He braces himself on his forearms, kisses you like he isn’t inside of you, and has missed you for a weeklong patrol, still taken aback when you say things like that. 

“Sweet girl,” he whispers against your lips and you whimper as his cock pulses inside of your body. You look at him with fiery love and lust, the stare so intense he knows that this will be over soon because he can’t hold back anymore. 

His next thrusts are slower but rougher, harder and insistent in touching the parts inside you that make you barrel towards the edge. He can feel the difference between all the other times he’s been buried in your cunt to the hilt and this time. While the air is still thick with labored breaths and whispered cries for a higher power he doesn’t know if he believes, this is not just sex; this is about taking the very best parts of you and mixing them with the leftover parts of him that he has found aren’t fatally broken because of you. 

The sound of his name pulls him back to you. His pelvis has aligned with yours with each rock of his hips, the spot just above the base of his cock grinding into your twitching clit. 

“I’m gonna— fuck, I’m gonna come,“ you choke on air, “Please, Joel. Don’t stop, baby.”

“I know, honey,” he moans at the way you flutter around his length, voice cracking at how you feel better than a Texan summer. You’re so wet it sounds filthy when he fucks you, barely pulling out anymore and letting you soak his dick while he switches to simply grinding. For a moment, he is even scared that it’ll set him off before you’ve had your second fill, “Jesus, yeah, I can feel it.” 

Your orgasm hits like a runaway train. The hand resting on the back of his neck slides down to squeeze his shoulder, fingers denting his skin as you seek something to cling onto in your state of ecstasy. You come so hard that air is knocked out of him from how tightly your cunt grips him, his whole body shuddering like he’s the one losing it.

He presses a lingering kiss to your gorgeous neck while your head is thrown back, feeling the rapid beats of your heart under his lips. Your free hand cradles him like you’re meant to be a mother already, making it irresistible for him not to inhale your scent of lavender from the spot where your neck meets your shoulder.  

“You feel too good, baby, ’m not gonna last,” he grits out against your sweat-slicked skin, his cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat. 

“Don’t want you to last, want you to put a baby in me. Gimme a baby, Joel,” you beg him and bury your nose in his temple. You squeeze him tighter in your arms, whining from oversensitivity as his thrusts start to intensify toward the end, “Wanna make you a daddy, baby, please, I’m ready.”

Daddy. The word coming from your mouth makes Joel snap. He pushes his hips against yours and comes with a groan, the head of his cock flush against the very back of your cunt. In his life, he has witnessed wildfires and his climax spreads through his lower belly just as fast. His breath is stuck in his lungs as he fills you to the brim, his tongue wanting to say filth but only your name comes out. It’s good enough to make a grown man tremble without remorse in the embrace of his woman. 

After a beat, his body sags from exhaustion. When you let go of his shoulder to run your hand over your hair, your nails have created little crescent marks on his body. He grunts as he rolls off of you in fear of crushing you underneath his weight. You whimper at the loss, a few heavy drops of his seed landing on the pillow still beneath your hips. 

“C’mere,” he murmurs as a haze settles over the both of you, the sweat on his skin turning slightly chilly. He holds his arm out to invite you into the space that always holds you perfectly and you oblige without a word. He’d lay here forever with you if he had to, would embrace being trapped here with you until they had to send out a search party. 

He is still breathing hard when you lay your head on his chest, draping your arm across his body whose stamina isn’t what it used to be. You don’t comment on it though, simply hold him while the sheets get dirty again from the mess between your thighs. While the world fades away around you, Joel decides that he’ll help you do the extra load of laundry. 

Without thinking, his fingers absentmindedly start tracing up and down your forearm in a soothing motion. You swing a tired leg over his body in response, attempting to get impossibly closer despite already practically melting together with him in the post-orgasmic heat you share. 

Outside, a young child shrieks with excited laughter and Joel nearly tears up from how new the sound seems even though it is a daily occurrence in the little town. He must know if you feel the same. 

“What’s on your mind?” He asks and breaks the quiet, still caressing your arm gently. 

“Just thinking,” you reply and splay your hand on his chest, brushing your thumb over his nipple without thinking. You kiss him where you can reach. 

“About?” He pushes, looking down at the top of your head as if he can read your emotions like that. You probably could with him. 

You crane your neck to stare at him with a little tired smile, “Babies. You. How much I love you. I love you.”

“I know,” he answers smugly, arching an eyebrow with a smile. He thinks another confession of his devotion might set his chest alight and right now, you don’t deserve to have his guilt winning.

“You asshole,” you dissolve into a burst of laughter while his smile turns wolfish, your body curling in on itself on top of his chest. He loves your laugh, the way you nearly snort and feel embarrassed by it. It makes him settle a hand on the base of your skull and drag you into the sort of kiss from a person who’s learning to trust joy again.

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[eyesoulhand]

금성제 — my hand in yours, in mine [1.5k]

the air of your bathroom is clinical, the smell of sanitized bandages and antiseptic coming faint from your first aid kit, like a homemade hospital with an exhausted pine-scented air freshener. when you get close enough to the boy in front of you, sat on the closed lid of a toilet, you can smell blood on skin. whether or not it’s his or some other poor, hospitalized soul is another story.

“fucking idiots,” seongje heavily sighs, iron on his tongue. he still won’t stop talking even while you’re wiping at his busted lip. the hand you have at his neck presses a little firmer and you continue, zeroed in on the way you press a wet towel wrapped around your finger to the wound.

he’s about to say something again before he hisses when his skin pulls just a little too much, and you have to refrain from making him a little worse. god, you want to hit him—but you can’t. so, you settle for sliding your hand down and laying it heavy on his shoulder with a huff, digging your fingers into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the warmth beneath your palm.

he just smiles, entertained. you try not to meet it with hostility.

his lips part a little as you try to wipe at the blood, try to be gentle—you catch the way the corners of his lips still tug upward, the way his gums peek out. his smiles are probably better described as teeth-baring than anything, but you indulge yourself in the idea that it’s something friendlier with you than it is with others.

“what’d you do to piss them off this time, hm?” he asks, jutting his chin, your hand retracting from his face. a scoff presses through your teeth. he tilts his head when you give up on that general area and take his hand instead, watching the way you grimace at the blood and dirt.

it reminds you of how one of the guys from earlier came at him with brass knuckles—left with broken knuckles.

idiots. fucking idiots.

you’re too preoccupied with the mental checklist of medical supplies lined up on your countertop to consider replying to him. you busy yourself with rinsing the rag and pumping some soap on it before lightly wetting it again, cleaning around the wounds on his hands. out of your sight, his face falls a little, left with his own thoughts.

“they could’ve seriously hurt you, you know,” seongje says, voice dropping a little flatter, a little less teasing. he states it like a fact and not a what-if. his tone grazes the single-minded state you’re in, enough to derail you for just a moment to spare a glance at him.

“you were there, weren’t you?” you reply, gaze dropping again as you fall back on track.

“are you stupid?” he murmurs, not missing a single beat. “you think i’m going to be there every time you need saving?”

“you said so yourself,” you murmur back, all too assured, all too focused on his hands, and he stares back at the top of your head like you’ve grown a second one. you continue dabbing at his skinned knuckles, eyes hardening when you come to bits of blood that are too dry. he really couldn’t care less about how precise you are about disinfecting and cleaning something this minor, to him, but you were nothing if not particular. the damp and soapy rag makes his wounds sting but he can’t even bother making a snarky, halfhearted remark about it—not when you’re standing there in front of him, knees knocking against his, tending to him like this. it doesn’t bother him when you press down a little harder to get rid of the stubborn clots, but you clench your teeth anyway.

tense brows press down on narrowed eyes and he finds himself mirroring you. seongje’s lip curls—not in contempt, though the expression was almost identical to the one he wore when some piece of shit got on his nerves.

that look could never be directed at you. he was just… confused.

he guesses he did say it, before. it was around three months ago, the first time you’d really witnessed the damage he could cause, beginning to end.

(some group of boys you’d never seen before were following you—they knew your name, knew your school, knew about how you’d been ‘hanging around seongje.’ you think it was some idiot trying to get one up on him for revenge. it’s a shame they obviously didn’t think it through enough. his glasses are loosely held at your side, folded in your palm.

you watch as he stands in the middle of a wreckage, tracing the rise and fall of his shoulders, his uneven breaths. the foggy street lights cast in front of him, showing nothing more than his silhouette. you can’t see his expression like this, head hung low over battered bodies, but your vision of it is clear all the same. wild eyes, a storm behind a smile.

he smiles like he’s off on a high from the metallic smell of blood that permeates the air surrounding him, smiles like a warning siren. danger, danger. you watch the shadow of his back as he lets out a ragged breath, and you catch the tail end of an even rougher laugh. his shoulders roll back, relaxing, a brief second spent to look at the darkened sky.

“if you ever come near her again,” he starts, languid as he drops his gaze, foot prodding at the side of a limp body. “i’ll know. you got it?”

it’s a silent declaration. you want to see me? fine. wherever she goes, i go.

he huffs, pulling a pack out his pocket. a cigarette slips out with a flick of his wrist, and he takes it between his lips as he turns to you, stepping over an arm, a leg. a pause, and the flash of his lighter illuminates his face, long enough for you to see faint specks of blood. he takes a drag.

“are you hungry?” he asks, wisps of smoke slipping between his words. he comes to you, palm open, and you silently hand him his glasses. he sighs and walks past you, glasses quietly clicking as they unfold. “i’m fucking hungry.”

you’re still staring at the wreck he’s left behind in his wake, a reminder of the whirlwind that waits inside of him. you think you count five bodies, knocked out on wet cement—one of them tried running away as soon as the first guy was out. you sigh. just another mistake to add onto their list of grievances:

1. coming near you, 2. laying a hand on you, 3. thinking they could beat geum seongje, and 4. trying to run away from geum seongje.

oh well. they’ve learned their lesson.

seongje turns around, eyes landing on you like there’s nothing else to look at. “are you coming?”)

times like this, he remembers you’re not exactly right in the head.

“you trust me that much?” seongje scoffs, recovering quickly enough, voice lifted by the almost mocking smile he wears.

“you trust me, don’t you?” you offhandedly return like a kick to his shin, reaching for petroleum jelly. the thin layer you spread across his knuckles is soothing, but he finds that his hands still burn hot under your touch.

he stares at you, letting out an amused breath. sometimes you shoot him down like a sedative and the chaos that runs rampant through his mind slows for half a second, the corners of his lips losing a fraction of their edge. (almost like he fades a little into something soft, maybe—but soft doesn’t seem to suit seongje.) his eyes flicker but despite that familiar glint, that brief dilation, the sharpness of his glare dulls when he’s directing it at you. (he manages to fit into it, anyway, that softness, or something close to it. as long as you’re the one holding him.)

he can’t look away—he never looked away from the face of someone challenging him—but your words hit him somewhere he didn’t feel like dissecting. he realizes he does trust you, more than he should. more than he thought he’d let himself. granted, you’ve gotten to know a lot about each other these past few months, but seongje still finds himself at a loss.

he hands a little bit of himself to you without realizing it every time he shows up at your door knowing you’ll patch him up, with every step he takes in front of you, knowing you’re right behind him.

he laughs, derisive, dry like there’s something biting at his throat.

“why should i trust anyone?” he responds instead, his gaze fixed on you. you suppose there are things he still can’t trust you with, but that’s okay. there are things you don’t tell him either. the two of you are still here, anyway, his hand in yours as you wrap gauze around and between his fingers with set practice.

you don’t say anything after that. you don’t have to. his lack of a real answer is an answer in itself.

maybe you also trust him more than you should. you’ve come to expect a degree of mutuality from him. but there’s one truth that hangs above the both of you like a promise scarred in your palms, held in bloody-knuckled fists: seongje was never going to leave you. he would never think to.

that’s enough trust for the two of you.

a/n seongje brainrot is real… release me from my shackles. i didn’t have any real direction for this but i hope it turned out well :’/) any feedback is very appreciated <3

[helen-with-an-a]

The Most Awkward Minutes of Your Life

Hi.

There are 2 disclaimers here:

this is inspired by the video on Tiktok of someone saying they had an awkward encounter with the Barça players whilst that the hotel. I am an Arsenal fan, but I do watch Barça games and I do feel so desperately sorry for the girls and the Culers. I'm not going to wade in on any 'Barcenal' debates. It's a free world, people can do what they like. At the end of the day, it's people kicking a ball around a field for 90 minutes. It's the age old saying: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

I have tagged Barça Femeni because I want people to read this fic and it is a relevant tag but it is an Arsenal fan!R

That being said, I hope everyone has a lovely bank holiday Monday.

AWFC x Reader ; Barça Femení x Reader ; OC x Reader

Description: You have the most awkward lift journey of your life.

You were buzzing. Genuinely high on life as you made your way through the busy, cobbled streets of Lisbon, the sounds of drunken ‘North London Forever’ echoing in your ears as you listened to a very chatty Bella babbling away. She weaved between sunburnt tourists, dragging you with her as you tried not to trip over discarded plastic cups and uneven paving stones on your way back to the hotel.

It had been a whim initially. A random “why not?” moment, a little treat for yourself and Bella after a rough few months, booked long before you knew that The Arsenal would even get close to a final, let alone reach it. Back when even getting through to the knockout rounds had sounded like some impossible, foolish dream you only half-believed in. If you had told yourself, standing in your freezing living room back in October, that you and Bella would be able to watch your team lift that coveted trophy, you would have laughed in their face. Or cried. Possibly both.

And yet … here you were. Sun on your back, city lights glittering, Bella’s excitable voice skipping over half-formed words as she recounted every second of the match for the fifth time. She barely stopped to take a breath as she waved her arms about, her hat bobbing with every enthusiastic jump.

“Norf London forevaaaaa!” Bella sang out again, much to the amusement of a passing group of girls, as you finally made it through the lobby and to the check-in desk. The only, singular downside of this otherwise perfect weekend? By some cosmic joke or cruel twist of fate, you’d managed to book yourself into the same hotel as the Barça team. The very team you’d just watched your side snatch a dramatic win against. And now you felt like you had a massive, blinking target on your back, your red and white standing out just a bit too much against the sombre hordes of Blaugrana-clad Culers.

“Bells, babe,” you murmured, leaning down to catch her attention as she wiggled her hips dramatically to the chant in her head, “maybe don’t sing that right now, yeah?”

She blinked up at you, utterly unbothered, her six-year-old brain working on a totally different wavelength. She was covered head to toe in Arsenal colours. A bright red canon bucket hat, a full Mariona Caldentey kit, right down to the socks, and a pair of tiny adidas trainers that she insisted were ‘football shoes’. She had even demanded her knickers be red this morning for ‘good luck’. You should have known then she was going to be on one.

“We gotta show our support,” she declared, her tiny face set in that stubborn look she inherited from your mum.

“Bells, no one is going to know if you’re wearing red knickers or not.”

“Yeah, well … I’ll know,” she shot back without missing a beat. “And if we lose, it’ll be on you.”

You laughed despite yourself, ruffling her hair and glancing around the crowded hotel lobby. A few Barça players were milling about, faces blotchy and red, some clearly fresh from crying, others sunk deep into their hoods and hats. You wished you’d thought to throw your black hoodie in your bag. Something to hide behind. The lift was taking forever, and the 15 flights of stairs were starting to look like a more appealing option with every passing second.

“C’mon.” Bella huffed, tugging at your hand as she spotted the lift doors finally open.

You followed her reluctantly. And then wished you hadn’t.

Because standing inside the lift were none other than Alexia Putellas, Claudia Pina, and Patri Guijarro. You froze. All three of them glanced up, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and polite wariness. You were very aware of how bright your red and white scarf was in that moment.

“We can wait for the next one …”

“Ugh, no! We’ve been waiting forever, and I need a wee!” Bella announced to the world, already stomping into the lift and pulling you with her.

“Okay, okay, but be quiet,” you mumbled awkwardly, offering a small apologetic smile to the three Barça players as you shuffled into the corner.

It couldn’t have been more than a few moments, a couple of awkward heartbeats, but it felt like a lifetime in that tiny space. The silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of the lift.

“Psst,” Bella stage-whispered, poking your thigh.

You winced. Nothing good ever came from a Bella stage-whisper.

“Yeah?” you replied cautiously, silently praying to whichever Deity might be listening that it wasn’t going to be an awkward question.

“Why are they sad?” she asked, pointing a very unsubtle finger toward the three footballers.

Christ on a bike.

You internally scrambled for an answer, desperately trying to come up with something that wouldn’t be wildly insulting to three of the best players in the world on what was, undoubtedly, one of the worst days they’d had in a while.

“Uh … bad day at the office,” you managed weakly.

“Oh,” Bella murmured, looking down at her trainers like she was contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

“That’s what you said when we lost to Brighton,” she added, still staring at her feet.

“Yeh, it was,” you muttered, smoothing down her hair and praying for the lift to move faster.

“And when we lost to Villa.”

“Yep,” you popped the ‘p,’ wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Pina’s lips twitch.

“And the first leg against Lyon … And Chelsea … And Real Madrid.”

“Okay, Bells, we don’t need a full play-by-play of the season, do we?”

“I’m just saying,” she sassed, rolling her eyes.

You could practically feel the tension start to shift. And then Bella, never one to leave a silence unfilled, took a deep breath.

“But then we won against Real Madrid!” she announced, grinning up at you.

“We did,” you agreed, cautiously eyeing which way this conversation might go.

“And Super Mario went ‘boom,’” Bella mimed an exaggerated kick, “and it went right over Misa’s hands, and we went ‘yey!’” She clapped once, mimicking the moment the equaliser hit the net.

You saw Pina and Patri exchange glances, a smile creeping onto their faces despite themselves.

“And then,” Bella continued, “we saw us lose to Lyon … boo Lyon.” She pulled a face.

You bit back a smirk. Even Alexia was watching now, one corner of her mouth twitching.

“But then we went to Stam-mord Bridge,” she stumbled over the words in her excitement, “and we saw Chelsea lose. And that was very funny.”

By now, even Alexia was smiling properly.

“That’s gonna be me one day,” Bella said solemnly, nodding with all the self-importance of a child making a sacred vow.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm. I’m gonna be just like Super Mario and score against Chelsea.”

“Mariona didn’t score against Chelsea.”

“I know,” Bella said with a sigh. “It was Aitana … and Pajor … and Pina … and Para-para-way-yo.”

“Paralluelo,” Patri corrected gently.

“Yes! Her.” Bella beamed. “She went zoom and boom and GOAL. And I’m gonna do dat too against Chelshit.”

“Bella!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands as laughter filled the lift.

“Well, that’s what you call them,” she shrugged.

You couldn’t even argue.

[leejenowrld]

Na Jaemin dad core …. what are this 10 defining characteristics as a dad?

i wrote more than ten 😭😭 i’m obsessed, a lot of these may contain some spoilers for ‘heart to heart.’

he learns the weight of her body before he learns how to breathe again. when she’s first born, he’s afraid to hold her. not because she’s fragile, but because he is. he stands beside the incubator with his hands curled into fists, watching the rise and fall of her chest like it’s the only rhythm that matters in the world. and when the nurse finally places her in his arms, he doesn't speak, he sobs. full-body. silent. collapsing inward while holding something impossibly small. that night, he sleeps in the hospital chair with her against his bare chest, skin to skin, afraid that if he puts her down, she’ll disappear. even now, years later, when she climbs into his lap and curls there without asking, he always presses his palm to her back, counts her breaths again, just in case. he never says it out loud but every time she exhales, he forgives himself a little more for the time he almost left.

he never touches her hair without asking first — not even when she’s crying. she has the most temperamental curls. soft but stubborn, like her. she hates detangling. hates baths. hates when water goes in her eyes. the first time she throws a tantrum over it, she screams so loud he drops the brush. every instinct in him wants to fix it, quickly, efficiently, without emotion, the way he was taught to handle his own pain. but he doesn’t. instead, he crouches to her level, lowers his voice, and says “baby girl, can i touch your hair?” and she pauses. sniffles. nods. he combs through it slower than he’s ever done anything, whispering stories about mermaids and moonlight, misting detangler into his own palms first so it’s not too cold for her scalp. by the time he’s finished, her face is relaxed again. she leans her head against his chest without speaking. that’s how he learns, love isn’t fast. it’s patient. it’s gentle. it’s always asking permission.

he spends a week living on the cot beside her hospital bed and never once takes his eyes off the monitor. when the doctors say she’ll need surgery, he goes still. then he goes quiet. then he goes somewhere else entirely. no one sees him cry. no one hears him panic. but he doesn’t leave that hospital wing for seven days. not to sleep. not even when they tell him he can. he reads the same picture book to her five times in a row, holds her hand while she’s unconscious, kisses the backs of her fingers every hour on the hour like superstition. he whispers “you’re safe. you’re strong. you’re mine.” over and over again, sometimes when she’s awake, sometimes just to the ceiling. when the nurses offer to bring in a fold-out chair, he refuses. he needs to stay close. he needs her to open her eyes and see him there, not across the room. he talks to the IV drip like it’s a lifeline. he promises her a fort made of pillows when they get home. and when she finally wakes up post-op, drowsy and pale and clutching his shirt like an anchor, he breaks down for the first time. doesn’t even realise he’s crying until she blinks at him and says “appa?” and he nods. “yes, baby. always.”

he lets her put her cold feet on his bare thighs without flinching and warms her hands inside his sleeves whenever they walk at night. she hates socks. hates mittens. hates when her fingers feel trapped. but she loves touching him. so when they’re walking home and the air is biting, she always slides her hands into his hoodie sleeves without asking, nestling her palms against his skin. jaemin doesn’t complain. he tucks his hands over hers, holds them there like little embers. when she jumps into his lap at home with frozen toes, he lets out a soft grunt but never moves away. just wraps her legs in his and says “cold feet mean you missed me.” she giggles every time. it never gets old. and it never stops feeling like prayer.

he keeps every single voice memo she’s ever sent — even the accidental ones. sometimes it’s just ten seconds of static. sometimes it’s her saying “hi appa” like it’s a secret she’s letting him hear. once it was her singing off-key into the phone before slamming it on the floor. he saves them all. he listens to them when he’s tired. when he’s angry. when he forgets how to talk to people who aren’t her. he doesn’t tell anyone about the folder. it’s his favourite thing on his phone. his camera roll is messy. his texts are unread. but the voice memos? backed up. dated. catalogued by length. he plays them on planes. on walks. on nights he can’t sleep. sometimes he cries. sometimes he smiles so hard his chest hurts. he doesn’t need therapy. he just needs to hear her say “i love you” in five-year-old grammar on loop forever.

he folds her laundry better than his own and knows which pajamas are her favourites based on what she reaches for when she’s sad. she has a system. the pink ones with stars when she’s excited. the grey ones with clouds when she’s sick. the oversized t-shirt she once stole from his closet when she needs to feel small. jaemin never questions it. he washes them on delicate. he never puts them in the dryer. he hangs them on a line in her room and lets her choose which ones smell the best. once, when she was sick, he wore the grey ones himself for a day so they’d smell like him. she put them on and slept for twelve hours straight.

the first time haeun says “i hate you” he drops to his knees it’s not a tantrum. it’s not screaming. it’s quiet and trembling, born from exhaustion and pain and the kind of frustration little bodies don’t know how to hold. she’s six. raw from chemo. sick of medicine. tired of hurting. he tries to stop her from pulling the IV out and she shoves his hand away, eyes burning, and says it — “i hate you.” the words make him freeze. not because he believes them, but because she does. in that moment, she does. and jaemin doesn’t tell her she’s wrong. he doesn’t flinch. he kneels down, eye-level, lets her fists hit his chest, lets her sob and pull and break and when she runs out of breath, he whispers, “you’re allowed to feel everything, baby. even that.” and then, softer, “but i love you anyway. always. even when it hurts.” later, she falls asleep in his lap mid-apology and he stays on the hospital floor for hours with her heart against his ribs.

he takes her to a secret rooftop garden when the hospital feels like it’s swallowing her whole it’s hidden. through an emergency stairwell, behind a supply door, the kind of place he only found because he refused to leave her side and wandered while she slept. it’s quiet. no beeping monitors. no linoleum. he brings her there when she starts crying during bloodwork and can’t stop. he carries her up the stairs, blankets and juice boxes and stickers tucked under one arm, and opens the door to air and green and silence. she gasps. “is this magic?” he kisses her temple. “kind of. i saved it for you.” they sit on the bench for hours. she picks petals off daisies and makes wishes. he reads to her until her heartbeat slows. the nurses never find them. he tells her this is their place. she starts calling it their secret sky. when she finishes treatment, he takes her there to celebrate.

the moment he thinks he’s failed her is the night she sees herself bald for the first time and won’t stop crying she won’t come out of the bathroom. the door’s locked. she’s curled in the corner with her head under a towel, saying “i look like a monster. i’m not pretty anymore.” jaemin tries to stay calm but he can feel himself fracturing. he slides down the wall outside, presses his back to it, and starts whispering stories. stories about galaxies, about warrior princesses who shaved their heads to become faster, stronger, untouchable. he tells her “you’re more than pretty, haeun. you’re brave. you’re real. you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.” she doesn’t answer. hours pass. when she finally opens the door, he’s still sitting there — hoodie on, legs cramped, eyes red. she walks straight into his arms and whispers “will you still braid my hair when it comes back?” and he swears on his whole soul that he will.

he takes her to get ice cream after every chemo session even when she says she doesn’t want it her appetite vanishes after treatment. her mouth hurts. she gets quiet. she says “i don’t want anything, appa.” but he still drives to the same little corner shop, orders her usual in a cup, and holds it out wordlessly. she frowns. takes it. licks once. always once. then twice. then again. by the end she’s halfway through and her smile is back and she’s leaning against him like her body remembers he’s the safest place to be. sometimes she doesn’t eat at all. he keeps the melted ice cream in the freezer like it matters. like she might want it again later. she never does. but he always saves it anyway.

he lets her ruin his mornings on purpose. she wakes up early. always has. climbs into his bed before the sun’s up, knees into his ribs, cold feet under his shirt, asking if they can make pancakes or look for worms outside or build a tent from the sofa cushions again. she’s full of noise. he’s not awake. but he never tells her no. he pulls the covers over her, lets her wriggle under his arm, and says “five more minutes,” knowing full well she won’t last thirty seconds before kissing his cheek and whispering “i’m bored.” he groans. pretends to grumble. then gets up and lets her steal his hoodie while he puts the kettle on. those mornings are messy. flour in her hair. cartoons still on. juice spilled on the floor. but he never trades them for quiet. he never asks for sleep instead. because one day she won’t climb into his bed at all. and he wants to remember what it felt like when she still thought of him first.

he never lets her walk home without holding something — his hand, his sleeve, the corner of his backpack. even when she insists she’s big enough. even when she runs ahead. even when she stops and pouts because he’s being too careful. he always waits. holds out his hand. doesn’t say anything until she takes it again. sometimes she grabs just his pinky. sometimes she loops her finger through the strap on his backpack. it’s not about the grip. it’s about the connection. he doesn’t care how she holds on, only that she does. once, when she asked him “why do i always have to hold something?” he told her “because when i was little, no one ever waited for me to catch up.” she didn’t answer, just curled her fingers around his and kept walking. that was enough.

he cries behind the school gate the first time she lets go of his hand too early. it’s not the drop-off that ruins him. it’s the moment before. when they’re standing in line and she’s holding his hand, but her eyes are already on the playground. already on the kids with sparkly backpacks and bouncy braids and painted nails. and then. she lets go. not dramatically. not with a wave or a kiss. she just steps forward. like it’s nothing. like it’s fine. jaemin watches her walk ahead with her head held high, her little shoulders squared like she’s been practicing, and he swears he feels something crack in his chest. he doesn't call after her. doesn’t ask her to turn around. just presses his hand flat to the gate and says her name under his breath, once. when she finally looks back and waves, late, distracted, he smiles. waves back. then turns around and weeps behind the corner of the building. quiet. hunched. terrified that this is just the beginning of a thousand more goodbyes she won’t realise she’s giving him.

he loses her in the grocery store once and goes full end-of-the-world panic within sixty seconds. it’s one aisle. one moment. she asks if she can get the cereal by herself. he says yes. watches her turn the corner. counts to thirty. walks after her. and she’s not there. not in the aisle. not at the endcap. not by the candy shelf. the cart’s abandoned. his heart slams into his throat. he starts calling her name low at first, then louder. he checks every corner. every display. spins in circles. people stare. he doesn’t care. his hands are shaking. he yells once — full volume — and the cashier radios someone. “four years old. green hoodie. hair in two buns.” he repeats it like a prayer. “she was just here. i was just—” and then she appears. holding a packet of marshmallows. calm as anything. “appa, look what i found.” he drops to his knees in front of her in the middle of the frozen aisle. clutches her to his chest. breathes like he hasn’t in minutes. and when she asks “did you miss me?” he says “more than anything in the world.”

he moment she learns what death means and asks if he’ll leave too she says it like she’s testing the shape of something she’s only just learned exists. there’s no fear in her voice yet, just curiosity. soft and serious, like she’s trying to understand a new rule of the world. it’s the kind of question that doesn’t come with warning. one moment she’s holding a stuffed bear and the next she’s tilting her head and asking if people come back after they die. when jaemin hears her, something inside him stills. not panic, not shock — just this deep, slow ache that spreads through his chest as he sets down what he’s doing and kneels beside her. he answers honestly, gently, without too much weight, but the second she asks about him, it turns into something heavier. what if you die? she says, and he feels the floor shift. he doesn’t promise her the impossible. he doesn’t lie. he just holds her close and tells her that he’ll do everything in his power to stay, because he wants to be with her for as long as she’ll have him. she curls into him, small and quiet, still trying to process what it means, but she doesn’t cry. she doesn’t ask again. that night he keeps her door cracked open and leaves the hallway light on until morning. it’s the first time he realises that her fear won’t always sound like crying sometimes it’ll come as a question with no answer.

the first nightmare she can’t shake, and the way she curls into his chest like it’s the only place left that’s real it’s one of those nights where the world feels too big for her. he knows the second she tiptoes into his room without saying a word and crawls under the covers with the kind of urgency that says whatever she saw in her sleep scared her all the way awake. she doesn’t talk about it. doesn’t give details. just presses her face into the space beneath his collarbone and tries to disappear. he doesn’t ask. doesn’t tell her it wasn’t real. he just holds her there, slow and steady, one hand smoothing over the curve of her back, the other resting in her hair. her whole body twitches every time she starts to fall asleep again, and each time he murmurs something , not to calm her down, but to remind her he’s still there. that she isn’t alone. she eventually settles with one hand tangled in the fabric of his shirt and her breath syncing to the rhythm of his chest. he doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night. not because he can’t but because he doesn’t want to risk missing the moment she finally feels safe again. in the morning, she doesn’t mention the dream. he doesn’t bring it up. but later, she grabs his hand while they’re brushing their teeth and says, “i like when you’re there when i wake up,” and it lands in his ribs like a second heartbeat.

the day she asks to meet her mom, and he realises there are some answers he may never get right it happens so simply, so suddenly, that he doesn’t even register the weight of it at first. she’s sitting at the kitchen table after school, spoon in one hand, backpack still on, kicking her feet and talking about everything and nothing — and then she asks. can i meet her? no build-up. no warning. just one question that freezes him in place with a glass of water halfway to the sink. for a moment, he forgets how to move. he doesn’t know if someone at school said something, or if it’s been living in her for longer than he realised. what he does know is that her voice isn’t bitter. it’s curious. honest. and he can’t afford to answer with anything less. so he takes a breath, crouches beside her chair, and tells her the truth, that her mom was someone he knew a long time ago. that she helped bring her into the world. that she loved her in her own way. and then she asks, do you love her? and this time it hurts in a deeper place, but he doesn’t flinch. he looks her straight in the eye and says, i love you. more than anyone. more than anything. and for now, that’s enough. she nods. stirs her yogurt. climbs into his lap without another word. and that night, when she’s asleep and the house is quiet, jaemin sits on the edge of her bed and wonders how many more questions will come. how many answers he’ll have to shape out of grief, protection, and guesswork. but for now, she’s warm. she’s close. she trusts him. and that’s something he still knows how to hold.

[wcnderlnds]

right now ★ hwang jun-ho

・❥・ summary: junho had been your best friend for as long as you could remember so when a traumatic event happens and he's lost, you help him find his way. ・❥・word count: 2.7k ・❥・warnings: 18+. mdni. unprotected p in v, best friends to lovers. idk v soft smut. mentions of injury. ・❥・ authors note: so... i wanted to get this out of my head bc ive been rewatching squid game and i love my sweet little detective. i added my usual taglist but feel free to skip past it if you're not interested <3

It felt like your heart had plummeted into the pit of your stomach when you got word that Junho was in the hospital. For days he’d been missing. That wasn’t like him. No matter what he was doing, no matter where work took him, he always kept you updated on his whereabouts so you didn’t worry about him. The last thing you’d heard from him was that he was trying to find Inho – his brother. It was a lost cause, Inho had been missing for years by now but you knew that Junho had never given up hope. One thing you loved about him was that he was determined, whenever he set his mind to something he always tried his best to make it happen. If anyone could find Inho, it was him. But, the fact that he’d gone missing for days made you think something terrible had happened.

Junho had been your best friend since you were kids. Both of you had been the quiet kids, solely focused on your school work. It had been a study session where you’d initially met and bonded. Since that moment, you’d been joined at the hip. You’d gone through everything together. Health scares, job changes, break ups – none of that had ever tore you apart. If anything, it only brought you closer through the years. So close that somewhere along the way you’d started to develop feelings for him. He didn’t know, there was no way you could tell him. The bond you had was too important to you for you to ruin it. Those feelings would have to be kept under lock and key. He never seemed interested in relationships anyway, his sole focus had been his work as a detective. Yet another thing you admired about him. His dedication to his craft was so admirable.

Panic had immediately sent in, your feet carrying you to the hospital where he was. It took about five minutes to navigate through the bland halls after bothering a member of staff. Finally, you took a deep breath and pushed open the door to his room. There he was. Hooked up to machines, his eyes closed.

From what the nurse had told you, he’d been shot and found out in the waters. If it wasn’t for some fisherman saving him, he probably wouldn’t be alive right now. You had to stop yourself from crying as you saw him lying there helpless. Never had you seen him like this. Even after his kidney transplant, he was too stubborn to just lay there and do nothing. Now, he had no choice, stuck in a coma-like state.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

For days, you had stayed by his side until the moment he woke up. His mom had been there, too, alerting the doctors that he was finally awake. You had been holding his hand, his grip tightening on yours when he finally woke up. It felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders when you saw those gorgeous eyes of his finally looking back at you.

It was another day or so in the hospital before he was finally allowed home. You helped ease him into bed – doctor’s orders that he had to take it easy for a few days. Perching on the bed, you looked at him, eyes laced with concern.

“Do you want anything? Food? Water? I can run to the store if there’s somethin-” You were cut off.

“I saw him, Y/N. Inho, I saw him,” Junho mumbled, eyes almost pleading with you to listen to him. You were the only one he could trust enough to tell.

“What? Are you sure?” You asked, almost in disbelief.

“Yeah, I swear, I did.”

Junho proceeded to tell you everything he’d been through. It was almost crazy, something out of a nightmare but you could tell by the sincerity in his eyes, the panic shining there that this was all true. Junho had never given you a reason to doubt him before so you wouldn’t ignore him now. It took you a moment to form cohesive thoughts, wanting to make sure you took care with your words. This was such an insane situation.

“I believe you but… you’re going to have a hard time convincing anyone else.”

And, you were right. As the months passed and Junho told his story about the island and the murders – missing out on the details about his brother – he found it hard to find anyone that would really take him seriously. The police department had sent him to therapy, insitisng that it was just the trauma of his injuries making him tell these wild stories. It did seem to help. After a while, he stopped talking about it, even asking to be put into the traffic department at work. He wanted to be on the streets, not sitting in his office left to his thoughts.

Or that's what everyone thought but you knew him better.

Junho wanted to be out there where he could talk to people, maybe come across someone he recognised from the games. Well, there was really only one person he could recognise – everyone else had been masked and he hadn’t come across Seong Gihun ever since the games. For all he knew, he had died along with everyone else there. 

He was clinging on to the tiny shred of hope he had left. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Thought I might find you here,” you said softly. Junho hadn’t replied to your texts all day which was unusual for him. Usually, you’d be texting non-stop, all day long. So, you’d gone to the one place you knew he’d be – at the station. It was empty, the dim lights casting an orange glow across the bullpen. It was serene, his safe space.

“Hey,” he mumbled, focusing on some paperwork in front of him. He was sitting at his desk, filing all the parking tickets that he’d given out throughout the day.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

His reply was short, unlike him. You perched on his desk right next to where he was sitting, a heavy sigh passing your lips. “Don’t lie to me, Junho.”

“I said nothing. I’m fine,” he dared to look up at you, his face blank but you could see the frustration, the tension lingering there.

“You’re obviously not. Talk to me.” The way you were looking at him, it was almost enough to make him cave and tell you everything that was on his mind so he looked away. He had burdened you enough.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like… nevermind,” he shook his head. He couldn’t say what was on his mind because if he did then he’d have to confront something he’d been trying to fight for a long time. His feelings for you had grown to so much more than friendship and… he knew yours had, too. He was perceptive, he noticed the details. It was part of his job as a detective. Confronting them meant the possibility of ruining your friendship and he couldn’t lose you. You were the only person he had left, the one good thing in his life and he wasn’t going to risk that.

But, you were.

At this point, you’d had enough. You needed to do something bold that would get him talking or at least take his mind off things. So, after a mental pep talking with yourself, you moved to sit on his lap, straddling him. You lifted your fingers to tilt his chin to look at you. In his eyes you could see a swirl of emotions; confusion, frustration and a tiniest hint of lust. “Do you trust me?”

“Always,” he said, voice strained as he gazed into your eyes. His hands hovered slightly, not knowing exactly what to do with them.

“Good,” you whispered. Nervously, you cupped his cheek and leaned in. Your lips met hesitantly, moving slowly against his. He was taken aback but slowly leaned into it, kissing you back. His hands found their place on your hips like he was anchoring himself to you. His mind was screaming at him to stop, the friendship not worth ruining but it was the most at peace he’d felt in a very long time.

He pulled you harder against him, shifting his hips to settle in his chair more which in turn accidentally caused him to rut up into your. You softly moaned into the kiss, Junho taking the opportunity to deepen it, his tongue sliding past the seam of your lips to meet yours. The taste of you was intoxicating, like a forbidden fruit he shouldn’t be touching but now he’d had a taste of you, he couldn’t get enough. That sound, he needed to hear it again. He pushed his hips up into yours again and this time you ground against him, feeling his length hardening against the fabric of your shorts. His hands guided your movements, pulling you against him.

“Tell me to stop,” he said breathlessly. “Tell me to stop and I will.”

“No,” you said, pressing kisses down his jaw and to his neck. “I don’t want you to.”

His head tilted, allowing you more access to his neck. You trailed your lips along his skin, finding a spot that was particularly sensitive and biting down on it, sucking the skin there. Junho let out a quiet groan, thrusting up into your clothed core harder now. You ran your tongue along the reddening mark, hands sliding up under his shirt to feel his skin. Junho shivered at your touch, his own hands pulling off your shirt, tossing it onto his desk. His eyes zoned in on your breasts, leaning in to press kisses against the soft skin there. All the while his hands moved around to your back sliding up until he found the clasp of your bra. With expertise, he unclasped it, pulling back to toss it to the side along with your shirt.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, caressing your cheek before leaning back down. His tongue swirled around one of your nipples, lightly sucking on the hardening bud until it was a stiff peak then he switched his attention to the other one.

“Junho,” you gasped as your hand threaded into his hair urging him on. 

His head lifted up to capture your lips in another searing kiss. This one was more urgent, more desire coursing through his veins. His earlier worries were long gone, all that was on his mind was the urge to have you. His fingers danced along the edge of your sweatpants before dipping inside the fabric of your panties. One slender finger ran through your folds, a low groan passing his lips as he felt your arousal. “You’re already so wet for me.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for so long,” you admitted, gasping when his thumb found your clit, rubbing rapid, tight circles against it.

“Yeah?” He smirked against the skin of your collarbone. “For how long?”

“Too long.”

“Then I guess you don’t want to mess around then, huh?” His head lifted, that shit eating smirk on his face as he brushed some of your hair out of your face, his expression softening. “If you want to do this, really do this then undress for me but… if you don’t, it’s okay. We can just keep it at this.”

“Are you kidding me?” You laughed slightly, standing up to rid yourself of your shorts and panties, completely bare to him. “Like I said, I’ve thoughts about this for a long time. I’m too far gone to stop now.”

You dropped down to the floor on your knees, your hands sliding up his thighs to tug at his jeans. He lifted his hips up from where he sat, allowing you to pull them and his boxers down just enough to free him from the confines. His erection sprang up against his stomach, his chest heaving as he watched you lick your lips at the sight of him. Your hand wrapped around his length, pumping him a few times. Precum leaked from the tip and you fought the urge to lean forward to get a taste of him but that could wait for another time. All you wanted right now was to feel your best friend inside of you.

You rose back to your feet, pushing him back in the chair as you made a move to straddle him again. Your eyes softened as they met his, it was your turn now to ask him if he was sure. “Do you want this?”

“Yes,” he spoke softly. “I want you.”

That was all the confirmation you needed. You guided his cock to your entrance, one hand braced on his shoulder as you ever so slowly sank down onto him. You groaned as he breached your entrance, the feeling of him inside you better than you could’ve ever imagined. Junho’s hands gripped your hips as you took him to the hilt, his fingers digging into the skin. Not hard but not softly either. Just enough.

The moment lingered as you both got used to the feeling, the only sounds filling the room were your heavy breaths mixed with the occasional beeping of some of the machines in the background. Then, you lifted your hips and sank back down. The sound coming from Junho was heavenly. You set a slow, steady pace, wrapping your arms around his neck as you confidently rode him.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his eyes darting down to look at where you were joined. “Better than anything I’ve ever felt.”

That tore a small breathless giggle from you causing Junho to smile up at you, capturing your lips. His hips moved up to meet yours, his hands helping you move against him. Soon enough, you picked up speed, the sound of your skin meeting echoing through the room. You rested your forehead against Junho’s, his hand now cupping your cheek as he gazed at you with nothing but adoration. He hadn’t felt this good in years. Not just physically but mentally. Being here, joined with you felt… right. Like, he was at home.

“Junho,” you whined, losing your rhythm as your release barrelled towards you. “I’m so close.”

He took this as his sign to take over, rutting his hips up into you at a wild pace, determined to bring you both to your peak. His hands found their place on your ass, grasping it and using it as leverage to thrust up into you. “Me too. Cum for me, pretty girl. I want to see you let go.”

It was one hard thrust that hit that deep spot inside you that had you spiralling. Your orgasm washed over you, your head falling to his shoulder as you moaned out his name, body tensing with the force of it. The feeling of your walls tightening against his length, pulling him in was his undoing. With a groan, he spilled inside you, holding you tight against him.

The gravity of the moment wasn’t lost on him as he came down but he wasn’t worried. He placed a few soft kisses on your shoulder before moving your head so he could look at you. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you whispered softly. “I’m good. Are you?”

“Yeah…”

“Junho, I-”

But he cut you off before you could finish. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”

“Of course you know,” you rolled your eyes playfully. “But I want to say it. I… love you. More than a friend. I have for a long time and if you don’t, if this is what you want it to be then that’s okay and we can just go back to how we were but… I needed you to know anyway.”

“You’re crazy if you don’t think I feel the same. I’ve been in love with you for years, how could you not tell?”

“Sorry we can’t all be detectives with incredible perception.”

He laughed, giving your hips a squeeze. “Less of the sass or else.”

“Or else what?” You challenged.

Junho gave a teasing thrust up into you causing you to shutup immediately. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He grinned, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss full of emotion. He knew that if he had you, that no matter what happened over the next few years, he’d be okay. You were his home.

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[6okuto]

Sneaking the LIs Money

GN!reader | yippee!! very silly fun idea anon. i forgot u said mc not reader but um. similar...

Vere

Vere? Paid for you? And you're going to decline? When he finds the money his ear twitches, his eyes narrow, and a subconscious frown appears on his face. He's like, offended. Annoyed, even. Him paying for you isn't an insignificant thing! Hello!

Still kind of understanding, and in a way... guesses he can be flattered? But next time, "you should accept people's generosity. It's hard to come by genuinely in this place."

He's also pretty surprised you managed to sneak the money somewhere. He might offer to pay for small things just to see where else you might hide it

If you do it while in an established relationship, Vere sort of affectionately rolls his eyes once he finds the money. And while I would like to say he keeps it, I really think if he's done this for you, he will out-stubborn you on it. Find some other way to pay him back or spoil him!!

Mhin

Confused? But also stubborn. The next time Mhin sees you, they have your money ready to give back. It's that sort of Slightly lecturing tone and sigh and furrowed brows vibe. How do you even have the money to pay them back? You need to look out for yourself more if you're going to survive

Despite thinking you're... silly... or making a logically poor decision, it gets some affection points since Mhin appreciates the sentiment. Besides the stubbornness and confusion, they're a little flustered

If they don't confront you, you might come back to your room and find your money and a super short note that basically says "take it" or "stop it" with your belongings

I think it's more common that you both pay for yourselves, but Mhin might be inclined to at least just splitting the bill or taking turns paying if you really don't like it ^^ Or you can do the fishing for a few evenings to pay them back :3c (They end up helping a little anyway)

Kuras

Kuras isn't even looking at you when he brings it up. "Oddly enough, I found the money I spent yesterday evening back in my wallet. Would you happen to know anything about that?"

It's almost chastising the way he responds, but he's really nice about it so you end up feeling kind of bad for trying to put the money back. Like, it upsets him when you decline his payment because he's showing his affection for you, and he'd like if you could both find a way to work it out, so on so forth

Kuras smiles and says if you'd like to pay him back, he doesn't need dinner or the money, but he'd enjoy some company while he checks and restocks inventory. (He still keeps an eye out during any possible attempts and catches you in the act most times)

For future reference, he figures if he says it's his thank you for the help you've offered as of late, he can subtly make you feel less inclined to deny it since his gift is the... equaling feat... yeah.

Ais

Silently raises an eyebrow if he catches you. Jokes about you trying to steal from him just to fluster you. "Looking for something?" "If you were low on cash, you could have said so, Sparrow."

Generally more relaxed and lighthearted about it than the other LIs, but he still doesn't want to take the money. LOL. He might accept the money, but if you find it back in your bag, well who knows how it got there. What a fun surprise for you ^__^

Might make you do things. As in like, "Do x and I'll accept the money" or "Come with me and I'll consider taking it back" etc etc. And you might say that doesn't make sense, but if you really want Ais to take it, that's what you have to do!

Modern AU where he does those "look over there" tricks so he can tap his card before you LOL. I think he's more likely to just straight-up play fight with you too if you know he's trying to trick you

Leander

Pouty Leander if it's light-hearted. Like What? You Won't Let Him Spoil You? :( But if you seriously put your foot down, so does he.

His tone gets serious while he gauges why you're declining, and whether he should just accept the money because he does like paying for and taking care of you, so he doesn't really want you to refuse that all the time.

Tries to find "drinks on me for everyone" or equivalent loopholes where you don't feel as much pressure or guilt about it, but he doesn't do it too often because wow... if he did that every time he tried to spoil you... Wow. Otherwise says "this is for x the other day" etc

Same thing as Ais with the modern AU but he's less inclined to do any wrestling. He might pick a game of rock paper scissors or something instead. Like everyone else, he's inclined to letting you "pay him back" through other means! You pay him back and spend time together—a win-win!!

[karikarasuno]

part four | part five | wc: 2.4k

“You like that girl.” Ace cannot catch a singular break. He’s exhausted. He spent his entire morning outside fixing the chicken coop and all he wanted to do was shower and rot away on his couch for the rest of the day. But he forgot he told Whitebeard he would take him to his appointment. The man could drive himself, but after his lung cancer diagnosis Ace felt better if someone went with him. For moral support or whatever. And now he has to go to your place and see why your lights are out. Which he doesn’t have an issue with. Because yes, he likes you. He just doesn’t like being hounded about it.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s all in the eyes, boy,” Whitebeard nods thoughtfully beside him. Like he’s stuck in his own memory. “You can spot a lovesick fool in an instant just by the way he looks at a lady.”

Ace doesn’t have a response. Whitebeard has always been a wise man. But with age and illness he has become soft. And not in an insulting way. He’s still stubborn as all hell, but his resilience has taken an air of nostalgic reflection. The typical roughened edge to his words, his advice, has been sandpapered down. Smoothened into something palatable instead of brash.

“It’s a little complicated,” Ace sighs. He realizes the predicament he’s in. He recognizes that he does need to talk to you about this. But he especially needs to figure out what he even wants. Aside from sex. Because there’s no doubt in his mind that he definitely wants that.

“How the hell is it complicated? The girl just dropped into town,” Whitebeard says gravelly. “Can’t be that hard to take a woman on a date. You kids these days can’t do anything right.”

Ace is far too tired to argue or explain his situation with you. He doesn’t want to come on too strong. Especially considering the way your ‘relationship’ even started, but Whitebeard obviously has a point. He just needs to ask you out. Today.

So that’s what he decides to do. Right after he fixes your power issue, that is.

When Ace arrives at your house, the front door is propped open with a stool and you’re sitting in a rocking chair on the porch reading a book. Well, you were reading until you heard his truck approaching. You meet him at the top of your steps, holding your book to your chest and looking relieved to see him. He won’t lie, it does stroke his ego a bit. The way only he can help you.

“Thanks for stopping by,” you sigh, shuffling out of his way when he climbs the steps quickly. “It’s unbearable in there now.”

“I’m sure it’s an easy fix. I’ll get you cooled down in no time,” he says, releasing a short laugh through his nose.

“Show me to your breaker,” he says as he follows you inside your home. Well, Jinbe’s home.

“My what?” You ask as you turn to him. There’s plain confusion on your face. It’s cute.

“I actually already know where it is,” he admits, “but I didn’t want to just walk through your house. That would be rather impolite of me.”

“Right, we wouldn’t want Whitebeard showing up and scolding you again,” you tease him, your body taking another step towards him. And it’s small, but inches feel like you’re traveling miles when you’re already so close.

“Don’t you mean Edward,” he says with playful callousness and you laugh. Bright and pretty. “Had enough of that the last hour, I could use the break.”

His step towards you is much larger than yours. Bolder. Aggressive as he blatantly takes over the air around your frame. Your head has to tilt upwards to maintain eye contact with him. And he watches the way your chest rises deeply.

“I think you should show me where my breaker is,” you swallow and your eyes briefly glance at his lips. He should’ve missed it given how fast it was. He would’ve missed it but observing you is quickly becoming one of his favorite pastimes.

“You don’t even know what that is.” He all but breathes his words in your direction. Another step and he swears he sees your breath hiccup when your lips part.

“So show me.”

He steps so close to you your chest brushes his. Goosebumps light his arms and that surprises him given how fleeting the touch is. He angles his face towards you, nearly tasting your lips on his tongue. The memory tugs at him.

“It’s in your laundry room.” He points over your shoulder down the hall. To the room right beneath the stairs. “It’s kinda hard to miss.”

You use two fingers to push him away. Your fingertips digging into his chest. “That’s only if you know what you’re looking for.”

****

“I know you said it was normal, but I’m still grossed out by the fact that a lizard found its way into my breaker and started flipping switches.”

“Just one,” he laughs, shutting the door to your laundry room behind him. “The main one which is why everything went dark earlier.”

“Well it’s good to know that I can fix it myself next time instead of ambushing you in your own home.”

“Only an ambush if you weren’t welcome.” You smile at him when he says that. A smile that reaches your eyes. Genuine. He wants more. Maybe he’s greedy, but he doesn’t really care anymore. Ace wants to see where this goes. Where it has the potential of going. Because he really does like you.

“Are you hungry, Ace?” You ask suddenly. You’re shuffling in place when you stop near your kitchen.

“I usually am.” He answers, a smile tugging at his lips when he realizes where this might be going.

“Can I make you dinner?” Your fingers knot together in front of you. A nervous tick. “To repay you for your time.”

You don’t have to repay him. It was an easy fix, plus your home is on the way to his, so it’s not like he had to go out of his way for you. And even if he did, he would have. “Hard to say no to a home cooked meal.”

“Good,” you smile, your fingers loosening their grip on each other and your hands fall to your side. Definitely a nervous tick of yours. “Because I should probably cook this bacon before it goes bad. How about carbonara?”

“What’s that?” He tilts his head in contemplation since this isn’t something he’s familiar with. At least he doesn’t think so.

“You’ve never had carbonara?” Your eyebrows knit together. Disbelief on your face.

“Never heard of it.” He shrugs, staring as you step into your kitchen and opening your refrigerator.

“The pasta dish?” You clarify, popping your head over the top of the fridge door after bending over to look at the contents of your fridge.

“Doesn’t ring a bell.” You bend over again. He tries not to look at your ass. He fails. Obviously.

“Huh.” You shut the fridge door with your hip after pulling out bacon, eggs, parmesan cheese, and a few cloves of garlic. “You’re in for a treat then. I add garlic to mine even though you’re not technically supposed to. Just don’t tell the Italians.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” There’s a new excitement coming from you when you line everything up on the counter. A sort of delight emits from you as you gather a pan, cutting board, and knife.

“I haven’t cooked for someone else in such a long time,” you say airily. “It’s been hard for me to adjust to cooking only a single serving since I moved out here.” You send him another smile over your shoulder. His heart skips. “So, this is nice.”

“Well, feel free to triple it. I got a pretty big appetite.” He leans against the counter opposite you, staring as you smash the garlic and peel it.

“No surprise there,” you chuckle, rough chopping the garlic. “Luffy eats me out of house and home whenever he’s here.”

“That’s about the only thing we have in common.” He grins because even though you’re complaining about Luffy there’s still something sweet about the way you say it. Like you’re fond of him already.

“I doubt that.” You start cutting the bacon into small pieces next. “I’m sure you’re just as stubborn as he is.”

“What makes you think that?” He asks with his arms crossed and a laugh waiting on the tip of his tongue.

“I don’t have enough proof yet to support my claim, but for now it’s just a hunch.” You wink at him over your shoulder as you add oil to the heated pan.

“And the basis of your hunch is what exactly?” You flit around the kitchen confidently as you pull a pot from a cabinet beside the stove, eyeing him playfully as you walk to stand directly beside him while you fill the pot with water.

“When’s your birthday?” You ask out of nowhere.

“January 1st,” he answers. Skeptical.

“Well, there you go.” You shut off the water and head back to the stove top. “You’re a capricorn.”

He rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and chuckles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re stubborn like your brother.” You add the bacon to the pan, the sizzle interrupting you. “Who’s a taurus. An earth sign. Just like you.”

“I guess I’m just gonna have to prove you wrong.” You grab a handful of pasta and place it in the boiling water. Then you look at him, eyes dragging slowly down his body before you grab another handful and add it to the water.

“I guess you will, but lucky for you I like capricorns.” His smile stretches across his face without his permission. It’s a natural response to you. One that he didn’t realize he developed. But one that he thoroughly enjoys.

The dish is done surprisingly quickly. Less than twenty minutes and you’re stirring in the egg and parm mixture (which he was initially suspicious of), but it forms a glossy sauce that looks more appetizing than he expected.

“Ok, now you just gotta add a little salt and pepper to taste,” you sprinkle in the seasonings, giving the pasta another stir, “and we’re done.”

You show off the dish to him excitedly before turning to grab a fork from the drawer by your hip. He then watches you twirl together the perfect bite directly out of the pan. “The garlic adds a nice bite with the crunch of the bacon,” you say, almost adoringly.

“Here.” You step closer to him, hovering the fork near his lips. “Try it.”

Ace leans forward, eyes stuck on you. No one’s ever fed him before. And it’s odd, the affection that fills his chest. He never would’ve expected to feel this way about a gesture so simple. But despite your ease, there’s an intimacy in your actions. One that makes his heart flutter.

His lips wrap around the fork and even though he cannot stop thinking, looking, yearning for you, the flavor that bursts across his tongue is startling. It’s good.

“There’s egg in this?” He asks around his mouthful. Your lips stretch into a grin that’s not as coy as the others you have given him. There’s a confidence alight in your eyes that he hasn’t seen since the night you met. A confidence that he finds endearing. And sexy.

“Mhm,” you hum, shifting closer to him. “It’s yummy, isn’t it?”

You whisper it giddily in the limited space between you. He’s leaning forward on the counter, bracing his upper body on his forearms. The angle forces him to look up at you slightly. An angle he’s unfamiliar with, but doesn’t mind. Not when he’s sure you’re about to kiss him. He chews faster. Anticipation licks at his neck. It burns.

“Yeah,” he says around a swallow, but he hardly gets the word out. Hardly even gets to finish his swallow when you press your lips to his. It’s softer than he’s expecting. Your lips are warm where they touch his. He’s pretty sure there’s still bacon in his mouth. Which sounds deeply unattractive except you sigh when he parts his lips. You melt when his hand rises to cup your face.

You push your weight against him next. It forces him to straighten to keep up with you. With your urgency. Your impatience. He groans when you deepen the kiss, your free hard tangling in his hair. His other hand finds your waist and he squeezes.

Ace is functioning on a muscle memory he didn’t even realize he had. But when his hand travels down to grip your hip and you whimper in the back of your throat he remembers. In vivid detail. Rough. Hard. Fast.

He presses your back against the counter, slipping his tongue into your mouth when he slides his knee between your thighs.

“Ace.” You whine and a shiver runs violently down his spine. You’re clinging to him, your hips find motion against his thigh and he swallows the moan that crawls up your throat.

He needs more access to you. Better access. His hands find your waist to prop you on top of the counter but as soon as your ass meets the edge of the counter, metal clatters and the fork you used to feed him clangs across the floor.

“Shit, sorry,” he apologizes in a hurry. But you laugh as soon as your feet hit the floor again.

“We got carried away,” you breathe out another little laugh against his chest. “We’re supposed to be eating.”

“That was entirely your fault,” he laughs in response, smiling down at you when you stare up at him.

“You’re right,” you nod, pushing yourself away from him and out of his arms. And he feels insane because he already misses you. “I’ll behave.”

You grab two forks this time when you open the drawer to replace the one that fell. But when you hand him his he grabs your wrist and tugs you back to him.

“What are you doing Thursday night?” He asks, remembering Whitebeard’s words.

“I work until 8. Why?”

“Let me take you out.” He says, pulling your wrist closer to him and kissing the inside. Your lashes flutter at his action, and you bite down on your bottom lip.

“Ok,” you mutter, a bit dazed when his lips drag across the soft skin of your inner wrist. “I guess I can let you do that.”

taglist: @a-girl-cant-decide-on-a-name @nico-ith @chillerkiller @jozhenji @starchild-unnamed @certain-tragedies @hannahbarberra162 @kanekisheart @stuckinmymind22

[nexxen24]

"Is that me?"--Bob X Yelena

Just some Boblena fluff and a request from @redroomroaving. I'm happy to take a break from the fic hahaha and this was very adorable to write, I fear I also love them now.

Pairing: Bob Reynolds X Yelena Belova

Summary: Bob likes to sketch, especially Yelena, but what happens when she spots his little hobby after a particularly stressful mission.

Warnings: None!!

Word Count: 2754

Based on the prompt: “Is that a drawing of me?”

Bob Reynolds, the de facto sixth member of Earth's new superhero team, the New Avengerz with a Z, found himself alone the vast majority of his time spent at the Watchtower. He couldn't be Sentry without releasing Void and Void was too powerful to be let loose so for a lot of the time…he was just Bob…just regular old Bob. Missions didn't need a ‘just Bob’ so he found himself trying to find ways to occupy his brain, get rid of the thoughts convincing him that he was worthless, he wasn't needed, he was there to be a burden and nothing more. 

But he wasn't…Yelena assured him of that when she grabbed his arm, claiming he was with them from now on and proudly stood next to him as Valentina announced them as the New Avengers. She kept him safe when Valentina tried to get Sentry to show himself, she argued against putting Bob on missions for his own safety and even made sure that the best window in the tower had the comfiest lounge chair sitting next to it. Yelena didn't care that Bob spent his days reading, or playing video games, or even just sitting in the sun like some kind of cat…she just cared that he was safe. 

Safe…he hadn't felt that in a long time…probably never. His old home wasn't safe, traveling through Malaysia wasn't safe, not even OXE had been safe. The safest he had felt in forever was tied to Yelena as they escaped the Vault and he knew that helping might kill him but he needed her to be safe. He saw that shame room as much as she did, saw the young girl she was forced to be and even the one she was now, still scared. Sure Yelena was a part of a team, she was their leader, she kept them all safe but deep down she was nothing but a mind controlled Red Room lackey, running from things forced upon her. 

Bob tried to convince her that the shame room was a liar, she wasn't that at all, she had saved him. But Yelena was stubborn, nothing good seemed to ever stick and it was starting to worry him. But he also didn't know how to express his feelings, years of stuffing them down had messed with them so he turned to other activities to keep the thoughts at bay. 

One of his favorites was one he did as a kid to pass the time, sketching, whether it be animals or superheroes that could come and rescue him from his broken home. Bob's favorite was Family Man, a guy with a heart of gold and too many children that would look out for the neglected children of the world, beating up their nasty parents and keeping them shielded. But Family Man wasn't real, no one came and he stopped sketching once he left, not feeling as creative as before. Besides…Meth does wonders to the brain and he was certain the drug had made him completely forget it. 

But when Walker asked if he needed anything from the store, Bob blurted out a sketchbook and pencils without even thinking. The former Captain America found it funny, Bob, a certified former God, sketching, but he complied. The stuff was delivered one evening a couple months back and whenever the team ran off to fight some big bad guy in Europe, Bob would spend his evening sketching. He didn't draw a new version of Family Man or even other heroes, he had enough of those in his life already. 

“Okay so…turn to your left a bit,” he muttered and Yelena’s other discarded test subject, a guinea pig she called Guinness, didn't comply. “Okay fine…stay where you are.”

It listened to the prompt and he chuckled, sketching its small little nose and big round eyes that never seemed to blink and freaked the rest of the team out. But Bob loved Guinness, he never had a pet as a kid, his dad hated everything, so this was a nice change and a good companion for his many hours spent alone in the tower. Half the book was full of Guinness drawings or the team when they weren't looking, mainly Walker since the faces he pulled were always the funniest. He had a second sketchbook in a drawer next to his bed, one kept secret from the others since they'd surely question a book packed full of nothing but Yelena. Sketches, drawings, fully rendered poses that she had never pulled but he assumed she'd look good in, it was a whole love letter to the White Widow and Bob loved it. But he also…hated it…

Yelena and him…what a stupid idea. Sure she protected him, she protected him like some stray cat. Bob was nothing but a bedraggled little animal that you offered some food to in a storm, he wasn't big and strong like the others or funny like Alexei, stealthy like Ava. He was just…Bob.

“Yeah…just Bob,” he muttered and finished off the drawing of Guinness before showing it off. “What do you think?” 

The guinea pig didn't respond, just went back to the celery stick he used as a bribe and Bob sighed, shutting the book and groaning. He wondered what Yelena was doing, what bad guy she was fighting or what disaster they had averted like always. The mission had been running a bit late so he wandered out of his room and to the common room to see if anyone had returned but the place was deserted. Bob sighed and made himself some hot chocolate, a childhood favourite, and was about to take a sip when the elevator dinged and out popped the New Avengers. 

“Bob?” Walker asked and he waved. “God…what did you do all day?”

“Just watched TV,” he muttered as Walker tossed his bent shield on the island with a groan.

“Better than us. God…I'm never going to Switzerland again.” 

“It wasn't that bad,” Bucky argued as he stumbled into the room, arm being carried. 

“Says the guy with the broken arm,” Walker shot back and Bob chuckled. 

“Look…don't fight, we all just need rest,” Ava said and disappeared a second later. 

“I agree…to bed,” Alexei muttered and stumbled his way down the hallway, cursing the small table full of trinkets he knocked into. 

“Where’s Yelena?” Bob asked before Bucky could follow the others to his room. 

“She went straight to medical.”

“Is she okay?” he asked and tried to keep the worry out of his voice.

“Yeah…you know…bullet problems.”

“Bullet problems?” Bob exclaimed and cursed when his voice got higher. 

“Dude…she’s a Widow…she’ll be fine.” 

Bucky patted him on the shoulder and wandered off, grumbling something about his removable arm being able to be removed as Bob sighed and ran a hand down his face, feeling the nerves and the worry take over, his hands starting to shake. He tried to pick up the hot chocolate, seeking solace in a drink that used to bring him so much warmth but his hands just wouldn’t stop and it was making him go a bit crazy.

He needed to relax, to sit and wait for Yelena to come back up, she needed to to get to her room, so she’d be there…in time. Bob sighed and grabbed his Yelena sketchbook, sitting on his usual lounge chair by the window and setting Guinness down on his chest, making it his goal to wait for her, however long it took. 

-------

He fell asleep…of course he did. Bob was already tired, he barely slept as is, too plagued with memories and nightmares since his dreams were nothing but constant shame rooms. Sure he always found the attic, found the spot where she saved him a second time but it wasn’t the same without Yelena, the place didn’t feel as warm, as safe, without her it was just a room. That small nap was no exception and Bob shot up, breathing hard and trying to escape a room that was already gone, he was safe, the tower wasn’t going to hurt him. 

“Are you alright?” 

Bob jumped and turned, barely having a chance to grab Guinness before he tumbled off the chair as Yelena chuckled and picked up the guinea pig, giving him some pats so Bob could calm himself down. He slid back in the lounge chair, shocked she got so close and had even pulled up one of the small ottomans to sit a bit closer, thumbing through a book in her lap. Bob’s eyes widened and he grabbed the book, shocked she’d look through something that wasn’t hers just like that and Yelena eyed the sudden angry outburst.

“Uh…sorry…that’s um…”

“I like them,” she said and he blushed. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah…they're Guinness right?” 

Bob looked down and sure enough she didn’t see her dedicated sketchbook but his normal one, the one he shoved the whole team into and the Yelena specific one was on the other side of the chair, safe and sound. 

“Yeah…they are,” he muttered and handed the book back as she smiled. “He’s easy to draw, doesn’t move a lot.”

“Ha! Yeah…God…He’s so lazy, aren’t you?” she asked and lifted up the guinea pig who looked unamused. “I also like the ones of the team, especially this one.”

She turned the book and sure enough it was a Walker sketch of him sitting on a chair in the library downstairs, eyes narrowed behind reading glasses he claimed he didn’t need as he argued with a crossword puzzle. 

“He’d hate it.”

“Yeah…but I liked it…I don’t know how anyone could hate something like this. A drawing of them, it’s so sweet,” she muttered and grinned at the Ava one on the next page as Bob sighed. 

He wanted to show her the book, the one full of her because it didn’t sound like she’d be that mad but the gesture was intimate…it was so…vulnerable. He’d been keeping it secret for close to 6 months and no one knew, only Guinness who promised he wouldn’t say anything. But when he looked at Yelena, when he saw the smile on her face, the small cut on her cheek from the fight and the fact that her hair was a bit darker from unwashed dirt thanks to the mission, all bets were off. Bob sighed and grabbed the book, brushing off the front cover before slowly taking back the other one as Yelena raised a brow. 

“For you…”

“Me?” she asked and grabbed it, opening it as Bob’s heart beat like he was running a marathon. “Are these drawings of me?” 

“Only a few,” he muttered and Yelena eyed him and the thick book in her lap. “Sorry…I…I can’t help it. You’re easy to draw.”

“Really?” she asked and he nodded, flipping a few pages to his personal favourite. “Oh…Am I drinking tea?” 

“Yeah,” Bob said and smiled at the sketch that was of Yelena sitting cross legged on a dining chair, a cup of tea in one hand and her head back, frozen mid laugh. 

“I don’t drink tea.”

“No…you did, once.”

“When?” 

“Ummm…three months ago…it was a sunday and I managed to convince Walker to make a Sunday brunch and he agreed. You didn’t want a mimosa because you hate orange juice so I made you tea and I think you liked it. You made that face, that mid laugh face and I remembered it so I sketched it later that evening.”

“Three months ago…” 

“Yeah,” Bob muttered and didn’t get why she sounded so confused. 

“You remembered all that from three months ago?” 

“I did yeah, I really liked the moment so I wanted to hold onto it. Are you mad?” 

“No…I’m not,” she muttered and Bob nodded. 

“Okay…um…”

“Thank you.”

“For?” 

“For remembering that.”

“Oh…no problem, I just really like doing it, you know. Remembering, it makes certain moments a lot easier. Whenever I feel like I’m going down some dark path I can look through the book, see you guys and know that I’m not alone, even when you’re out on missions.”

“I’ve never seen myself like this,” Yelena muttered and ran a hand along another sketch of her napping on Bob’s favourite chair. “I see myself as this Widow…this assassin…the team needs that, they want me to be there as their leader, keep them all safe and make all the decisions…but this…this doesn’t look like a Widow.”

“It looks like you,” Bob muttered and his heart rate picked up when he saw her blush. 

“Yeah…it looks like me…”

“I like that you,” he added and tried to keep his voice level. “It’s kind.”

“Oh really? Kind?”

“Yeah…”

“You think I’m kind?” 

“Yeah,” he agreed and her eyes widened. “Anyone who saves me is kind.”

“I didn’t save you cause I was being kind…I saved you because I needed to, what Valentina did…it was horrible.”

“Same with you?” Bob asked and her eyes widened that he’d just called her out. 

“I guess yeah…Same with me.” 

“Maybe we’re like Guinness,” he muttered and the guinea pig looked up at him. “Rejected test subjects.” 

“Do you also love snuggles and celery?” Yelena quipped and Bob nodded. 

“Yeah…they can be nice.” 

Yelena smiled and walked off to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge and grabbing the supplies before returning to Bob and shocking them both when she planted herself next to him on the chair. Bob blushed and tried to calm his heart as she showed off her snack haul which was nothing but a bag of celery and he chuckled. 

“Really?” 

“Eh…We both need it,” she muttered and he couldn’t argue with that logic, taking a stalk and biting down on it with a loud crunch as she chuckled. “Can I?” 

“Can you what?” Bob asked but she did it before he could answer and snuggled in close, keeping herself pinned against his side that she was very happy to find was warm. “Yeah…y-you can.” 

He cringed at the stutter but Yelena just chuckled and quietly munched on her celery, eyes heavy since the mission had been hard and things got hasty and dangerous like they always did. A bullet had gotten past Walker’s shield and got her in the arm, putting her out of commission and leaving the team without their leader as she tried to bandage herself up. She felt like she’d failed and didn’t even feel pain but went to medical anyway, not wanting to see any of them for the rest of the night and hoping they’d be asleep by the time she got back.

They were and Yelena wanted some hot chocolate, a childhood favourite when she spotted a cold mug of it and Bob asleep by the window, Guinness snuggled against his lap and a book next to him. She was always curious, so the book called to her and the drawings inside took her breath away in the best possible way. Bob was hiding his talents and she loved that he had found a hobby, something to keep himself busy while they were away. 

Little did she know that that hobby was her, he loved drawing her and Yelena couldn’t even begin to describe the feeling in her chest upon seeing the second book. She wasn’t a picture person, never had been and she usually dipped whenever Alexei pulled out his old battered Polaroid but there was something different about a drawing, something more intimate. Bob made it with his own two hands, he put actual effort into it and she even noticed some closeups where he caught her scars from her childhood, exemplified by the soft lines of his sketches rather than hidden or covered like Valentina had suggested. 

No one wants to see what your horrible childhood did to you, Val had said, not liking the scars one bit and always pointing out every last one. 

But to Bob they weren’t a blemish…they were just her and she loved it. 

When the team awoke the next morning, feeling better after their endeavour they caught the two of them still asleep in each other’s arms on that slouchy old lounge chair by the window. None of them disturbed them, they didn’t want to wake the budding lovebirds and every single one knew that they both needed the extra sleep. 

For Bob was no longer alone in that old attic, sketching superheroes to come and save him, he was snuggled against his very own and the sun was shining upon them, basking them in the early morning light.

[callme-holly]

ive got you - A.B

a/n: I've been cooking this up during my day off LOL. Sorry if it's bad. i will tag this to the original request later and will also edit later. <33

It had started off fine; the shoot was simple, a scene between you and your co-star that was partially improvised, a little off script but manageable. But as time went on and one take turned to five, then ten, things were working out to be not as easy as you’d have liked.

Take after take, capturing shots that were “good enough” but “not quite there yet.” 

It was wearing on you, the need to push yourself, to test your own limits, and even the director, no matter how amazingly patient she was, was growing frustrated. 

“Okay. Let’s take five.” She turned to you, trying to keep her smile soft as if sensing your growing stress. “Go grab a drink. Get some air.” 

You nodded once, grateful for the chance to step back and reevaluate, hurrying off of the set and fleeing to the exit, slipping out and into the afternoon light.

The sun was warm on your skin, a welcoming presence you accept with a long, heavy sigh. Your muscles were tense, shoulders tight and aching in a way that grated on your nerves, another discomfort that lingered, stubborn and unfixable. 

Anxiety had been clawing at your stomach for the past hour, a growing dread that maybe you weren’t good enough, that it was your fault things weren’t working. They might as well just cut you from the script and bring in someone else, someone more capable. 

The door clicked open once more, hinges squealing in protest; however, you weren’t listening. Your thoughts were too loud, your breathing requiring far too much attention in order to stay steady. It wasn’t until a hand landed on your shoulder that you jolted, eyes flying open, a gasp escaping you. 

“Hey, hey… It’s just me.” 

“Austin…” His name slipped out freely, familiar and easy as you turned to face him. He looked every bit concerned, worry flashing behind his eyes as he looked you up and down, seemingly trying to evaluate the situation without digging and making it worse.

“Saw you leave. Wanted to make sure you were okay.” His words were soft, filled with a tenderness that always seemed to radiate off of him no matter who he spoke to. 

The nod you gave in response was robotic. “Yeah… Just tired. They’re really pushing us.” 

“I noticed.” He crouched down beside you, gravel scraping under the soles of his boots, crumbling away like the final fragments of whatever resolve you had. He wasn’t too close, just near enough to let you feel him there. “But you’re doing good. No one ever tells you how much this stuff takes out of you. But everyone can see how much you’re giving—how much you care.” 

“What if it’s not enough?” Your voice was quiet, barely above a whisper amongst the chirping of the birds and the general hum of the outside. “What if I can’t give them what they want?” 

“Then they’ll work around you. They’re not going to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. You know that, babe.” 

The small expulsion of air that left you heavy with everything unspoken was a clear sign that there was more beneath the facade you were wearing, buried deep within the professional front you tried so hard to keep sturdy. 

“I’m just exhausted.” The admission was laced with fatigue, all the stress finally spilling forth like a torrent of water after the dam cracks. “I really want this to be perfect, and I'm pushing myself so much, but at the same time, it's all too much, and I just need a break. I don't feel like I'm doing good enough, Austin.” 

At first, Austin didn't speak. He let the silence settle, not like a weight but more like a blanket---soft, warm, and safe. His eyes stayed fixated on you like you were the only person worth listening to.

And then, gently, as if he were talking to a baby animal, "You don't have to do it all at once."

His voice was low, almost a whisper, like if he spoke too loud, the moment would shatter. "I know what it's like to want to be perfect. Giving so much that you forget who you are."

You let out a shaky breath, eyes stinging with tears that had been held for far too long. All the anxiety, the fears, the oppressive thoughts pressing down on you... Suddenlyhey didn’t seem so heavy. Because you were seen. Understood. 

Austin's hand found yours---careful, like he was afraid you'd flinch away—and when you didn't, he simply held on, thumb tracing your knuckles in slow, grounding circles that had all the tension dissipating slowly.

"They don't see how much work you put in," he murmured, voice edged with something unspoken.

"I just can't mess this up. this role; it's everything I've worked for... I want this so bad."

Austin shifted closer, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his own. "Hey, you're allowed to feel. You're allowed to take a break. You're human."

You blinked fast, another wave of tears washing over you like a tidal wave. He reached out with a steady hand, thumb brushing away the wetness, touch barely there.

"Let's take five," he whispered. "Breathe with me for a second, yeah? Just you and me. No directors or co-stars or cameras. That can wait."

And for the first time that day, it did wait. It waited for as long as you needed it to.

[gotxpenny]

The Edge of Almost

High in the Alps of Berchtesgaden, the war may be ending, but the battle between Joe Liebgott and Y/N comes to a breaking point. As Joe confesses what they both already know—that they were never just friends...

Pairing: Joe Liebgott x Reader

Prompt: “We’re not just friends. Stop pretending we are.”

Word Count: ~2,300

Genre: Angst (because apparently I enjoy pain)

Warning: slight mentions of wounds and blood

Setting: The Alps of Berchtesgaden, Germany

Note || Sooo I’m enjoying my free time way to much, I’ve written 4 BoB one shots already and it’s so tempting not to post them all at once but enjoy my first angsty Liebgott one shot but it’s definitely not my last so…

gotxpenny’s masterlist

band of brothers masterlist

Berchtesgaden looked too pretty for what it was.

The Alps stood tall and indifferent in the distance, white caps gleaming in the afternoon light. The Eagle’s Nest sat behind us, emptied of its ghosts and stolen luxury. It was quiet up here, save for the wind and the faint static of the radio back inside.

I lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, leaning against the stone railing overlooking the valley below. I didn’t want to be here—not in this place, not with him. But of course, Joe Liebgott was behind me, leaning on the opposite post, arms folded tight across his chest like they were the only thing keeping him from blowing apart.

“Didn’t think you were the type to enjoy the view,” I muttered, taking a drag. The bitterness went down easier than it should have.

“I’m not,” he said flatly, “But you are. Figured I’d ruin it for you.”

Typical.

It had always been like this. Since Toccoa. Since the first day I met him and decided, on some impulsive instinct, that pissing him off would be easier than admitting he made my heart stutter like a damn typewriter jam.

Back then, it started with eye rolls and sarcastic one-liners—nothing serious. Just harmless banter between two people who were too stubborn to admit they liked the sound of each other’s voices. He was brash, quick with a joke or a jab, always the first to mouth off when the officers weren’t looking. I was quieter, sharper in my own way, with a chip on my shoulder and a tendency to overthink every word he said.

We clashed from the beginning. Over routines, over rations, over who got the last cigarette in the pack. He called me a hard-ass. I called him a pain in the ass. And yet, somehow, he always ended up next to me—on the truck, in the foxhole, across the table in whatever crumbling mess hall we’d taken over for the night.

By the time we crossed into Normandy, the fighting had changed us. We weren’t kids throwing punches over bunk assignments anymore—we were soldiers, watching friends die and learning how to live with the weight of it. But that tension between us never went away. If anything, it got heavier. Thicker. Like the silence after a gunshot.

We fought about everything—how I organised Nixon’s intel, how he sharpened his damn knives, what kind of music counted as decent. Every day was a new argument, and every argument ended in silence. Or worse—long, loaded stares we never talked about afterward.

Stares that said more than either of us was ready to admit. In between the shouting matches and snide remarks, there were moments—fleeting, quiet ones—when his hand would brush mine while passing a file, or I’d catch him watching me across the barracks, like he was trying to memorise the way I held a pencil or tied my boots.

There were nights in the Ardennes when we shared the same frozen foxhole, backs pressed together, breathing shallow in the dark. We never said anything about how our hands would find each other beneath the layers of wool and fear. Never talked about how, when the shells stopped falling, we didn’t let go right away.

And there were days—long, brutal days—when he’d get quiet after a bad mission. When he wouldn’t talk to anyone but me. He’d sit next to me, eyes hollow, blood on his boots, and say nothing while I cleaned my rifle or sorted reports. But his silence wasn’t cold. It was something else. Like being trusted with the worst of him.

I think that’s when I knew. Not during the jokes or the yelling or the almosts—but in the stillness. When he let me see the part of him he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

But we never crossed the line. Not really. Not when every day might’ve been our last. We danced around it, slow and reckless, like we had all the time in the world—when we knew we didn’t.

So we stayed in that middle ground. Somewhere between wanting and pretending not to. Somewhere between friends and not. Where every look felt like a confession, and every word was a defence against saying the one thing that would make it real.

Until now.

Until today.

“You didn’t ruin it,” I said coolly, exhaling smoke, “I’ve seen worse. Your haircut, for one. You cut it yourself?” I ask rhetorically.

He scoffed, “You’re hilarious.”

“I try.”

I could feel him watching me, his gaze a slow burn against my skin. But I kept my eyes on the mountains—anywhere but him. The valley below looked endless, a sprawl of green and shadow that felt safer to study than the man standing a few feet away. If I looked at him, I might slip. Might let something show that I couldn’t pull back. So I kept my focus steady, the cigarette between my fingers trembling just slightly in the breeze.

But I could feel him watching me. His gaze wasn’t casual—it never was. It burned low and steady, the way a fuse smolders before the blast.

Joe’s jaw tightened as he stared at her profile, every line of her face etched into his memory like a map he’d traced a hundred times. She wasn’t looking at him—she never did when things got close. She always found something else to focus on, paperwork, a rifle, a mountain range. Anything but him.

He knew her tells better than his own now. The way her voice dipped just before she said something sarcastic. The way her hands twitched when she was holding something in. The way she smiled—tight and fleeting—whenever she was scared of the truth.

The silence danced between us. It was familiar—this strange, unspoken rhythm we had. Comfortable, in a way that made my chest ache. Like knowing a song by heart but never daring to sing the chorus.

“You know,” I said after a long pause, voice light but brittle at the edges, “We make pretty good friends for two people who can’t stand each other," it was meant to be a joke. Another one of those casual remarks I could hide behind, like all the others. But as soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them.

Joe stilled.

The air shifted, like something sharp had slid between us.

He looked at me then—really looked. Not with amusement. Not with irritation. But with something quiet and wrecked, like he was trying to figure out whether I was kidding or just cruel.

It drove him crazy. Not because she was avoiding him. But because he understood why.

Because he was just as scared.

But not today. Today he’d come to say it, and he wasn’t going to let her slip past it again.

So he said it. Soft. Sharp, “We’re not just friends. Stop pretending we are.”

My cigarette stilled halfway to my lips.

I looked at him, but he wasn’t smirking. No sarcasm. No anger. Just… raw honesty in a way I’d never seen from Joe Liebgott.

“You pick fights with me every damn day,” he went on, jaw clenched like the words were cutting their way out, “You act like it’s all a joke—like we don’t mean anything. But I see it. I feel it every time you look at me like I’m a puzzle you already solved.”

I didn’t know what to say.

Because I had spent months convincing myself it was easier this way. Safer. Flirting with danger through barbed words, never crossing the line. We were surrounded by death and blood and things we’d never forget. Love felt impossible. Worse—it felt like a death sentence.

We were surrounded by death and blood and things we’d never forget. Faces gone. Names scratched into silence. Love didn’t just feel impossible—it felt like a curse. A weight too heavy to carry when we were already drowning. And if I let myself want him, really want him, what then?

What if I lost him too?

What if I couldn’t survive it?

“I thought…” I started, and my voice came out wrong—thin and breaking at the edges. I swallowed, tried again, but the words stuck like shrapnel in my throat. “I thought if I kept it light…if I made it a joke, it wouldn’t break me.”

But the truth was it already had. Every laugh, every argument, every second I spent pretending it didn’t mean something—it chipped away at me until all that was left was this hollow version of me, standing on a mountain with a cigarette and a lie I couldn’t keep holding.

Joe stepped closer, close enough that I could see the bruises still healing along his throat—faint shadows of violence etched into his skin like the war was still trying to cling to him. I remembered the day he got them. Remembered the fear that had hollowed out my chest when I saw him stumble back into camp, bloodied and silent. I had pretended not to care then, just like I always did. But I had stayed up the whole damn night listening for the sound of his breathing across the barracks.

Now, standing this close, it was impossible to pretend. Not when the damage was written so plainly on his body. Not when the anger in his eyes had cracked wide open to reveal something else—something raw, something real.

“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to shove me away and pretend like I’m the one making this up," Joe said, his voice rough around the edges, like it hurt to speak.

He wasn’t angry—not really. Not in the way he usually was, all sharp sarcasm and barked frustration. This was different. This was desperation barely held together by pride, by all the times he’d bit his tongue instead of saying what he really felt. He looked at her like he was standing at the edge of something—something dangerous and irreversible—and for once, he was ready to jump.

But god, it hurt. It hurt to see her retreat again, to watch her build walls with her silence and pretend like the look in her eyes meant nothing. Like the nights they’d shared meant nothing. He had taken bullets easier than this—cleaner wounds than the way she kept him at arm’s length with a smile that never reached her eyes.

Joe didn’t want to beg. He didn’t know how to. But he was already unraveling, piece by piece, and she didn’t even see it.

Or worse—maybe she did.

And still, she chose to pretend.

I swallowed, “You think I don’t feel it too?”

“I think you’re scared,” his voice cracked, just barely, “And I get it. I do. But don’t lie to my face and call it friendship.”

Something in me cracked, too.

We weren’t just friends. We never had been. Not in the way he watched my hands when I worked. Not in the way I memorised the rhythm of his footsteps before I ever let myself memorise his smile.

Our eyes met then—really met—and the air between us turned razor-sharp.

His gaze didn’t waver. It held mine like a lifeline, like if he looked away, we’d both fall off the edge we’d been dancing around for months. And I couldn’t look away, even if I wanted to. Because there was too much in it—too many things we hadn’t said, too many things we had buried under insults and half-measures and silence.

There was grief in his eyes. Longing. Anger, too—not at me, but at the way the world had cornered us like this. And underneath it all, love. Bare and bruised and bleeding, but unmistakable.

I felt it hit me like a damn punch to the chest.

And I knew—right then, with the wind pulling at our jackets and the ghosts of the war still clinging to our skin—I could lie to myself a thousand times, but I’d never be able to lie to him.

Not with him looking at me like that.

Like I was the only thing left worth holding on to.

But I did the one thing I shouldn't have, I looked away first.

“Say something. Anything,” he said—he pleaded.

But I couldn’t.

Because saying it—admitting it—meant opening the door to a future I couldn’t promise. Not when every name we knew came with a cross or a ghost.

“I don’t want to lose you, Joe,” I whispered, “Not like the rest.”

Joe didn’t answer right away.

He stood there, shoulders tense, jaw locked, like he was trying to hold something in—something too big, too painful to name. His eyes dropped for a second, lashes casting shadows over the bruises that still hadn’t faded. And in that silence, something inside him withered.

Because he felt it. That slow, suffocating ache of loving someone who wouldn’t let you love them. Who wouldn’t let you in.

It wasn’t anger burning in his chest—it was heartbreak. A kind of grief he didn’t know how to carry, because she wasn’t dead, but he was still losing her. Every time she pulled back, every time she joked her way around what they were, it chipped away at what they could’ve been.

And God, he loved her. He didn’t know how not to. He loved her in the way soldiers love warmth in winter—in the way you hold onto something because it’s the only light left in the dark.

But he couldn’t stay. Not like this. Not when loving her meant bleeding himself dry and pretending it didn’t hurt.

So he lifted his eyes to hers, and for once, didn’t try to hide the pain.

Joe shook his head, voice low, final, “You already are.”

And then he turned, each step away from her like ripping a stitch open, walking not because he wanted to—but because it was the only way to stop himself from falling apart completely.

Because to keep loving her from a distance hurt less than being close and invisible.

The wind picked up, blowing ash from my cigarette across the railing. And for the first time since the war began, I didn’t feel like the view was worth it.

Not without him beside me.

And the worst part was, I didn’t just miss him—I mourned the version of myself I wished he had loved. Not the scared, closed-off mess I’d become, but the girl who might’ve let him in before the war hollowed her out.

[orangecatsmissingbraincell]

Pretty Girl (ShaunaHat)

3.6k words

Tags: Modern setting, no crash AU, college AU, Fratboy!Shauna, smut (minors dni!), strap-on, eating out, drunk sex, Shauna kinda being a little toxic, lowkey Genlissa breadcrumbs in there too, no proofreading bc I'm lazy

“Should I go with the lilac hat or the flamingo one?”

Gen looked up from her chemistry notes to look. “Mel, I don’t think anyone’s gonna be looking at your hat. I’d go without it”

“The hat’s the most important part”

“Why are you even bothering with this stupid party anyway? It’s probably just frat guys and desperate girls”

“Because,” Melissa practically groaned as she spoke, “the soccer team’s gonna be there, and I’d like to get in with them now”

“You still thinking about trying out then?”

“Of course, and you should too. I’m already starting to miss playing with you”

“I can’t. I have these things called classes. You know, the thing that we pay for here? You should try going to one”

“I will…eventually. Maybe. I’ll get to it”

Gen rolled her eyes and went back to her chemistry homework. “Just, call me if things go south alright?”

“Yeah, of course”

Melissa headed down to the dorm lobby, still nervous about her first college party. She’d seen the movies and always imagined these to be the real deal, not like the high school parties where she had to sneak around and down just enough cheap beer to feel slightly off, but not so much that her parents would notice and ground her. She was a real adult now and could do whatever she wanted and no one could say anything. Her ride finally came, a friend from one of the few times she actually went to class. After a quick apology on account of the traffic that held her up, the two made it over to Jackie’s apartment

Once captain of her high school soccer team who’s closest brush with defeat was an anticlimactic tie at nationals, now captain of Rutgers’ team and president of Gamma Sigma Rho, Jackie had lived the high life with the worst thing to ever happen to her being falling off her bike exactly once when she was 8 and a messy breakup with her old high school sweetheart. She had become the main source of parties on campus, alongside Shauna if only by proxy. Shauna was mostly in it for an excuse to get trashed and people watch, even if Jackie had other ideas

“I’m getting tired of you throwing random douches at me,” she protested when Jackie started pointing guys out to her at the party

“Come on.” Jackie said with a mock whine. “You need to have fun, get your needs met before becoming some boring housewife with a degree that’s all for show”

“I do get my needs met. Besides, I’m not even in the mood for guys right now”

Shauna kept her drink close, a red solo cup filled to the brim with Jackie’s homemade punch. Jackie, however, was still stubborn and not taking the hint. In her mind, if she was going to hook up one night, so would Shauna, and if Shauna found someone on her own, then she had exactly five minutes to find someone herself

“Sooooo you want me to find you a girl then? I think I can do that”

Shauna tried her best to protest but a small laugh still escaped her. “You really are a true progressive”

“I have my moments”

Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe Jackie did finally get to her, but Shauna decided she might as well find someone for tonight

“Change of plans,” she said, patting Jackie’s shoulder. She locked eyes with this one cute blonde. She was clearly out of her element, probably a freshman who had no idea where she even was, terribly dressed but that wouldn’t matter soon enough. All in all, this girl was exactly her type

Melissa practically perked up when she saw Shauna approach, but tried her absolute hardest not to come off like some overly desperate freshman. She didn’t know her, but recognized her from the games. When Shauna did come up she practically brushed Melissa’s friend out of the way

“Why aren’t you drinking? Are we not fun or something?”

Melissa stuttered over herself to get the words out. “No…no its just…I just got here and didn’t wanna immediately start stealing-”

Shauna cut her off. “I’ll make you something then.”

She came back a few moments later with a cup of punch and ran her eyes up and down Melissa

“You got a name?”

“Y-yeah. Melissa…”

“Just Melissa?”

“Melissa Jones”

“Well, good to meet you Mel. Shauna”

“Yeah, I know.” She always wondered why she said stuff like that. She tried course correcting. “I just mean that…I’ve been to the games. You guys are good. I, uh, play too.” Why was she rambling so much?

Shauna cocked her head and took a sip. “What position?”

“Forward”

“Oh wow,” Shauna said with a slightly insincere tone. “Must be pretty good then”

“Thanks,” Melissa said sheepishly 

“So you agree? You think you’re really good then?”

Shit. “Oh, well…I mean…”

Shauna cut her off. “Ease up. I’m just fucking with you”

Melissa sighed in relief and gave an awkward laugh. “Right…yeah”

Shauna just nudged her arm at that, an excuse to establish touch early more than anything sincere. “Jokes aside, you thinking about trying out?”

Melissa nodded. “Yeah, yeah I want to”

“Well, good luck then, but if you played forward in high school you have a decent chance. Better than some of these people who were the best player in their shitty small town school and think they’re hot shit”

Melissa gave a nod at that. “Yeah, I’ve already met some people like that. They’re the worst”

There was a brief space in the conversation before Shauna filled it in

“You’re pretty cute, yknow. How many guys have you had to fight since you got here?”

Melissa was surprised and took a bit to just think of a good response before finally settling on “none”

“Maybe it's the outfit. Guys get weird about stuff like that. I don’t care though. I think you fit the rich sporty lesbian type pretty well”

When Melissa finished her drink, Shauna quickly broke off to bring her a refill. Shauna leaned over as she handed her the new drink, not letting the fact that Melissa was an inch or two taller than her get in the way of anything. Melissa seemed to shrink up in response

“These parties kinda suck. I only go to them because I live with Jackie,” Shauna said after taking a big gulp of her drink. “You ever been to these?”

“No, this is my first time”

“Well, sorry your first party sucks. I have a TV in my room. You wanna just watch something? I actually like talking to you”

Melissa felt like jumping up and down in excitement, but tried to keep her cool

“Yeah, that sounds better than this,” she said, nodding towards some frat bro who was tripping over himself. The two quickly refilled their drinks one more time and headed to Shauna’s room. Jackie noticed them and muttered “Shipman you son of a bitch” before grabbing some random guy

In her room, Shauna tossed her jacket off and sprawled over her bed. She aimlessly browsed her TV, not even looking for anything specific before settling on trashy MTV reruns

“This is a lot better. Not as loud, no drunk douches, no shitty hip-hop”

Melissa gave a nod at that. “Yeah, it’s a lot nicer”

“Melissa, you can sit.” Shauna scooted over to make room on her bed, a twin sized bed with no headboard, only marginally bigger than the one Melissa had in her dorm. The two were hip to hip, and Melissa tried her hardest not to blush or shrivel up. Shauna kept one arm around her, idly tracing up and down her arm. She knew she didn’t have to ask to touch her; it was something that came naturally. She would still test the waters at least, see how far this girl would let her go. Her hand drifted off Melissa’s arm down her side. It tickled a little, and Melissa let out a soft gasp but acquiesced. Shauna took that as a side to go further and wrapped her arm around her waist, playfully drumming her fingers on Melissa’s belly

“You work out. I can tell,” Shauna said, tracing along Melissa’s abs. “I like that”

Melissa gave a shaky “thanks” before looking over at her. She wanted Shauna to go further, to be the one to actually initiate, but she was holding off. Instead, she just kept her hand on Melissa’s belly, way above where they both wanted that hand to actually be. Neither were actually paying attention to the show at this point. Shauna finally saw the opportunity and planted her lips on Melissa’s neck. It was far from a romantic kiss. It was hungry, aggressive even. Melissa whined and gasped, already drunk and now wound up. Shauna flipped over, pulling Melissa to the side as she climbed on top. Their legs intertwined, and Shauned pushed her knee just between Melissa’s thighs as she kissed her neck, her lips, her cheeks, any open and vulnerable skin she could find while Melissa slowly melted underneath her. Melissa’s hands wrapped around Shauna’s back and held her close. Whether seconds or minutes or hours passed, Melissa didn’t know, she was lost to the sensations. Shauna broke away for a moment to take off her shirt before returning to tonight’s mistress

Shauna seized the opportunity and hastily unzipped Melissa’s pants, then slid her hand under her boxers. “God, you’re soaked,” she said as she curled her fingers inside her. Melissa gasped and whined as Shauna turned the heat up. Her weak moans echoed all through the room and drowned out the TV. Shauna went until absolutely couldn’t take it anymore. She slid off to strip her jeans off, then started rummaging her nightside. Melissa looked to the side, clearly still in shock from the experience

“Go on,” Shauna said looking back at her. “Take the polo off”

Melissa flushed bright pink before nodding. “Right…right…”

“You have done this before, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, no yeah I have. Just nervous ‘s all,” Melissa said as she began to lose the polo

“That means you aren’t drunk enough. Finish your drink while I get set up”

Melissa downed her cup as Shauna started to fasten a thick purple dildo into the harness and put it on. Melissa’s head was spinning but she managed to get her pants off too. Her clothes all laid messily on Shauna’s floor. Shauna decided to grab a joint she had prepared for tonight. She got on her back and started to light it before looking at Melissa

“Well, go ahead. Get on.” She grabbed the freshman and pulled her over her lap. As Melissa began to lift herself, Shauna smirked and slapped the dildo against her

“Cmon pretty girl, there you go,” Shauna cooed as Melissa lowered herself back down with a low, slow moan. Smoke flowed around them as Shauna let Melissa ride. She loved how girls would do all the work for her, even if this one was a little slow. She gave her a hard spank to get Melissa to speed up

“Your tits are so pretty,” Shauna praised as she watched the blonde’s breasts bounce with every movement. “What a pretty girl”

Shauna grabbed one of her tits and ran her thumb over the nipple just to excite this girl. Her hand slid down her body before settling on her hip. She absentmindedly traced her thumb in circles while the rest of her figures curled around that pretty ass. Melissa put her hands on Shauna’s chest for stability. It was a struggle for her to hold it together. The adrenaline was running high, and she was multiple strong drinks deep, so her balance wasn’t exactly the best

Shauna tried to pass the joint to Melissa, but when she almost lost her balance she instead decided to have her lean over so she could hold the joint while Melissa inhaled. “That’s it. One more”

Melissa’s eyes rolled back in pleasure. The weed and alcohol only intensified the feelings. She was pretty loud normally, but that mix made her totally lose herself and every movement was coupled with loud, intense moans. It felt like a fire had been lit inside her. Melissa went until she was fatigued and her legs were too shaky to keep going

“What’s wrong pretty girl?” Shauna asked when she slowed down. “Tired already?”

Melissa nodded. “Y-yeah…its too much. Can you take over”

Shauna smiled at that. “I don’t think you want me to take over”

“Please,” she whined. “I need it”

Shauna gave her hip a slight tap and helped her off.  “On your knees babe”

She put the joint out and lined up behind her. Shauna tsked at her when she saw Melissa on her hands and knees

“Not like that. Like this.” She pulled Melissa’s arms from under her and kept them behind her back while she shoved the young blonde’s face into the mattress. Melissa’s heart jumped several beats ahead at that; for a brief moment she was convinced it would burst out of her chest. Shauna kept one hand on her head, grabbing a fistful of hair to keep her head pinned against the mattress. With her other hand she gave her ass a hard spank, followed by one more just to make sure her skin would remember Shauna’s handprint

She lined the dildo against her folds then slowly pushed deeper. With her hand gripping Melissa’s hip, Shauna sped up, growing more and more intense until the sounds of them slapping against each other filled the room. Melissa surrendered to the feeling, saying little more than “fuck” or “oh God.” Shauna finally found the perfect angle, something she had a talent for, and abused it until the blonde’s voice was an octave higher and shook so much she started to worry this girl would fall apart

“Fuck Melissa. You take it so well. You’re a fucking pro”

She pulled out for a moment, then grabbed Melissa’s legs and pulled them back so she laid totally flat. Shauna laid right on top of her and rolled her hips with as much intensity as she could get. Melissa let out a whiny moan in response to the new position. Shauna grabbed her wrists and kept her pinned down. Not that she really needed to, since her own weight was enough to keep this girl pinned against the mattress, but she liked the control it gave her

“I’m really close Shauna”

“I know pretty girl,” she said with mock sympathy. “I know you can take some more though, right?”

“Y-yeah”

“Good, good.” Shauna started to slow down just to toy with her girl. Melissa was soon begging her to speed up

“Say please,” Shauna taunted

“P-p-please”

She smiled and decided to give this girl everything in her. She drilled her until the mattress started to sink in. Melissa let out several high pitched moans, which slowly faded into weak whimpers. Shauna got her mouth close to her ear and gave Melissa the words she’d been dying to hear

“You can cum now”

Almost on command, Melissa frantically grabbed the mattress and let the fires consume her as she came more than she ever had in her life. Shauna kept rolling her hips into her until she was totally done. When Shauna did pull out, Melissa was trembling and her dildo was covered in her juices. While Melissa was still panting, she moved over to put her hand on her cheek and guided her to suck the dildo and clean it up. That was another thing Shauna really loved, making these girls taste themselves off her

“You were so good,” she said as she pulled out of Melissa’s mouth. “Think you can return the favor?”

Melissa nodded, still out of breath, and Shauna slid the harness off her so she was perfectly open for Melissa. She came back and kissed Melissa, then laid back and used her hand to guide Melissa’s head between her thighs. Melissa looked down at her eagerly, admiring Shauna’s build. Her eyes took in everything, from her muscular thighs to the bush she had, before Shauna teased her

“Quit staring, eat.” She grabbed a fistful of her hair and shoved Melissa in. She immediately went to work and Shauna let out a deep, almost masculine moan. “That’s it. Finally doing something useful with that tongue,” she said. She wrapped her legs around the girl, locking them at the heel to keep her from escaping. Every so often, Shauna would give her directions but when Melissa finally found the right way, she could lay off. Her chest heaved up and down. Melissa was surprisingly good at this, she thought to herself, just needed some instruction was all. Melissa had to fight the urge to just go as fast as she could, but Shauna told her to keep it slow. There was a brief moment where she got excited and went faster than Shauna preferred, which prompted a tug of the hair

“Slow down. It’s not a race”

Melissa just nodded and settled herself down the best she could. God this girl’s stamina was insane, she thought to herself. Time seemed to drag on as Melissa continued tongue fucking her. Shauna just enjoyed the sight of a pretty obedient girl who would fuck her exactly as she told. She listened better than most of the girls- and all of the guys- that Shauna had been with. Most would’ve gotten too excited by now and would’ve rushed things. Instead, Melissa was happy to do whatever she was told. This was a girl who seemed to enjoy eating pussy just for the sake of it

After a long period, Shauna reached the first peak. Her thighs instinctively wrapped tighter around Melissa’s head. Melissa felt like her cheeks were being hugged. She grabbed Shauna’s thighs for stability

“You can go a little faster now,” Shauna told her. She immediately picked up the pace. She felt excited, like it was a stamp of approval for her since she loved going fast. Her jaw and tongue ached but she pushed through, desperate to guide Shauna through every rush of pleasure. Her eyes widened when she felt the sudden grasp of Shauna’s thighs tightening again.

“I’m gonna cum,” she grounded. “Gonna cum on that pretty face of yours”

Shauna leaned her head back and closed her eyes. The pleasure rushed faster than she expected, and with a low groan she came right on Melissa’s tongue and face. She let out a content sigh and held Melissa close just a little longer so she could clean everything up. She pulled her back in for a quick kiss and let Melissa relax on her for a bit. She didn’t hold her long though

“You got a ride?” She asked Melissa, who was a little taken back by the question

“Oh…right…yeah I can call someone”

“Jackie doesn’t really like when people stay the night. She’s kinda a bitch like that”

Melissa had the feeling that wasn’t really the reason, but relented anyway. She shot Gen a quick text. 

“It’s 1:30 AM!” She texted back. A few moments later she shot a second text. “You’re lucky I love you. Be there soon”

Melissa shot her a quick heart and looked back at Shauna. “Someone’s coming to get me”

Shauna just nodded in response. As Melissa was started to get dressed she spoke up

“Melissa, lemme have your number”

This girl was something different, too special to just dump after one session. She was definitely going to hear back from Shauna one of these days. Melissa’s phone buzzed again when Gen texted her.

“So umm…this was fun, thanks,” she said before shuffling out

She met Gen outside and hoped in her car

“Welcome back slut,” Gen said with a smile. She barely got dressed and instead just substituted pajamas for sweats and a jacket

“Oh hush.” She felt embarrassed to be called out so easily, but the blush all over her face and neck probably did little to help her case

“Just promise you won’t puke in my car”

The two headed back to the dorm where Gen did her best to sneak in a too drunk and too high girl without alerting the RA. She helped her into their dorm and sent Melissa to get cleaned up. Gen sighed when Melissa got in the shower. She was always there to save Melissa from her own messes. She really shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help it. Part of her always thought that if she was there enough then Melissa would finally clean her act and maybe, just maybe, actually settle down with her. She gave a smile when Melissa stepped out in pajamas and flopped onto the bed. She wasn’t in the mood to hear about the party, or whatever she actually got up to while she was gone. They both tried to sleep, but neither could

“Hey,” Gen said, turning back to her. “Wanna watch some cartoons or something?”

Melissa turned back to her. “Yeah, sounds nice.” She tried to hide the disappointment in her voice and being dumped so unceremoniously earlier. She hopped onto Gen’s bed and the two watched some cartoons on Gen’s old laptop. They only got one episode deep before the alcohol and weed and sex high all started to wear Melissa down. She fell asleep on Gen, who was starting to get tired too. She turned the laptop off and pulled a blanket over them before falling asleep herself

[conclover]

Thomas Lawrence x Reader x Vincent Benítez — Part 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summary: Thomas can’t get over the messages Vincent sent you, but you have a way to make all this drama disappear... and to have him back on his knees for you for a while.

Warnings: +18, oral sex, dom/sub role fight, bathroom sex, Thomas is a bitch, Vincent is a sweetheart

Notes: I either make God angry or horny with these chapters idk.

Oh, and you’re wearing a short tight mini dress. One of those that stay up on its own once you lift the fabric. I don’t know what it is with me and dresses. They are always in my fics. Cassocks or gowns. It doesn’t matter. I’m a sucker for both.

Word count: 6k

What had begun as a rebellion against secrecy was now unraveling beneath the weight of Lawrence’s inscrutable gaze. Whatever flicker of warmth had sparked between you earlier was gone, extinguished by suspicion.

He sat across from you, rigid and silent, the candlelight painting shadows across the tense lines of his face.

Something intangible but unmistakable began to rise: a wall.

Still, you tried to salvage the evening, hoping to reconnect with Thomas. The trust may have already begun to crack, but a small, stubborn part of you still refused to let go.

You reached for his hand across the table. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t meet your gaze either. His eyes were fixed on his watch. Anywhere but you.

“Tommy,” you whispered, the name slipping from your lips like a gentle plea reaching out to him through the growing distance.

“Don’t you Tommy me,” he murmured, his voice raw, a tremor of hurt beneath the words.

He pulled his hand away with a careful motion, but it still sent a jolt through your chest, leaving you feeling exposed in a way you hadn’t expected.

Silence fell between you. You stared at him, willing him to look at you, to say something. Anything really. But his gaze remained fixed on the hallway beyond your table. Whatever storm was going on inside him, he had no intention of letting you in.

“Excuse me,” he muttered at last, pushing back his chair.

He rose with quiet dignity, but you caught the glimmer in his eye before he turned. A single traitorous tear had rolled down his cheek.

Then he was gone, the soft hush of the bathroom door closing behind him echoing louder than anything else.

You sat alone, staring down at your empty plate, your appetite curdling in your stomach.

The restaurant had faded into a background murmur, the music too soft, the laughter of other couples too far away to feel real.

You knew this rhythm. This sharp shift from intimacy to distance. It was the kind of tension that made you question yourself.

For Thomas, this was unfamiliar ground. But you’d been here before and you’d promised yourself you would never walk it again.

You knew what came next. The possessiveness disguised as love, the jealousy masquerading as concern and the slow erosion of your self-worth, all in the name of meeting your partner’s needs. This kind of love—if it could even be called that—always demanded too much. Your freedom, your voice, your very sense of self…

You loved Thomas. That much was real. But you had learned, sometimes the hard way, that loving someone should never require the dismantling of yourself.

And this cold withdrawal, this quiet domination masked as silence it couldn’t take root. Not again.

“Dessert?” the waiter asked gently slicing through your thoughts.

You looked up at her, momentarily disoriented. Her question, so ordinary, felt odd against the emotional wreckage left in Thomas’s wake.

Thomas had said earlier he wouldn’t want dessert. But you? You suddenly needed it. You needed something indulgent. Something sweet to remind yourself that you were still here and still choosing yourself.

“Tiramisù, per favore,” you said, your voice steadier than your heartbeat. “Extra cacao.”

The waiter nodded, already turning, and you sat back, throwing your head backwards in relief.

Thomas could take his time. He could sit in the cold solitude of his fears and fantasies. You, on the other hand, were going to enjoy a delicious dessert.

And maybe… a little bit of Vincent, too.

Hi 21:45 ✓✓

How did you know I was having pasta? 21:45 ✓✓

Pope magic powers I guess 21:45 ✓✓

Buzz.

You smiled. Vincent’s timing was uncanny.

I guess the papacy comes with mind powers... 21:45 ✓✓

Haha 21:45 ✓✓

You sent him a photo of the pasta plate you had taken before. It was looking extra fancy with the dim light and the background.

I wish I had that for dinner... 21:45 ✓✓

Is that a second plate I see? 21:46 ✓✓

Are you on a dateee? 21:46 ✓✓

Vincent’s teasing made you laugh softly. Even if you couldn’t tell him the name of your date, you trusted him with personal topics.

You could say so 21:46 ✓✓

But it's not going as expected... 21:46 ✓✓

You shifted in your seat, turning your back slightly to the bathroom in case Thomas returned. Still no sign of him. But there was a sign of the waiter, arriving with a grand plate of tiramisù... a small indulgence in the midst of everything.

Buzz.

Sad to hear that... 21:46 ✓✓

If you want we can talk tomorrow 21:46 ✓✓

Or here 21:46 ✓✓

As you prefer 21:46 ✓✓

Writing...

I'm here for you, no matter what you need 21:47 ✓✓

But before you could reply, Thomas returned.

He sat down as if nothing had happened, but the weight of his silence pressed between you. His expression was composed, yet his eyes betrayed him. There was something fragile behind the crystal blue of his eyes. Something shattered. He had been crying.

You didn’t speak. You simply tucked your phone away, the soft click of the bag’s clasp echoing in the quiet, and waited for an apology... but nothing came.

So, you took a bite of your tiramisù, unbothered by his attitude. The rich espresso and chocolate bloomed on your tongue, their sweetness a sharp contrast to the coldness in the air between you.

“You ordered tiramisù...” Thomas finally spoke, his voice low, almost trembling.

“Yes,” you said, licking the spoon slowly. “I thought you didn’t want anything.”

The way you moved the spoon across your tongue, it wasn’t meant to be seductive. At least not at first. But for him, it sent his imagination flying. You noticed it. The quick flicker of something in his eyes and the way his chest rose just a little faster with each breath.

So you leaned into it. Maybe, just maybe, this was how you could reclaim some of the magic of the night.

A smile. That was all it took to unmake him.

He swallowed hard, the tension in his throat betraying him. Just like that, the fight seemed forgotten. And in that moment, you saw it clearly. He was already back on his knees for you.

Thomas watched you intently, his fingers tightening around the stem of his wine glass each time your spoon dipped into the tiramisù and lingered at your lips. You weren’t performing for him. Not exactly. But you knew he was watching. Every slow, deliberate taste was a quiet assertion. A reminder that you still held the reins.

“Shall we go to the bathroom?” he asked, his voice just a fraction too quick, betraying the nerves he was trying so hard to hide.

You didn’t answer right away. You let the silence stretch as you took another bite. The mascarpone melted on your tongue, and you licked the spoon clean with a glint in your eye.

Then you looked up at him, lips curved in a knowing smile. “You mean... where you were crying?”

He blinked, caught between embarrassment and arousal.

“No, I—I didn’t mean...” he stammered, then tried to recover. “I just thought maybe we could… talk.”

“You want to talk,” you echoed, tilting your head ever so slightly, letting the silence stretch. “In a restaurant bathroom.”

His ears flushed pink, but he didn’t look away.

You leaned in slightly, your voice dipping into a soft, deliberate tease. “What exactly do you want to talk about, Tommy?”

“Stop,” he exhaled sharply, his composure slipping. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You set the spoon down with care, then rested your chin lightly in your hand.

“Doing what?”

His eyes flicked to your lips, then traced the line of your collarbone. He stole a glance at the swell of your breasts before returning to your eyes.

“That thing with the spoon,” he said, barely keeping it together.

You arched a brow, your voice a purr of mock innocence. “What thing?”

His jaw tightened. “You know damn well.”

“Maybe...” you murmured, eyes locked on his, “...I just really like dessert.”

Thomas reached across the table suddenly, covering your hand with his. His touch was warm. And a little desperate. It was almost laughable how quickly he melted under your touch. How easy it was to have him all needy like this. Eyes dark with want, breath shallow, completely at your mercy.

“I miss the way you looked at me… earlier tonight,” he said quietly.

“Then maybe...” your expression softened, but only slightly, “...you shouldn’t have ruined it.”

“I know,” he murmured, the admission barely more than breath. “I’m sorry.”

You paused, considering him. Really considering him. The apology was a start. But it wasn’t everything. Not yet.

Still, there was something in his eyes now. Humility. Desire. And just beneath it… fear. Fear of losing you.

You stood slowly, the chair scraping softly beneath you.

Thomas looked up at you, blinking, breath catching slightly as his gaze ran the length of your body. His eyes were wide, unsure… and burning with desire.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “If you want to talk…” you murmured, voice low and sultry, “…then come find me.”

And with that, you turned and walked toward the bathroom. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You already knew he was following you. He was obedient. Like a dog who knew exactly who he belonged to.

The bathroom was softly lit, the glow casting gentle shadows over the marble and gold mirrors, giving the space an almost decadent air of ancient Roman elegance.

You stood in front of the sink, eyes tracing your reflection in the mirror. You didn’t adjust your hair or check your lipstick. You didn’t need to. You were already perfectly poised.

You just waited. Your panties now off and hidden in your bag. Ready for an apology.

The door creaked open behind you and when Thomas stepped in, the quiet click of the lock sealed you from the world outside. The space between you and him felt suddenly more intimate, as if you were already sure what was going to happen.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, his chest rising and falling slightly faster than beofre, watching you like you might disappear if he blinked. Just like he always did. Poor pathetic old man.

You turned slowly to face him, resting one hand against the cool marble countertop behind you.

“So,” you said, your voice soft but laced with teasing. “You wanted to talk.”

He stepped forward slowly, his broad shoulders tense beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. The faintest tremor ran through his hands as they flexed at his sides, unsure whether to touch you or stay still. You’d never seen him this nervous before. His eyes darted from you to the floor, then back again, searching for something to soothe him. And his face. God. It was completely flushed, his ears burning and his cheeks tinged with the softest pink.

The muscles in his neck were tight, each shift in his posture a sign of how on edge he was. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper, as though he feared even the air would judge him. “I’m not proud of how I acted…”

You hummed softly, your fingers gripping the sink so tightly your knuckles turned white.

“I saw your face light up when he messaged and—”

“You got jealous,” you interrupted, your tone almost too casual.

He flinched, just a little, but his gaze stayed fixed on you, full of conflict. “Yes.”

“You think I want him?”

You studied him in silence for a beat, then tilted your head.

“No,” he said quickly. “Yes. I don’t know. He’s younger. Charismatic. Powerful.”

He stepped closer, until there was barely any space left between you. Almost chest to chest. You reached up and gently brushed your fingers along his shirt, smoothing a wrinkle that wasn’t really there.

“He’s not the one I’m coming home with tonight,” you said softly, your fingers drifting along the line of his collarbone.

The light in the bathroom cast a glow across his face, sharpening the blue in his eyes, making them burn with something deeper than desire. Like want, relief, or maybe even awe.

“And... he’s not the one who makes my legs shake just by looking at me like that.”

“Don’t tease me,” Thomas groaned, the sound low and aching, as if the weight of your words was almost too much to bear.

“I’m not.” You pressed your body lightly against his, just enough for him to feel the shape of you. “I’m just reminding you… that you still owe me a real apology.”

One hand slid instinctively up your back, fingers curling against the fabric of your dress as if he needed something to hold onto. The other hovered at your hip, trembling slightly before settling there. He leaned in, forehead resting briefly against yours, eyes fluttering closed like he was praying for the strength not to fall apart right there.

“I’m a fool for you,” he whispered, his lips almost brushing yours. “And I hate myself for it. But I need you. I’ll do anything for you. Just tell me what to do.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear...” you said, a slow smile curling on your lips.

Thomas guided you gently back until your spine met the cool glass of the mirror. His hands slid down your sides in a slow motion, then traced their way up beneath the hem of your dress, fingertips skimming your thighs like he was rediscovering sacred ground.

“Wait...” He said, fingers trailing slowly in between your legs, his breath hitching as he reached where you were bare. “Did you come here without panties?”

His voice was a mix of disbelief and wonder. You would never stop surprising him. You were everything he hadn’t been taught to expect. While he had spent years buried in robes, steeped in the rigid doctrines of the Church, you embodied everything contrary to that.

You simply smiled, letting the silence stretch between you. He smiled back knowingly, as if he were savoring your naughtiness. Like this night had already been meticulously planned by you.

Thanks to your depravity, something inside him shifted. The nervous tension melted away, replaced by a quiet resolve. His hands no longer trembled. Instead, they moved with purpose, caressing your wet folds as if to prove himself how much you wanted him.

But just as you thought you were in control, he moved with surprising ease, his hands guiding you gently but firmly. In one fluid motion, he turned you to face the mirror, his reflection staring back at you.

He stood behind you, his breath warm against the back of your neck. His hand traced the curve of your body slowly, as though marking territory. And then again, his hand found your pussy, but this time, you could see everything in the mirror. His touch was deliberate, tracing circles on your clit as his eyes locked onto you, reading every expression, every subtle shift in your body.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered, voice hoarse like it had been dragged from the depths of him.

His fingers moved slightly faster, rubbing you with aching possessiveness and hunger. And still, his eyes never left the mirror. He loved watching your body arch for him. For his touch. The touch of a man still learning. Inexperienced. And yet, the way you responded to him... it lit something in him. It fed his starved confidence, made him feel wanted in a way he hadn’t dared to believe he could be.

But you weren’t going to let him have that reward. Not after everything he’d made you feel. So you turned to face him, eyes locking onto his, not the mirror. He tried to look away, but you didn’t let him. You tangled your fingers in his hair, firm and unrelenting, pulling his head just enough to make him meet your gaze.

“I’m not yours,” you said, taking back control.

Whatever he thought this dynamic was turning into, it wasn’t. His moment of power had been indulgent, maybe even amusing. But it was over now. You were done letting him believe you could submit to him.

“And you’ve never owned me,” you murmured, your fingers still tangled in his hair.

With strong yet gentle pressure, you guided his head downward. He sank to his knees before you, not out of force, but because something in him wanted to. He was obedient as long as you pulled the right strings. You just had to stay one step ahead of his rebellion, always ready to tug the leash before he forgot who was really in control.

This was it. He didn’t need to possess you. He actually wanted to be possessed. Like any devoted follower of the Church, he craved guidance. He longed to be told what to do, what to say, what to think. And now, kneeling before you, he was ready to become the most faithful worshipper in your Church.

“God forgive me,” Thomas murmured, his lips grazing your legs with tender devotion, his hands trembling as they gripped your thighs. “I’ll do anything to earn your forgiveness… to prove myself worthy of you.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” you said, your voice low and commanding as you opened your legs wider.

And then, there was no more talking. Only the heat of his breath against your skin, the need in his eyes, and the beautiful sound of a man on the verge of breaking, willing to do anything just to be with you.

And he was so anxious about pleasing you, so focused on doing everything just right, as if he feared you were some vengeful deity who would punish him for falling short of perfection.

“Like this, darling?” he asked, pulling away just enough to meet your gaze, a glimmering trail of saliva clung between his lips and your skin, catching the dim light before it gave way to gravity.

He seemed genuinely worried about getting it right, or maybe it was the ache for your praise that drove him, a need so deep it made him second-guess every move.

There was no delicacy, no practiced rhythm. Just hungry need for you. Desperation to have you on good terms. He fumbled, licking and sucking you with a mix of urgency and uncertainty, like he was trying to devour you while also praying he was doing it right.

He may not have been an experienced man, but the way he devoted himself to every lick, the way he worshipped you as if you were his only God was enough to leave you utterly satisfied.

“You’re good at this,” you said, finally offering him the praise he desperately needed.

His face lit up, a look of pure relief and happiness flooding through him. His thin lips curled into a smile, the edges slick with both saliva and your wetness. There was something almost intoxicating about the way he looked at you. It was as if, in that moment, you had given him everything he had been yearning for.

“But I’m not finished,” you murmured, guiding his head back to where you needed him, a firm reminder that his devotion was far from over.

His expression shifted to one of understanding, and now that he knew he was pleasing you, his pace quickened. His licks grew more precise, more decisive. He was no longer afraid of failing. He even got the courage to use his fingers to fuck you, eager to deliver exactly what you wanted. The nervousness that had once guided him faded, replaced by a focused determination to satisfy you.

“Keep going, Thomas,” you murmured, leaning back, your head resting against the cool mirror. “Just. Like. That.”

His pace never faltered, each movement driven by a single purpose: to make you finish. But just as your breath quickened, as you teetered on the edge of losing yourself, he seized the moment to regain just a sliver of control. Just enough to make himself believe, if only for now, that you were still his.

And you could still see it in his eyes. The possessiveness behind them as he sucked, licked and pumped his fingers in and out of you. Even though he was the one kneeling, even though he understood you were never meant to be anyone’s pet, he knew that in this moment, you were his.

But it wasn’t enough for him. He needed a living testament to his devotion. He needed to be covered in your release. To feel it on his skin, to taste it on his tongue. Proof that you were his, and he was utterly yours.

His grip tightened, making sure you couldn’t slip away. Every flinch, every arch of your body only drew him in closer, holding you firmly in place, even if the sensation threatened to overwhelm you.

And when you finally broke, when your voice hit that note he craved more than anything else in the world, he couldn’t look away. God, it was satisfying. He hadn’t felt this kind of pride in a long time. It almost made him feel reborn.

Sure, he’d made you scream his name before, but this was different. To see your legs trembling for him, to feel you in control, your hand petting his head like he’d earned God’s approval.

“I love you,” he murmured, resting his head against your trembling body, his arms wrapped tightly around your shaking legs, holding you steady so you wouldn’t fall.

Gently, he lifted his head, brushing his lips softly against your exposed skin, a tender kiss that said everything his voice couldn’t. The intimate moment stretched between you, a world of unspoken words passing through every touch.

With a soft grunt, he pushed himself up from his kneeling position, standing tall in front of you. And once his eyes met yours, he couldn’t resist placing a kiss on your lips. It was almost too tender compared to the intensity of the moment before.

“We should get out of here, darling,” he whispered against your ear, his fingers gently adjusting the fabric of your dress, his touch lingering with a tenderness that made your heart race. “They’re probably starting to wonder where we went… especially since we didn’t pay for that meal.”

“Of course, but there’s just one small thing…” With a playful tug, you pulled him toward you, turning you both toward the mirror. “You’re going out like that?”

A low, satisfied laugh rumbled in his chest as he met his reflection on the mirror. His mouth was glistening in the soft light of the mirror, an undeniable mark of what had just passed between you.

“It’s a shame they’ll never know what happened in here,” he said, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth as he splashed water over his face, wiping away the evidence with a quiet sigh.

As he straightened, your eyes flicked down, and you couldn’t help but smirk.

“You know your pants are kind of… wet, right?” you said, voice laced with mischief.

He blinked, then followed your gaze. The smile faded, and a visible flush rose to his cheeks. “Oh,” he said quietly, adjusting his stance as though it might help. “I thought you wouldn’t notice.”

You stepped a little closer, teasing but kind. “Not from the sink, I’m guessing.”

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking away. “No. Definitely not.”

There was a beat of silence before you added, “Thankfully, black fabric hides sins pretty well.”

Thomas let out a soft, embarrassed chuckle as he held the bathroom door open for you. His arm slipped around you, pulling you closer to him. For a moment, the chaotic noise of the restaurant seemed far away and all that remained was the two of you, alone in your own private universe.

...

Thomas’s head rested against your shoulder, his body heavy with exhaustion. He was barely holding it together, teetering on the edge of sleep. It was almost endearing, the way he fought to stay awake. His lashes fluttered, his breath slowed, and he looked like some kind of weary angel. He was clearly trying to watch the movie you’d picked out, not wanting to seem rude by dozing off. But every now and then, his eyes flickered toward you, checking to see if you had drifted off first. Maybe hoping that would grant him silent permission to finally sleep.

The long night had taken a toll on him. You could see it in the lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders slouched a little more than usual. He was clearly drained. And your slow, absentminded caresses, along with the warmth of the blanket cocooning you both, certainly weren’t helping him stay awake. Eventually, he gave in, sinking deeper into your embrace until the sound of the movie became just another gentle murmur in the quiet of your apartment.

You, on the other hand, were still fairly awake. The film didn’t hold your attention. You’d seen it more times than you could count. What you truly enjoyed was watching it with someone new, observing their reactions, hearing their thoughts. That had been the plan with Thomas, but it seemed that had to wait.

With a small sigh, you reached toward the coffee table for your phone, careful not to disturb him. You still hadn’t replied to Vincent’s message. Not that you’d really had the chance with everything that had happened.

But just as your fingers brushed the phone, Thomas shifted beside you, and your attention snapped back to him. His eyes were still closed, but you stilled anyway. The last thing you wanted was another argument at this hour.

“Darling,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep. “I think I’m going to bed. The sofa’s killing my back.”

He stretched a little, trying to work out the stiffness, then turned to glance at the screen. His brows knit together as he squinted.

“Is it over yet, or is this something new?” he asked, stifling a yawn behind his hand.

“It’s the same one, love,” you said, reaching for the remote. You paused the movie and checked the time left.

“Are you planning to finish it?” he asked gently, stepping closer and tilting your chin with his fingers so your eyes met. “Because I can’t stay up another minute.”

You smiled. “I’ll join you soon.”

His touch softened as he brushed a thumb over your lips. “See you there, my dear,” he whispered, pressing a warm kiss to your lips before heading off toward the bedroom.

Once you were sure he was gone, you picked up your phone. Vincent had messaged you several times throughout the night:

I was about to go to sleep 23:47 ✓✓

But I haven’t heard from you in a while 23:48 ✓✓

And now I’m kind of worried 23:50 ✓✓

I hope you’re okay 23:56 ✓✓

If anything goes wrong call me 00:02 ✓✓

He was clearly trying his best not to sound desperate in his messages... but the way he remained online, the little “typing…” notification blinking beneath his name made it obvious.

I’m alive 00:08 ✓✓

Thanks for caring 00:08 ✓✓

A small smile tugged at your lips. It felt good to know someone was genuinely worried about you.

Thank God 00:08 ✓✓

I was starting to consider calling the police 00:09 ✓✓

You could almost hear the exasperated relief behind his text messages.

Still smiling, you snapped a quick photo of the paused movie on the TV and sent it to him.

I was watching some movie now 00:09 ✓✓

Quite bored honestly 00:09 ✓✓

A short pause followed. You could tell he was debating whether to tease you or play it safe.

You’re watching that one again? 00:10 ✓✓

Another message arrived quickly after, almost as if he regretted the first one.

Not judging you 00:10 ✓✓

I have watched Ben-Hur like 7 times 00:10 ✓✓

You laughed softly. Of course he had. What a good Christian.

I think you would love Brian’s life 00:10 ✓✓

When the typing bubble returned, you expected more messages. Instead, a photo popped up. And it took your breath for a second.

The image was dim, lit only by the soft golden flicker of a candle, but still enough to make you gasp softly.

Vincent was in bed, half leaning against a pillow. The papal robes were gone, replaced by a plain black sleep shirt. The collar was slightly undone, revealing just a hint of his collarbone and the edge of a silver chain against his skin.

Even in the low light, his face was striking. The softness in his expression and the worry that still lingered in his eyes made him look even more attractive.

Was just about to sleep 00:12 ✓✓

Glad you’re okay 00:12 ✓✓

You took a moment, letting yourself stare at the photo before replying.

Then I won’t take up more time of your night 00:13 ✓✓

Sleep well 00:13 ✓✓

You smiled as the photo slid upward with the arrival of new messages, a faint heat rising in your cheeks.

Thanks 00:13 ✓✓

Sleep tight 00:13 ✓✓

And see you tomorrow 00:14 ✓✓

Or well... technically today 00:14 ✓✓

You glanced at the time. You hadn’t even noticed how late it had gotten and you were due at the Vatican again in just a few hours.

Goodnight then 00:14 ✓✓

See you tomorrow 00:14 ✓✓

Then you saw him typing again.

Goodnight ♡ 00:15 ✓✓

That small symbol. You blinked at it, your thumb hovering over the glass of the phone like it might smudge.

It wasn’t just the heart, really. It was that Vincent had sent it. The Pope. In his bed. In a sleep shirt. With the softest eyes you’d ever seen through a screen. And now a heart like it meant nothing. Or like it meant everything, but neither of you could say so out loud.

Your pulse quickened. You tilted your head back against the sofa, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment, trying to slow the heat rising beneath your skin. This was ridiculous... and dangerous.

You unlocked your phone again and stared at the photo. His collar slightly open. The candlelight catching in his hair. His dark brown eyes staring right into your soul.

You didn’t know how long you stared. It was only when you heard the faint creak of the bedroom door opening that you blinked yourself back into reality.

Thomas.

You quickly locked your phone and slid it under a cushion, your heart still tapping out a strange rhythm against your ribs. He stepped into the room, rubbing his eyes.

“I thought you were coming to bed,” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

“I was just about to,” you replied quickly, switching off the TV and silently praying he hadn’t noticed you hadn’t been watching it at all.

He nodded, too tired to question it, and shuffled back toward the bedroom, his slippers dragging faintly across the floor.

By the time you followed, he was already curled beneath the blankets, facing away from you. You moved carefully, lifting the edge of the covers and slipping in beside him. Then, slowly, you wrapped your arm around him from behind, your chest pressed gently to his back. You closed your eyes, holding him, but your mind was elsewhere, drifting back to Vincent, his photo, his messages...

A minute passed.

“You weren’t watching the movie,” he said quietly, his voice low and flat.

You froze.

“I got distracted,” you said, keeping your voice soft, almost casual. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Vincent?” he added, saying the name like it was something bitter on his tongue.

You swallowed hard, the warmth of the sheets now feeling a little too close, too heavy.

“He sent a message. That’s all,” you said carefully, measuring every word.

“Right. Just one...” he murmured, voice tight. Then he shifted, turning to face you in the dark, his eyes shadowed but unblinking.

Your gaze stayed fixed on the window above him, the pale outline of the curtains your only refuge. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes, not when you knew exactly what you’d see there.

“I don’t know what you want me to say...”

“Well,” he said, his voice quieter now, but edged with something sharp, “I want to see those messages. If they’ve kept you up this late, they must be really interesting.”

His hand moved toward your shoulder deliberately. Not with affection, but with a quiet, dangerous tension, like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to hold you close or keep you from slipping further away.

You flinched, barely, but enough for him to notice. His fingers paused almost above your neck, hovering there for a breath too long before retreating.

He shook his head slowly, his expression drained of warmth, the light in his eyes dulled. “Do you like him?”

The words caught somewhere in your throat. You couldn’t answer.

Then, with a sudden sharpness, he reached for the switch and flooded the room with harsh, artificial light. His hands dragged down his face, as if trying to wipe away everything he was feeling.

“Do you fantasize about him?” his voice was an even, unnerving calm, as if he was conducting an experiment.

He leaned over you, placing his hands on either side of your head, caging you in. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, and your breath hitched.

“Answer.” His hand snapped to your chin, gripping it hard, tilting your face up to meet his. “Do you want him?”

His gaze pinned you in place, scanning every twitch of your face like he was hunting for lies. You couldn’t move, couldn’t look away.

“When we’re having sex and you close your eyes...” he murmured, his voice lower now, more intimate and dangerous. He slid one leg between yours, the sudden pressure jolting through your entire body. “... are you thinking about him?”

“Thomas…” you whispered, the name trembling out of you as fear crept into your chest. You searched his face, desperate to find the man you knew behind those dangerous eyes. “You’re scaring me.”

“That’s not what this is about. Don’t make me the villain.”

His hand loosened its grip on your chin, sliding to your lips in both a tender and threatening way.

“You won’t answer,” he said quietly, leaning in just enough that you felt his breath against your cheek. “But you’re not denying it either.”

“I don’t want him,” you whispered. It sounded like the truth, and maybe it was. But something in the way you said it made Thomas question himself.

“You don’t want him,” he echoed, pulling back slightly enough to look into your face again. “But you think about him. Don’t you?”

You turned your head, but his hand came up again, fingers resting just beneath your chin, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Look at me.”

He was closer now, the tension between your bodies almost unbearable.

“When I touch you,” he murmured, his voice rough around the edges, “Is it really me you feel?”

His words were edged with something darker now, almost mocking, but there was an undeniable tremor beneath it, an insecurity he couldn’t quite bury. He watched you closely, waiting for your reaction, the silent challenge hanging thick in the air between you.

That was it. Your breath caught, then steadied into something sharper. You met his gaze fully now, the hesitation gone.

Smack.

In a sudden surge of frustration, you slapped him hard across the face. The sound of your hand connecting with his skin cracked through the tension in the room. His head snapped to the side with the force of it, his cheek flushing red in the aftermath.

For a moment, everything was still. The air between you thickened, both of you breathing heavily, locked in a volatile silence.

His eyes slowly returned to yours, a flicker of shock and surprise breaking through the storm in his expression. He lifted a hand to his cheek, fingers pressing lightly against the reddened skin. He hadn’t expected that.

“I’m leaving,” you said, your voice steady but cold. You rose to your feet in one swift motion, crossing the room with purpose.

The closet door creaked open as you yanked it free, your hands moving quickly through hangers, grabbing whatever clothes you could without care.

---

Yeah, fuck Thomas (for a while).

Also, I can’t stop thinking about Vincent texting without ever getting a reply. It must look something like this:

[ghasel]

pick a card reading:🔮 WHICH TYPE OF WITCH FITS YOU BEST 🔮

note: witch is gender neutral, this reading and the witchcraft path is open for people of all genders. love, a boy witch 💛

Hello!

Do you want to start your witchcraft path and become a witch? This reading can help you! In this free reading we will see which type of witch fits you best, then in the extended version on patreon we will see which first steps you can make to actually start this journey!

Reminder: this reading is to help you find a bit of clarity, but it doesn't force you to do anything, nor to become the type of witch that will come out: I will be adding the types of witches that come to my mind for each reading, but it's a suggestion, NOT the only possible path for you. (Side note: many witches are more types of witch, one thing doesn't exclude the other!)

tip jar

How to use this reading: pick the pile that attracts you from the photo (more than one can attract you), then scroll down and read the correspondent reading

[image description: the three piles, each with their respective number]

pile 1

[image description: pile 1 spread]

Circe (protection, sensuality, excesses) + amethyst (4) + aquarius (11) + the magician in reverse

You seem a very deep but also free type of witch: Circe makes me believe that you are not afraid to dive deep into things, but also that you are a type of witch that may be connected to the nature, to the land and to the ancestral ways; there is a sense of rawness, of something powerful that is not polished - because you don't care to; at the same time, the Aquarius card tells me that you are also a witch that likes to try different things: aquarius is an unbothered sign, who likes to try everything and says no to nothing; now, with Circe also comes the word "protection" so I think that you will have some boundaries in place and protect yourself (plese do!), but inside those boundaries you will probably like to explore and dabble around; then we have the amethyst, which is connected, with its purple, to psychic gifts and abilities, but this card shows us a crystal that is very grounded, but doesn't go a lot high in elevation: it makes me think that you may have some developed (or in developing) psychic gifts that will find a place in your witchcraft and magic, but not as the only main character, but as one of the things that make up your craft; there is a sense of using them to live life on earth, so for example intuition or clairvoyant, but not things like mediumship; last but not least, we have the magician in reverse: the magician is the creator and in reverse it gives a sense of calm, of quietness, of enjoying your witchcraft not to get to a goal or to make something specific, but because it's a part of you and something that makes you feel good when you practice it; it's more for the process than the outcome and it makes me think that you may be more inclined to, for example, take a walk and connect with nature rather than do a money spell (ofc both can coexist too!); it really gives a vibe of being a witch, it's a part of you and you practice it to express yourself;

types of witches that come to my mind: with Aquarius eclectic witch for sure! But I think that there's also a strong possibility of folk witch, work with ancestors (Circe is, in a sense, an ancestor of modern witches) and why not with element earth

Read the second part of the reading here! tip jar

pile 2

[image description: pile 2 spread]

torch (illumination,hope, manifesting) + emerald (22) + capricorn (10) + 9 of swords in reverse

there are a few different energies at play here: the emerald is connected to the hearth chakra, to peace, to tranquility and balance, while the Capricorn is the stubborn sign, an earth sign that doesn't stop and keeps going for their path; in addition, we have the torch that, while being a card from the Spirit element, recalls also the fire; in a sense this spread could very well be fire energy: it can be a warm hearth of the home, but it can also be destructive; the torch also makes me thing that we're talking about a witchcraft that either is headed to long term (aka will become a stable part of your life) or may even come from a long term (aka you're not the first witch in your family); it reminds me of the olympic torch, that passes from hand to hand and it really makes me thing that your witchcraft may insert itself in a path that has already been walked for a long time (it can be a family witchcraft or also another type of path, for example a specific type of priestess or priest); it reminds me of a tradition that burns since the dawn of time; the emerald, we said it already, is connected to the heart chakra, which makes me think that your emotions will play a big role or that your craft will help you be more in touch and more aware of them - and create a healthy balance; there's also a bit of a slow life vibe, which can be expressed in this emerald in the sense of being the drastical opposite of stress; Capricorn, as we said, is strong energy, but in this spread it seems like it's one of the parts that healthily coexists with the others; it's the other side of the coin than the emerald, it's the energy that pushes you to go forward and to better yourself and your craft, it's the engine that doesn't let you stay still, but go forward, still with your own time and pace; the 9 of swords in reverse tells me a similar thing: you are the type of witch that's never satisfied, in the good way; i mean that you are probably a witch that may have a list of things you want to learn and once you'll have learned them, you'll want to keep learning and experimenting other things, keep going for the next step; it may be that for you your witchcraft is not as much as a part of your daily life as it is a special moment for yourself, to connect with yourself, your craft and maybe also your ancestors; it may very well be that this emerald is telling us that witchcraft can be a breath of fresh air and quiet joy in your (possibly) busy days!

types of witch that come to my mind: ancestral witch/working with ancestors, hearth witch

Read the second part of the reading here! tip jar

pile 3

[image description: pile 3 spread]

the mastiff (loyalty, ferocity, safety) + nightshade (illusion, deceit, delusion)+ nuummite (38)+ air (25)+ the hermit in reverse

you guys got two witch deck cards, they came out together so we will interpret them also together! your witchcraft seems very double sided, from the start we have a card from the fire element and one from the water, then we have the mastiff that has an energy of protection, of defending something or someone and on the other side the nightshade, with an energy of illusion, of beauty to attract in her deadly trap; i think that your magic is ambivalent, has two main cores, one about protection, that is defensive and works for the safety, maybe to help yourself, your loved ones or others or the world, then you also have a i would say almost vicious type: not really a harmful magic, but a magic that masks itself, maybe to appear less powerful, maybe to not attract people's eyes; i feel that you may be the one who walks around a city smirking to themselves because people who see you have no idea how many witchcraft things you have on yourself; put together these cards can give an idea of masking to protect yourself: you may be in the broom closet (always or in specific situations) and being defensive about your craft is a way to be able to keep enjoying it; then we have nuummite, which is a very rare crystal that takes their name from the old capital of greenland, Nuum (possibly unrelated to your magic, but I'm a history nerd lol); again we have a bit of two sides of the same stone: on one hand nuummite can promote growth and change, but on the other hand black crystals are also used for protection; this card feels like the crystal is suspended, like those gravitating lamps, and it makes me think of a very precise balance; as an element we have air (we do have fire and water too, but i feel like they jumped out more to represent the opposites than to represent the elements themselves!); the Air card has an energy of both openness, vasity and expansion and also of keeping an eye on things, as if it was an aeral view that can go wherever it wants and at the same time keeps track of what happens on the ground; we also have the hermit in reverse, which makes me think tha you may be a solitary witch, not really because you're looking for your dimension, but because you have found it in solitary practice; in general in this spread there is a sense of carefully curated privacy, that doesn't necessarily feels like hiding in fear, but hiding to protect something (your craft) that is special to you and that you enjoy at its best when it's just you and your magic

types of witch that come to my mind: hedge witch, as they are known for being solitary witches

Read the second part of the reading here! tip jar

[lysandra-vesper]

❄️Snow❄️

Lan Wangji x Reader x Wei Wuxian

In winter, Gusu was always brutally cold — especially up in the mountains.

You’d gotten used to it over time. Still, winter never became your favorite season. The air was dry, the snow relentless, and it was far too easy to get sick.

Right now, though, none of that really mattered.

You were being carried back to the Cloud Recesses, wrapped snugly in Lan Wangji’s warm robes — and maybe still cradled by the lingering heat of the wine you’d had in the city.

Snow was falling softly, layering the ground in white, catching in your hair like delicate stars. The cold stung your cheeks, but the lingering buzz of alcohol made everything feel... tolerable. Almost dreamy.

“I… I swear I can walk by myself…” you mumbled, even as you burrowed deeper into Lan Wangji’s chest.

“No.” His voice was flat as always, but something in the curve of his lips almost hinted at a smile.

He clearly hadn’t been thrilled that Wei Wuxian had dragged you into town — and even less thrilled that he’d let you drink. He had enough trouble managing unruly disciples… and now he had to deal with one drunk lover.

He adjusted you in his arms with practiced ease — steady, secure. Like you were something too precious to risk letting slip.

“But whhhyyy?”

“Your steps are unsteady. You’re slurring your words,” he stated plainly, his golden gaze flickering down to your flushed face.

“Senior Wei... do you think I’m fine?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Wei Wuxian chimed in cheerfully, suddenly appearing beside Lan Wangji like a mischievous shadow. He was nearly skipping through the snow, his eyes bright with amusement.

“You can barely focus on what we’re saying. If we let you walk, you’ll probably trip and take Lan Zhan down with you.”

You groaned and hid your face, half from embarrassment, half from the cold.

Despite how close you were to them, you still called them “Senior Wei” and “Hanguang-Jun.”

Wei Wuxian had teased you about it — until you’d pointed out that he still called Lan Wangji by his title too, even long after he knew who he really was. Even after pretending to be Mo Xuanyu.

He hadn’t brought it up again after that.

And Lan Wangji? He never seemed to mind. But in those rare moments when you forgot the titles… his eyes always softened, just a little.

“Lies… I disagree.”

“You can’t even disagree properly,” Lan Wangji replied coolly, not missing a beat.

“You’re really light,” Wei Wuxian added playfully, clearly enjoying this rare, tipsy version of you. “Like a feather… a drunk little feather.”

“Disagree with that too…”

“You’re acting like a spoiled child,” Lan Wangji muttered under his breath, irritation creeping into his tone.

Wei Wuxian laughed loudly at that, clearly delighted. He adored seeing you like this — even if Lan Wangji would never admit it, there was something softer in his touch tonight.

“But I’m not doing anything…”

“You’re being stubborn,” Lan Wangji said flatly, his patience clearly wearing thin.

Wei Wuxian began humming to himself, eyes flicking to you with a fond, teasing glint.

Lovers.

Yes.

That’s what the three of you were now.

It hadn’t happened all at once. It had been a slow, subtle thing — lingering glances, shared silences, accidental touches that lingered just a little too long.

Wei Wuxian noticed first. Noticed how Lan Wangji looked at you. Teased him for it — until he realized he was watching you too.

They’d both crossed so many lines for each other already… one more didn’t seem so impossible.

And you — someone who understood Lan Wangji’s silence and laughed like Wei Wuxian breathed — had become the balance between them.

Not a wedge.

Not a burden.

But the bridge.

Unexpected. Unusual. Impossible to explain to most.

But real.

Silent.

Steady.

Like the falling snow.

“Mmm… A-Zhan… don’t be mad at me…”

“I’m not angry,” Lan Wangji replied immediately, without a hint of hesitation. The moment your voice softened and used that nickname, the steel in his face began to melt.

His grip loosened just slightly, like his whole body was responding to your vulnerability. You being like this always got to him, even if he’d never say it out loud.

“Good…” you murmured, eyes fluttering closed as you rested your head against his chest. A soft smile tugged at your lips.

“Don’t sleep,” he warned sternly — but his eyes were already softening again.

“Okay…”

“We’re almost at the Jingshi,” he said gently, quickening his pace.

Wei Wuxian still walked beside him, hands clasped behind his back like a traveler without a care in the world. But his eyes kept returning to you, as if he was quietly making sure you were really okay.

Finally, the three of you passed through the gates. Snow still fell quietly around you, wrapping the Cloud Recesses in a silvery hush.

Lan Wangji carried you all the way into the Jingshi, never once letting go. Wei Wuxian followed, leaving a messy trail of footprints behind him.

Inside, warmth wrapped around you like a blanket. Lan Wangji gently lowered you onto the bed, tucking the covers around you with precise care. He hovered for a moment, watching your face with a mix of concern and something deeper.

Wei Wuxian closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“I’ll find something for her to wear,” he said casually, disappearing into the next room.

Your eyes, dazed and a little dreamy, fell to the glowing coals of the brazier in the corner. You drifted toward it, settling onto the floor beside it — though the cold of the ground sent a shiver up your spine.

Then—

Two pairs of arms wrapped around you from behind.

Startled, you turned your head slightly — and saw Wei Wuxian smiling, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Baobei… the floor’s cold, isn’t it? If you wanna warm up, we could go to bed… and, y’know, do that.”

Your face lit up instantly. “T-that? You mean—?”

“Hug,” he said innocently.

“…Right. Hug.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled, his breath brushing your ear. “Oh my sweet baobei… what exactly did you think I meant?”

Then he leaned in and whispered, low and teasing:

“Is that what you wanted?”

“A-Ying… you’re so shameless.”

“Haha…” He placed a feather-light kiss on your cheek. “You always say that… but you never pull away.”

You stared at him for a moment, then smiled.

“It’s because… I like you. No matter how shameless you are.”

He blinked. Then grinned — slower this time, softer.

“I really am lucky. To have you… and Lan Zhan. I never thought this kind of thing could exist — and yet, here we are.”

You turned fully toward him.

“I got distracted… You were talking so calmly… For a second I thought you were going to push me away.”

“That would hurt.”

Silence followed. But it wasn’t awkward.

You just… looked at each other. Time stilled.

Slowly, your faces drifted closer — hesitantly, like something sacred was about to happen.

And then—

Your lips met.

Warm. Gentle. Full of all the things you didn’t need to say out loud.

And from the doorway, a quiet voice interrupted:

“Hmph.”

You both jumped slightly, looking over to see Lan Wangji standing there — a neatly folded set of clothes in his arms, one eyebrow faintly raised.

Wei Wuxian burst into laughter. “Ah, perfect timing!”

“Change before you get sick,” Lan Wangji said calmly, placing the clothes by the bed. But a soft pink flush had crept up his ears.

You smiled to yourself.

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.••.•.•.

You struggled with the ribbon for a few more seconds, your fingers trembling and clumsy. It kept slipping away, almost as if mocking your lack of coordination.

— Hmph... — you huffed quietly, frustrated. Maybe if you looked at it from another angle...

That's when you noticed a shadow approaching. The warmth that spread across your back warned you before you even felt the firm yet gentle fingers touch yours.

— You're having trouble — Lan Wangji said, his voice low enough to sound more like an observation than a question.

You froze. Slowly, you turned your face to look at him, meeting those golden eyes watching you with a focus almost reverent. You were sure he knew exactly what that did to you — he just never admitted it.

— I... was going to manage on my own — you tried to justify, your voice a bit weaker than you'd like.

— You were — he repeated calmly, as if he didn’t believe it for even a second.

His fingers passed over yours, gently moving them aside. With precise movements, he picked up the ribbon and began tying it. His touch was almost ceremonial — as if dressing someone was more than just a task, but a form of care.

As he did so, Wei Wuxian approached from behind, grinning mischievously at the scene.

— Aiya, A-Zhan… so efficient. I wonder if I pretend to struggle too, will you tie my robe with that much tenderness?

Lan Wangji didn’t answer. But one eyebrow lifted — his version of an eye-roll.

— Then again, maybe I’d prefer watching you tie hers... with your mouth — Wei Wuxian continued, his voice dripping with teasing sweetness.

You choked on your own breath.

— A-Ying! — you exclaimed, covering your face with your hands.

— What? I’m just saying what everyone is thinking — he said as he flopped down next to you on the bed with a satisfied sigh.

Lan Wangji finished tying the knot perfectly, his gaze lingering on the ribbon for a moment before finally looking up at you. His fingertips brushed lightly against your skin as he pulled away — a small gesture, but one that lit something in your chest.

You whispered, still red-faced:

— Thank you... A-Zhan.

He simply nodded. But you noticed — again — that faint blush on the tips of his ears.

Wei Wuxian leaned on one elbow and gently pulled you closer, easing you down between him and Lan Wangji.

— Now this is starting to look like the perfect night — he said, smiling with that mischievous glint in his eyes.

Lan Wangji sat on your other side, his body relaxed, but his hand touched yours with the soft care only he could give.

Between the two of them, warmed by their bodies and the quiet affection that needed no words, you finally felt sleep begin to take over.

Before drifting off, you heard Wei Wuxian murmur near your ear:

— Told you going to the city was a good idea... Look where a little drinking got us.

Lan Wangji muttered a barely audible “irresponsible” — but it came with a soft stroke through your hair.

And just like that, between smiles, gentle touches, and the warmth of two hearts beside you, you fell asleep.

As if winter didn’t exist at all.

.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.•.••.•.•.

The next morning, the soft winter light filtered through the thin curtains of the Jingshi, painting the room in pale, tranquil hues.

Lan Wangji was the first to wake.

His body responded before his mind, long trained by strict routines and self-discipline. But as he tried to sit up, he immediately realized he wouldn’t be able to move easily.

Wei Wuxian was practically sprawled on top of him — one leg entangled with his, as if they were bound by invisible threads. One of Wei Wuxian’s arms was draped over his abdomen, heavy and carefree, like someone sleeping without the slightest trace of guilt.

And you... you were nestled against him, your face buried in the curve of Wangji’s neck, your arms wrapped around him as though they were part of his own robes.

For a moment, Lan Wangji simply stayed there. Silent. Observing.

The warmth of the two bodies beside him contrasted with the subtle chill in the morning air, creating a kind of comfortable balance — almost too indulgent for someone like him.

Wei Wuxian mumbled something in his sleep and shifted, tightening his leg around Wangji’s like a lazy cat adjusting for a better nap.

Lan Wangji let out a quiet sigh.

"Mn... A-Zhan?" your sleepy voice came out muffled, your face still buried in his shoulder.

He turned his gaze to you and saw your half-lidded eyes, still heavy with sleep.

"Yes," he replied softly.

You tightened your arms around him, as if to ensure he wouldn’t slip away.

"It’s too early to get up... just stay a little longer," you whispered, voice hoarse, filled with tenderness and genuine affection.

Wei Wuxian, still asleep, mumbled something incoherent and turned his face, resting his forehead against the side of Wangji’s chest.

Lan Wangji stayed quiet for a few moments, his gaze resting on the serene faces around him.

"Just a little longer," he murmured, almost inaudibly, allowing himself to close his eyes once more.

And so the three of you remained — tangled like forgotten silk threads — in the middle of a cold morning that, for a few precious minutes, asked for nothing more than warmth, silence, and the presence of entwined bodies.

[pumpkinhcad]

❝ No. ❞ A pause. In spite of the flat and unemotional tone of voice, his mouth remained open, as if he intended to elaborate further. ❝ Not often. ❞ Alas, there really was not that much more to it. Or he did not to delve into it.

But it was not like that straight face did not last for long. The monster's momentary shock was met with what she might describe as a goofy smile. The kind of smile someone with little to no thoughts behind his eyes has. She could have done a double take and it would not have changed. He had not said anything innocuous.

Oh, she was asking about another one of his favorite people! Well, more like taking a guess. But, on this, he would still elaborate:

❝ She's my big sister! ❞ Indeed. There was a sensible explanation behind all of this. Or perhaps an insane coincidence. ❝ It's just us and Grandpa most of the time. ❞ Definitely a coincidence. It is not like they look similar too... or anything. Once again: one is a monster, the other is human! Though, he saw and treated both the same exact way.

Regardless, it was okay! All he needed to do was make sure the monster learned this simple lesson and then, only then, he could go home! However, for that to be the case, they needed to be prepared first.

And so, turning his head and torso to get a good look at the other, he squinted. Humming loudly, dramatically and at intervals. Add the gloved hand set on his chin and it looked like he was judging a painting, not a smile. Or, well, a grin, to be more specific. And that was the problem: she looked ready for School Picture Day!

❝ That's not a smile... Too much teeth. ❞ He would know. He has already seen those sharp chompers from up close. ❝ And just because Kevin gives us candy doesn't mean he's made out of candy too. ❞ Yup. He did just imply what he just had implied. And no. He was still not scared.

It was not that he did not believe it was possible. It was just like trying to teach a teenage dog old tricks... slow and tedious. But he was way too stubborn to give up so easily, so an idea suddenly popped into mind:

❝ I know! Try smiling like when you're saying 'hi' to a friend! ❞ That had to be the right mentality to have! After all, everyone has friends!!

" weeks ?! the hell ? don't they ever come home ? " the talk of absent guardians doesn't seem to rattle her all that much ; susie merely wrinkles her nose in disdain , disapproving on pump's behalf . no wonder this twerp's got no sense of danger . mom and dad mustn't be around enough to teach him basic self - preservation .

the mention of her own name makes her head snap to face pump wildly , expression creasing with disbelief . WHAT .

for a frantic , incredulous moment , she wonders if somehow SHE'S supposed to be looking after this little boy --- did she ... accidentally agree to babysit for total strangers , for SOME reason , and then just NEVER SHOW UP ?!

" ... ... ... " no . that can't be it . there has to be a way more sensible explanation for this . " susie . riiiiiight . she , uh . your babysitter , or somethin' ? "

clawed hands move again , now , to bury in the pockets of her torn up jeans as they pick their way down the street . the monster raises her eyebrows .

candy store , huh ? she doesn't think she's ever been down that way . if she had , susie would probably have been hit with a lifetime ban on her first lone visit and this whole ordeal wouldn't be possible to begin with . she's practically salivating over the idea of row upon row of lollipops and sweets and sugary treats .

" i wouldn't get your hopes up ; i don't ' reeeeeally ' like anyone , twerp . AT ALL . don't you GET THAT by now ? " susie huffs , a puff of charcoal smoke spluttering from the dragon's snout as she huffs out a sharp , irritable scoff . " yeah , yeah . i'll give him a smile , alright ... "

" how's T H I S one . heheheh . "

[kitwilsonsass]

not to be tmi but do you ever just LOSE YOUR FUCKING MIND ON YOUR PERIOD