#doesn’t it just stick to your nose as you turn the pages?

[noughticalcrossings]

Mama Thames

Inktober day 19. Plump

She sat enthroned on the finest of the executive armchairs. Her hair was braided and threaded with black cotton and tipped with gold, so that it stood above her brow like a crown.

[lovebugism]

Okay soooooooo

How bout something like King Steve picking on shy!reader, then later finding out she has a shitty home life plz

ty for requesting!! this can be read as a prequel to this fic — steve comforts you when he accidentally makes you flinch (enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, cw for brief mentions of abuse, 1.8k)

Sitting alone at the Hellfire table, you feel a little like fishbait. 

Your spot in the very back of the cafeteria is normally full and loud — with Dustin’s bickering, and Eddie’s laughing, and Gareth’s stupid jokes — but they’re not here now. They’re off getting their trays while you sit in wait for them (and the cold fries you’ll ultimately steal from Eddie’s plate). It leaves you perfect prey for circling sharks.

You hear laughter from behind you, over the sounds of the bustling lunch room. You’re certain they’re laughing at you — ‘cause you always think someone’s laughing at you — but you try hard to ignore it. You disregard the subtle pang of anxiety in your chest and stick your nose in your book, eyes flitting across the words without reading any of them.

Someone flumps down at your side then, where Mike usually sits. The overwhelming scent of spiced cologne stings your nostrils. With watering eyes, you look beside you. At Tommy fucking Hagan.

“Hey, Wallflower,” he greets like it’s normal — like he hasn’t spent the past four years pretending you don’t exist. You think he only calls you Wallflower now because his friends have been doing it for so long they don’t remember your real name.

The boy props his elbow on the table and puts his chin in his fist, trying hard to hide his boyish beam and accompanying laughter. He fails.

You cower at his presence, all but shrinking into yourself. “…Hi?” you reply in a tiny voice.

“How’s it hangin’?”

“...Fine?”

“That’s great!” he answers instantly, like he hadn’t heard you at all. “You see, my friend Steve, over there— you know him, right?”

You don’t bother to look where he’s pointing. Of course, you know Steve The Hair Harrington. You don’t think there’s a single person in Hawkins who doesn’t.

You nod in response.

Tommy’s smile widens. “Well, he’s got this massive crush on you,” he confesses, choking back a laugh halfway through. “I mean, he talks about you all the time.”

You know he’s lying. And not just because he’s grinning so hard that his eyes are crinkled and his freckled cheeks are turning pink. You’re almost certain Steve Harrington doesn’t even know who you are. He never had a reason to. Why would the King of Hawkins High ever stoop so low to know someone like you?

You glance at him over your shoulder, a couple tables down from you. He’s almost magnetically pretty. You couldn’t ignore him if you tried — with his pretty hair and his pretty eyes and his pretty smile. His golden cheeks flush as all his friends start poking fun at him. 

He rolls his eyes and scoffs a laugh you can tell is forced from here. He doesn’t think any of this is funny. You can see it on his face. But he isn’t trying to stop it all from happening. You’re just collateral damage, really.

You turn back to Tommy with a disbelieving look in your eye.

He continues to ramble despite it. “He was just a little nervous coming up to you, that’s all. So I thought I’d do him a favor and slip you his number. You know, as his wingman and all.” He tosses a folded-up index card onto the pages of your opened book. “You should call him tonight— It’ll make his day, I swear.”

He pats you a little too hard on the back before he goes. His laugh echoes over all the rest when he sits back down at his table. You watch them over your shoulder as they fall over themselves to crack jokes about you. 

Steve’s the only one not smiling. “Not cool, Tommy,” he mouths.

—————

Locker 148. The one right across from yours. Property of Steve The Hair Harrington. 

You shove the thick card with his number written on it between the slits in the metal. You’d carried it around all day, utterly unsure of what to do with it. You decided ultimately to return it, figuring he might feel a little better if a total stranger didn’t have his phone number.

You struggle to slide it through the thin gap, though. The paper gets caught halfway through, and you try to yank it back out again. The old locker moves with you, like it’s not completely shut but still somehow latched. 

You’re so in your own head you don’t hear the gymnasium door down the hall squeal open and shut again. Steve pants heavily and tries to recover from a ruthless basketball practice. He hunts for a water fountain and finds you instead.

“What are you doing?” he calls as he nears you, not malicious or unkind but genuinely curious.

Your heart lurches into your throat as you all but jump out of your skin.

Steve laughs, a pretty sound in the silent hallway. “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” you assure with an averted gaze, though your frightened demeanor says otherwise. “I was just— I was trying to give you this.”

You hold the paper out towards him. He takes it with hesitant hands. “What is it?”

“Your number. Tommy gave it to me earlier, and I know it was just a stupid joke, so I… I thought you’d feel more comfortable if I gave it back to you.”

Something in Steve’s chest aches. He doesn’t understand why you would care about what might make him comfortable. It’s not like he ever gave you the time of day — or ever tried to stop his friends from being total assholes. As far as he’s concerned, you’re the last person who should give a shit about him.

“Oh. Right— Yeah… Thanks,” he stammers and shoves the thing into his pocket. “And I’m— I’m sorry about Tommy and everything. He can be a real douchebag sometimes. I didn’t… I didn’t tell him to bother you or anything—”

“I know,” you assure in a mousy voice. “Tommy gave me your number hoping I’d be dumb enough to call while your friends were over so you could all… laugh at me? I guess. He could’ve been a little more original, honestly.”

Steve cracks a smile. He almost laughs, but he can’t tell if you’re joking or not.

“I’ll talk to him later. Tell him to leave you alone—” He rambles and walks closer to you. You watch him with tentative eyes as he approaches. “—He’s a total dumbass sometimes, but he usually means well. Most of the time, anyway—”

Steve raises his hand suddenly. And, because you’re frightened by everything little thing, you flinch and stumble over yourself in the process. The lockers catch your fall, and you hit the back of your head. Hard.

“Shit— Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you squeak, holding the crown of your hair and squinting as your skull pounds.

Steve rushes to your side, then idles just ahead of you because he doesn’t know if you want him touching you. His brows pinch, chiseled features swimming with concern. His cinnamon eyes glitter with it, too. “I wasn’t trying to scare you—”

“It’s okay.”

“—My locker was just jammed. I was going to shut it.”

The metal door is open now, from where it wasn’t shut all the way and where you just smacked your head on it.

“I just wasn’t expecting it,” you assure in a tight voice, trying hard to ignore the sharp throbbing. “It’s fine. I’m fine—”

“You’re hurt.”

“It’ll go away—”

“Let me get you an icepack.”

“—I’ll be fine once I get home.”

Steve, feeling purely at fault and aching at how effortlessly you shrug him off, decides to approach you fully. He curls a warm hand around the outside of your elbow. A touch surprisingly gentle. “No. C’mon. Let me help.”

You don’t feel much like you’re in any position to fight him about it. Not with the world still swaying under your feet. 

Steve guides you the short distance to the empty cafeteria. Slow and kind and dreadfully patient. He sits you down, makes sure you’re still okay, and then rushes to fix you a makeshift icepack — a ziplock bag filled to the brim with chipped ice.

He sits at the chair beside yours, slightly askew so his knees bump your thighs. He holds the pack to the crown of your head and gazes at you attentively. You’re not looking back at him to see it.

“Does it still hurt?”

You shrug, eyes flitted to the wringing hands in your lap. “It’s fine. It just feels a little like I have a migraine.”

Steve winces. “I’m sorry.”

Your doe eyes peek at him from beneath your lashes. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I scared you.”

“Everything scares me.”

It’s a dumb joke. You mean it, but you still expect him to laugh about it. He doesn’t even crack a smile, though. He just keeps looking at you with that puppy-like twist to his features. The worry is evident in his face. 

“Do you wanna, like, talk about it or something?”

“About what?”

“Why you flinched.”

You freeze, breath hitching in your throat. No one’s ever noticed your incessant panic — outside of making jokes about it anyway. No one’s cared enough to ask about it, either. Steve Harrington is the last person you expected any kind of concern from.

You shake your head after a few long moments. “No.”

“You could,” Steve assures, suddenly shy. You didn’t know he could be anything other than totally full of himself. “You know, if you wanted to. I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t tell anyone—”

You scoff a disbelieving laugh.

Steve’s features swirl with hurt. You hate that it makes your chest ache. You hate most that he hasn’t stopped being soft with you. The hand holding the pack to your head hasn’t yet wavered, even though you know his arm must be tired now.

“I wouldn’t. ‘Cause I— I know what it’s like to… to have a bad home life or whatever,” he confesses, stammering hopelessly. He forces a laugh at himself. “Probably more than most people do, honestly.”

His admission takes you by surprise. It comforts you in a way you didn’t think someone like him could. 

Even still, you shake your head. “I— I can’t—” you murmur, clearing your throat when the words get stuck there. “I can’t talk about it…”

Steve nods, firm and reassuring. “That’s okay. You don’t have to, I was just… I was just saying, you know? I get it.”

You swallow through a tight throat, nodding wordlessly in response.

“Plus, you know, you have my number and everything… If you ever wanted to talk…”

You flash him a timid look and crack a quiet smile. “I gave it back to you, remember?”

“I’ll write it down for you again,” he promises with a shrug and a lopsided grin. It’s easier to ignore his aching arm and the ice stinging his palm when he’s looking at you. “For real this time.”

[sunflowersteves]

Secretly thinking about Hobies/Miguels thigh obsession

Ithe reader’s got THICK thick thighs and he keeps playing w them

Either way,

He loves..

squeezing, pinching them, nipping at them anywhere n anytime he can

laying between your thighs, he’d place his head between your boobs

getting his head between ur thighs , tightening the grip on his head while eating u out

When sitting on his face you’re afraid you’d suffocate him with you thighs “Then I would die a happy man”

oh my god 😫

pairing || miguel o’hara x fem!reader

warnings || soft!miguel, fluff, SMUT, thigh biting, miguel has a thigh kink, thigh fucking, oral sex (fem receiving), dom x sub, [18+ ONLY]

masterlist

Miguel knew he was obsessed—that much was completely clear as day. He couldn’t stop his eyes from trailing down to your thighs as they jiggled with each step. He couldn't help when his hands tightened around them, unable to fully wrap his large hand around the plush skin. 

It drove him fucking insane. 

“Cariño,” His voice was quiet in concentration, “y’need to stop moving.” 

You squirmed in his lap, legs perched up across his thighs. While you were watching TV, Miguel had a book in one hand, eyes scanning the page. However, for the past ten minutes, Miguel had been kneading into your thighs. He would squeeze them, feel them, and occasionally pinch them. 

His reading glasses slightly slid down his curved nose. His head was turned to you, ruby eyes intense with just the smallest of smirks across his lips. It was so distracting—he and his hands flushed up against your legs.

“Can’t read with you moving all around like that.” He says coolly. His voice was deep and gruff, the eye contact never wavering. You could feel yourself squirm again. Your body felt increasingly hot as his eyes gravitated towards his lap. He watched you move your thighs once more, and he subconsciously licked his lips. 

His large hand sunk deep into the molding flesh, creating the indents of his fingers into your skin. “Miggy—” 

He slapped his book shut and tossed it onto the coffee table. You let out a gasp as he moved so fast you hardly knew what was happening. Miguel had maneuvered himself so your thighs were slung over his shoulder, and he was crouched down so his chest met the couch. 

“Too fucking distracting.” He growls. His hands go to re-grip your thighs once more, spreading them apart. “Your fucking thighs—”

He cuts his own self off as he starts to kiss your thighs. Sometimes he couldn’t believe how much he craved them—how much he thought about them completely enveloping his face. 

He loved when he could kiss them and put his fangs in them. He loved to see the indent of the way his teeth punctured your skin. 

He could feel his cock jump at the sight of them on display for him. He could picture the sweet memory of last night when he had his slick cock in between your thighs and fucked up into them. 

“Fuck, Miguel—” Your hands reach to his hair and pull. He lets out a groan, tongue swirling around your supple skin. 

He unsheathed his fangs and grazed them over the meat of your thighs. He watched as you gasped, head falling back. His hands continued to mold around the flesh, and he groaned, hips bucking into the couch. 

“So fucking thick,” he murmurs. “So fucking good to me, cariño.” 

He goes to kiss your mound, covered by panties and a pair of shorts. You whimpered, watching his glossy lust-filled eyes gaze at the skin before him. 

He lets out one of his claws, hand in the middle of the air, before ripping your shorts in half. “Miguel!” You scold. Another pair of pants and underwear were destroyed. Again. 

He doesn’t waste time, ignoring your scolding. He dips his tongue into your folds and growls at the wetness that sticks to your walls. “Taste—” He licks up to your clit and swirls the swollen bud. “So fucking—” His fingers press deeper into your thighs. “Good.” He gasps. 

Your thighs instinctively get tighter around his head, and he could practically feel his eyes roll in the back of his head. His head backs up as far as possible—wild eyes looking aflame. 

“Baby?” You say, concerned. He looked at you for a bit longer. Your eyes were hazy, your face looking completely fucked out. You had been squirming in his lap for some time, and he relished in the feeling of your body becoming hotter and hotter.

His eyes flashed. “Do it again.” He demands. 

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Do what?” You were being genuine—not the innocent bratty nature that he was so used to. 

“Put your thighs around my head. Again.” He growled out the last part of the sentence. His cock twitched again at the sight of your thighs wrapped around him. 

Your hand subconsciously lightly tugs on his hair. “B-but, Miguel.” Your eyes flicker away from him. “I’ll crush you.”

He takes a good look at you once more. He then chuckles under his breath before kneading your thighs again. 

“Good. I want you to.” He pressed his lips back onto your slick and pushed a tongue between your folds. “I want you to crush my fucking head, cariño.”

He taps your thigh in an inpatient manner, the other hand teasing your entrance with a finger. “Do I make myself clear?” 

“Y-yes, Miguel.” 

He pleasantly hums. “Now sit back and wrap your thighs around me. Be my good girl.” 

You didn’t need to be told twice. 

[scuderiahoney]

Stick Around

Oscar Piastri x bestfriend!reader

Masterlist

Summary: You’ve been searching for your soulmate your whole life. Maybe you’ve just been looking in the wrong place.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: alcohol/intoxication, cheating/infidelity (not by a main character I promise) mild swearing, excessive use of italics

|Age 20|

“You can’t seriously still be reading that stuff,” Oscar says.

You peer at him over the top of your magazine.

“What stuff?” You ask, playing innocent.

“Your horoscope,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Haven’t you outgrown that yet?”

You shrug, directing your gaze back to the page in front of you. Today, you should avoid the color pink and embrace your skepticism. Oscar’s doing enough of the last part for the both of you. You could gain a great deal of information from social interactions. That’s helpful- you’ve been in search of some gossip. Your soulmate is just a click away- wait, no, that’s an ad. You huff and set the magazine down on the table. Oscar nods in agreement.

“I just think maybe it’s better to live your life without worrying about what the stars say,” Oscar says, waving his hands around in a way that you think is supposed to represent the stars. “Just, like… do what you want to do.”

“I do,” you mutter dryly. “Doesn’t hurt to have some advice, though.”

The two of you have always been like this. Oscar is a skeptic, you’re a believer. He calls it being easy to brainwash, says it in a teasing way that makes you glare at him every time. He’s taken it as his responsibility to keep you from falling for things. You’ve told him time and time again that you’re fine on your own. You just like the idea of predestiny, that what’s going to happen was always meant to.

Oscar is just worried you’ll join the first cult you cross paths with.

|Age 5|

It’s the day after you turn 5 when you first hear the word soulmate. Sol-meight. You sound it out through your lips, sticky with jam from your breakfast. Your best friend at the time, a girl whose name you’ve long since forgotten, had said it.

“S’when you’re meant to be,” she explains, in that all knowing tone that only little kids who know nothing at all seem to have. “Like, my mum and dad say they’re soulmates.”

Oscar, who’s sitting next to you, scoffs. “Everyone’s parents say that. Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

He’s taller than you, even sitting down, hair cut short after one of his sisters stuck gum in it a few days ago. His cheeks are rosy red, and there’s cream cheese on his nose. Years later, Oscar’s face will be one of the first ones you ever remember meeting. Right now, he’s just the boy in your class whose mother knows your mother, and because of that, he’s the boy who rides to school with you in the backseat. He’s not the worst, you guess. He’s… okay. Sort of just… always there.

“Is too!” Your friend says, shaking her head, pigtails bouncing. “Mum says there’s signs.”

“What kinda signs?” You ask, and Oscar turns to look at you in disbelief.

She shrugs. “Dunno. I’ll ask later.”

She comes back to the breakfast table the next day with a magazine page, torn haphazardly and slightly crumpled. On it is a list of signs someone could be your soulmate. The two of you pore over the page at every available opportunity for at least a week, barely able to read all the words.

Your friend forgets about soulmates a month later and moves on to an obsession with Barbie dolls. You carry the magazine page with you for years after that, until it’s worn and falling apart. Then you copy down the list into a safer place, worried you’ll lose it forever. 15 Signs He’s Your Soulmate, written with magic marker on pink construction paper and stowed away in your desk.

|Age 10|

“I hate olives,” you sneer, staring at the very last slice of pizza.

It’s a birthday party. You can’t for the life of you understand why there’s pizza with olives on it. Olives don’t belong on pizza- not much does, in your opinion. Just pepperoni, really. Maybe a sprinkle of Parmesan cheese, if you’re feeling fancy.

Katy, one of your classmates, is standing next to you. “I love olives. Here, I’ll pick them off for you and you can have the last slice.”

The pizza still tastes a bit like olives in the end, probably baked into the cheese, but it’s better than it would’ve been. Katy is your best friend after that. The two of you are inseparable from the moment you get to school until the moment you leave. You beg your mothers for sleepovers on the weekends, for day trips during holiday breaks. YouandKaty. Your names melt together until they become one.

Oscar still rides to school with you in the morning. Sometimes, Katy does too. Katy doesn’t like Oscar. She doesn’t like most boys, calls them gross. Since Katy thinks boys are gross, you do too.

“Be nice to Oscar,” your mother tells you one morning. “He’s not done anything to you.”

You’re in the backseat of the car, on the way to his house. “He’s a boy. Boys are gross.”

Your mother sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. She says your name sternly, and you shrink in your seat. When Oscar gets in, you say hello and force a smile.

Oscar’s the one who finds you crying on the playground. You thought you’d chosen a better hiding place, really- nobody had bugged you in your spot between the two large myrtle trees. But Oscar finds you anyways. You can’t even bring yourself to tell him to go away, too busy feeling sorry for yourself.

“Wha’s wrong?” He asks.

His cheeks are red- he’s likely been running around with the other boys. You shrug, pulling up another clump of grass and letting it fall from your fingers. Oscar sighs, scuffs his toe in the dirt.

“Katy doesn’t wanna be friends anymore,” you say, rubbing at your bare knee. “She says I’m not cool enough.”

Katy likes olives. You don’t. It’s on the soulmate list. You’re meant to be best friends.

Oscar’s quiet for a moment. Then- “That’s stupid. You’re like, the coolest person I know.”

You look up at him with wide eyes. “Shut up.”

“M’serious,” he says. He holds his hand out to you. “Wanna come play cricket with the gross boys?”

You take his hand, wipe your tears with your other hand. “Yeah. I do.”

|Age 12|

“Are you and Dad soulmates?” You ask your mother one morning, before you even leave the house.

She’s standing at the counter, a piece of toast in her hand, half eaten. Her coffee is half drank, too.

She tilts her head at you. “What do you mean, love?”

“Like, when you met, did you just know he was the one? Did it feel meant to be?”

She laughs. “Oh, god no. We were polar opposites. Barely spoke to each other for the first year after we met.”

You stare at her in surprise. “What changed?”

She sighs, wistfully, staring into her mug. “He asked me if I wanted an orange. I said yes. And when he handed it to me, he’d peeled it for me.”

You blink. “Because you hate peeling oranges.”

“I do,” she agrees. “Love isn’t just a feeling, it’s an action. I think love is more about the choices we make and the things we remember about each other than whatever is written in the stars, honey.”

|Age 15|

There’s a boy on the football team- Ryan. Ryan has dark, curly hair and long, long eyelashes and this smile that makes your heart melt and your brain all fuzzy. Ryan doesn’t like olives, either, but he has a birthmark on the back of his right hand in the shape of a lopsided heart, and if you squint hard enough, you have one that matches on the back of your left arm. You stare at in the mirror for hours after he points it out, his hand on your arm.

You stare at your lips in the mirror for hours, too, after he kisses you for the first time. You think maybe you look different. You must. You’d never been kissed before, but Ryan hadn’t minded.

You go on group dates with him, because you’re nervous and your parents think you’re a bit too young to really be dating. You go to the mall, the movies, the diner down the street from the school. It’s your first taste of freedom.

Oscar asks you if you really like Ryan, like- “like like him?”, one day when you’re sitting in his backyard. Your mothers are inside, drinking wine. His sisters are in the pool, you’re laying out in the sun. Oscar sits under an umbrella and squints at the brightness of the world around him.

“Yeah,” you say, in the same tone you’d say duh or of course. “I think he’s my soulmate.”

“Why’s that?” Oscar asks tilting his head.

“We have matching birthmarks,” you say, again, in the same tone.

Oscar forms his mouth into a little o shape. You squint at him, pushing yourself to sit up.

“Why’re you so worried about it, anyways?”

“M’not,” Oscar says, crossing his leg over his knee. “S’just. He’s kind of an arse, isn’t he?”

He whispers the curse word so his sisters won’t hear. Oscar’s big into karting and racing right now, and the older boys at the tracks swear like sailors. There’s a swear jar stuffed to the brim sitting on the kitchen counter inside, right next to the half empty wine bottle.

Ryan is a bit of an arse, you’ll admit. To almost everyone.

“He’s nice to me,” you shrug. “He brought me flowers, yesterday. Isn’t that what matters?”

Oscar shrugs. He doesn’t ask about Ryan again.

Oscar is the one who brings you flowers when Ryan cheats on you and the other girl tells the whole school. He brings them to your bedroom door and you let him in. He sits with you, even as you cry, the door open the parentally required six inches. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t tell you he warned you. He just stays.

When Oscar moves to England, you wave goodbye with a smile. Then you lock yourself in your room and bawl your eyes out for a week straight, harder than you ever did about Ryan.

|Age 18|

Your university roommate, Emma, was born on the same day as you, at the exact same time. Down to the minute. You find it out on your second day of living together. It’s fate, kismet, meant to be. The stars and planets were aligned exactly the same way when you both took your first breaths.

Oscar laughs when you tell him, though he does admit that it’s a pretty cool coincidence. You’re chatting with him on the phone, telling him about your first week of university. You talk a lot, despite the distance. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever.

You and Emma aren’t in any classes together- you have completely different majors. Despite this, you still become fast friends. You study together in your room and in the library, meet up for meals, and join a book club together. When Emma gets invited to her very first uni party, she brings you along with her. Your closets become shared.

You visit her family over the winter break for a week. She lives closer to the beach, and you love getting to soak up the sun with her and meet all the childhood friends you’ve heard stories about. Oscar comes home for his break and texts you, wondering when you’ll be back and if you’ll even have time for me, or are you too cool for me now?

You tackle him with a hug when you see him, standing at the kitchen counter in your house when you get there. He’s laughing and pushing you off of him, acting like he didn’t miss you just as much. You know he did. It’s written all over the smile on his face.

Emma visits your family later in the break, and that’s when you have your first fight.

“He’s definitely in love with you,” she insists from her spot on the air mattress on your floor.

She’s talking about Oscar, who she just met today. You’d brought her with to a barbecue at his family’s house. You’re regretting that choice. She’s spent all night afterwards pointing out all the signs that he’s in love with you- his hand on your shoulder, the look in his eyes, the way he smiled at you.

“He’s not,” you say, cheeks burning hot. “He’s- we’re friends.”

“Friends, right. Guys and girls can’t be just friends,” she says.

“Yes, they can!” You say indignantly.

Emma ignores you, rolls over, and goes to sleep. She leaves for home the next day- not earlier than she was supposed to, but it feels weird anyways. When you get back to campus, things feel different. You never really talk about the fight, though there wasn’t much to talk about, anyways. It’s not like she’s mean to you- the two of you still hang out, still see each other often. But Emma makes new friends, and you do too, and you stop doing everything together. It’s alright, you suppose, it’s just…

You were supposed to be destined to be friends. But soulmates shouldn’t be this easy to let go of. It’s written in the stars, it’s shouldn’t fade away like this.

Months ago, you and Emma had talked about spending the holiday break somewhere far away- somewhere tropical, exotic, so grown up and chic. But it hasn’t come up lately, and then she mentions a trip she’s taking with some friends from her classes. You book a flight to England instead and see Oscar in his new home for the first time.

You have new roommates next year. None of them have the same birthdate as you. You think that’s okay.

|Age 21|

There’s a stain on your dress, someone’s wine or sangria or cranberry juice that they’d been too clumsy with. You suppose it could be yours- you’re really not sure. It’s your fault for wearing such a light color to a club like this.

It’s your birthday. You’ve been able to drink for a few years, but it’s still your birthday, and for once, Oscar is there for it. Or really, you’re there for it, there being England. You’re on yet another trip to visit him, money saved and scraped together from your job on your breaks from school. Oscar helped pay for the plane ticket as a birthday present, and your parents got you a new luggage set to take along.

Oscar’s disappeared- at the bar, you remember, closing out his tab. You check your phone- 2:22 am. It’s really time you should be headed home-

You’re jostled from behind, and moments later, you feel cool liquid deep down your back. You turn, and there’s a guy standing there, sandy blonde hair and a terrified look on his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, British accent smoothing the words over. “I didn’t mean to-“

“S’okay,” you tell him, though you wrinkle your nose at the feeling of what was likely beer running down your back. “The dress was stained already.”

The man sighs. “It’s not okay- let me make it up to you. Can I buy you a drink?”

You frown. “I think I’m supposed to be leaving. My friend just went to pay.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” The guy’s eyes light up, then. “Wait, how about I take you on a date?”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. 2:22, you remember. Angel numbers. You are in the right place at the right time.

“I’m only here for a couple more days,” you say, cautiously.

“I’m free tomorrow if you are,” he suggest. “Well, more like later today, but-“

“Yeah, okay!” You’d at brightly, and hopefully not too eagerly. “I’m free.”

He’s holding out his phone for you to put your number in when Oscar pops up. He looks between the two of you with raised brows. “Everything alright?”

“He’s taking me on a date later today,” you explain, tapping the last number. “Because he spilled beer on my dress. Can you check if I put my number in right? My fingers aren’t working right.”

Oscar laughs, leans forward, and nods. “That’s right.”

You don’t remember getting back to Oscar’s apartment. You barely even remember the guy from the bar until Oscar brings it up that morning, a teasing tone in his voice. Suddenly you’re checking your phone every minute, looking for a text from him. You name him Angel Boy, mentioning the angel numbers you’d seen just before you bumped into him. Oscar, well versed in your obsession with things that are just meant to be, rolls his eyes affectionately.

When the sun is trending towards the horizon and Angel Boy still hasn’t called or even texted you, your mood sours. You plant yourself on the couch, an episode of some stupid reality show playing. You’re not paying attention, only staring at your phone.

By the time 7:00 rolls around, you know it’s a lost cause. You can hear Oscar in the other room, shuffling around, and you feel tears well up in your eyes. There’s got to be someone out there who’s actually meant to be yours, right? One of these times the signs will be right, and it’ll all work out. It’s just… you’re getting discouraged.

Oscar appears in front of you and slips your phone out of your hands. He shoves it into his own pocket. He hands you a jacket, one of his, and you stare up at him with wide eyes.

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” he says, as he reaches to brush the tears from your cheeks. “Just because he’s not going to text you, doesn’t mean you should just sit here all night.”

You could cry even harder at that, at the fact that Oscar cares enough to try and break you out of your moping. You don’t really want to go out, but he has this hopeful look on his face. Both of you don’t need to be sad today. So you stand up, pull the jacket over your arms, and take a deep breath. You walk out of the apartment, your arm linked with his.

The ramen bar you go to is probably better than anywhere the guy would’ve taken you, anyways. If you’re being honest, the company is better, too.

|Age 22|

Oscar flies you out to the Netherlands to see him race. You’d been at the Melbourne Grand Prix, of course, but he’d insisted he’d fly you out for at least one race in his first season- promised it years ago, when Formula One was just a dream on his bucket list. Zandvoort works well- it fits into your schedule, and the summer break starts right afterwards, so he’ll actually have time to spend with you.

In the days leading up to the race, he’s extremely busy and extremely apologetic about it. You reassure him that you understand, that you knew what you were getting into, knew he’d be busy. You wander around the paddock, say hi to Logan- who you know only slightly better than all the other drivers- and keep yourself entertained. You spend time with Oscar when you get the chance- between interviews and practices, stolen moments of privacy in his driver’s room. It’s nice, it really is, but it’s also… weird.

You’ve been thinking a lot, lately, about what your mother once said about soulmates and love. For all the soul searching you’ve done, all the stars you’ve tried to read, you’ve come up empty. You’ve resigned yourself to the fact that maybe there’s just not anyone out there for you. Maybe you’re not meant to have a soulmate.

The thing about letting go of that pressure, though, is that it leaves space. Not a hole, not an emptiness, just… space. Room for other things to sneak in and make their home and grow. Somewhere along the lines- you don’t know when, maybe it’s been there all along- a seed had been planted. Now the roots are digging cracks in your heart, the leaves are shading out every other thought, and there are flowers blooming.

For months, now, your heart has been jumping in your chest every time Oscar texts you. You can’t wipe the grin off your face when he calls. You’ve been following every race, waking up at odd hours to cheer him on, sending him selfies with the tv to prove it to him, to make sure he knows you’re watching. You feel a little crazy, because suddenly he’s all you can think about.

Maybe love is about choices. You start making them, start choosing him. The only question now is if he’ll choose you, too.

The whole weekend is chaos. Oscar crashes in practice, sending himself and your heart spinning. He’s okay, thank god- though his mother texts you frantically, asking if he’s really okay. Then the race itself is even more chaotic, between the rain and the crashes and all the stuff in between. Oscar ends up in the points, though not as high as he’d hoped to be. You cheer for him either way.

You stick around the paddock all the way through his debrief, even when he tries to say you can head back to the hotel without him. Eventually, you leave with him and Lando, his arm around your shoulders the whole way to the car that’s waiting. It’s nice. He’s warm. Lando is making small talk, trying to get to know his teammates best friend, the one Oscar never shuts up about. You feel your face grow hot and hope Oscar doesn’t notice.

In the hotel lobby, Oscar makes a stop at the complimentary snack bar. Lando says something about Kim, his trainer, getting after him, which Oscar ignores. The three of you ride up together in the elevator, with Lando demanding most of your attention as he begs for stories about Oscar as a kid. Oscar’s quiet- you wonder if the weekend is weighing on him more than he’d previously let on.

You say goodnight to Lando and then Oscar scans you into the hotel room. Two beds, a couch, and a balcony that the two of you had eaten breakfast on that morning. You walk over to your bed and sit on the edge, flopping down onto your back.

Something lands on your stomach, softly. You look down, and your throat suddenly feels tight. It’s an orange. It’s a peeled orange. Oscar is standing at the window, pulling the curtains closed. His back is to you.

You blink, picking it up delicately. “You peeled it for me.”

“You hate peeling them,” he says. It’s very matter of fact. The same tone he’d use to say duh or of course.

You stare at his silhouette, the slope of his shoulders, the soft puff of his hair. You sit up, stomach turning. Suddenly, you need to be close to him. You stand up, orange in hand, pulling one of the pieces from it. You hold it lightly between your fingertips. Love is an action.

You hold it out to him. He takes it, smiles down at you.

“I love you, you know that?” You say, before you lose the courage.

“Yeah, I love you too,” he says, giving you a goofy look.

“No, like-“ you pause. Maybe you shouldn’t do this. Maybe you should just-

But it’s too late, because a wave of understanding washes over his face. His eyes go wide, lips parting. His hand pauses halfway to his mouth, the orange slice still in his fingers.

“Oh,” he says, voice cracking. His face splits into a grin. “Jeez, took you long enough to catch up, didn’t it?”

When he drops the orange slice on the floor so he can grab your face and kiss you, you’re somehow still so startled that you also drop the rest of the orange. That’s okay, though. He’ll peel another one for you without you even having to ask. Stars light up behind your eyes at the feeling of his lips on yours, and you realize then that maybe soulmates are just the people who choose to stick around.

…..

Deep in your desk in your childhood home, there’s a piece of paper. It’s been unfolded and refolded a million times. At the top, the title says, 15 Signs He’s Your Soulmate in messy, primary school handwriting. You pull it from your drawer and uncap the gel pen that sits in the cup on the desk.

At the bottom of the list, beneath your faded magic marker scrawl, you add:

#16: He peels your oranges.

#16: childhood best friend??

#16: YOU JUST KNOW

little bit of a different format for this one. as always, feel free to check out my other fics and tell me what you think!

[sluttywonwoo]

as someone who lives with chronic back pain, this audio i stumbled across reminded me of this fantasy i have and i think san fits the script (a little too) perfectly

(heed the tags on the audio— it includes some kinks i stray away from in my writing that might be a turn off for some)

nsfw 18+ // mdni

“hi, baby.”

you dog-ear the page you’re on and set your book on the bedside table to give your boyfriend your full attention. “hi. good shower?”

“mhm,” san answers cheerfully. “i’m sorry i didn’t greet you properly when i first got home. i just needed to wash the day off of me first.”

“it’s okay, i know the feeling,” you assure him, stretching your arm out across the sheets for his hand.

he approaches the bed and takes your hand, squeezing comfortingly. “speaking of feelings, how are you feeling, my love? any better?”

you nod. “a little. still sore.”

san pouts. “i figured. i’m sorry, baby. is there anything i can do? do you want some tea? want me to get your other heating pad?”

“well….”

san perks up as you trail off. you almost never ask him for anything, even when you have these longer bouts of consistent pain, even though he’s always so eager to help.

“what is it? whatever it is, i’ll do it.”

you doubt he’ll feel that way when you tell him but-

“fuck me?”

your boyfriend’s smile falters but you swear you see his cock twitch traitorously beneath his towel. “except for that.”

“but you said-”

“you know we can’t,” san chides. “not when you’re hurting.”

“it’s not even that bad,” you insist.

“you’re lying.”

“but i want you.”

“so let me get you off like we’ve been doing,” he says, settling on the bed next to you.

he reaches between your knees to part them but you hold them together so that he can’t, even though it puts a strain on your back. san could easily overpower you if he wanted to, he often does when you’re feeling more like yourself, but when you’re like this… he’s overly gentle. it’s sweet, the way he treats you so delicately, but it gets frustrating when all you want him to do is the exact opposite.

san frowns. “baby…” you don’t budge. “you’re not going to let me?”

“i want your dick.”

“i know but it isn’t a good idea.”

“you don’t even have to go hard, you could just stick it in-”

“you’re unbelievable,” san mumbles, leaning forward to kiss your knee.

“is that a yes?”

he sighs, “we really shouldn’t…”

“you don’t want to?”

“it’s not about wanting to, baby. of course i want to. i always want to.”

“it doesn’t seem like it,” you mutter.

san pinches the bridge of his nose and groans. “that’s because i’m trying to think about what’s best for you. i… i know myself and i know that if i’m not careful i could make your pain worse.”

your expression softens and you release the tension from your legs, allowing san to spread them. he looks up at you in surprise.

“i don’t deserve you,” you say pitifully, then before san can deny it, "i just miss you. it's been so long."

he rubs your thigh soothingly. "i know, baby. i miss you too. do you know how hard it is to sit here and not give you what you want? especially when what you want is..." he gulps, "me... inside of you. god, even just saying it is making me hard."

"you were already hard," you point out.

"it's making me harder," he clarifies.

"you know what would help with that?"

san glares at you. "a cold shower?"

"no-"

"yeah, i know," he sighs, defeated.

"can we try?" you ask, bringing his hand further up your thigh.

his fingers flex against the plush of your inner thigh in restraint, lips pursed in thought.

"you just want me to put it in?"

"well, i want you to fuck me but i'll settle for that."

san scoffs. "promise you'll tell me if it hurts?"

"promise."

"want me to grab a condom?"

"no, just take the towel off."

"such a romantic," he teases as he slips it from his waist.

he helps you get your panties off, making you sit all the way up instead of simply arching your back so he can pull the fabric from underneath you.

"you're sure you don't want me to just eat you out?" he asks, swallowing thickly, gaze fixed between your legs.

"you can eat your cum out of me if you really want to."

"don't threaten me with a good time," san murmurs as he positions himself on top of you, pressing a kiss to your cheek as thanks. he takes your hand in one of his and lines himself up with the other. "remember, you promised to tell me if it hurts."

"i know, i promise."

"like, if it hurts at all. even just a little bit."

"i will!"

"and i mean it-"

"babe! don't you trust me?"

san sighs, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. "i do, of course i do. but i also know you, and i know you won't say anything if it means i get to feel good." you make a face. he had you there. "see? i know you, baby."

"ok, but i promise i'll tell you. pinky promise." you even offer him your pinky, which he loops around his own and kisses to seal. "so can you please put your cock inside of me?"

"so impatient," san mutters to himself. he pushes in the tiniest bit, though, just the head to shut you up. "shit, you're so wet- jesus fucking christ."

"keep going," you beg, "please, more."

"yeah baby, i will, i will... but we're not fucking, alright? just putting it in. f-fuck, i don't think i could last if we did fuck. i don't know if i can last just doing this, it's been so long since i felt you..."

it's also been so long that he feels bigger than you remember and you start to tear up as soon as he's more than an inch inside. you can tell it's taking all of his self control to go this slow. his hips stutter when you clench around him for the first time and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and then stare at the ceiling for a few seconds to gather himself.

but then he looks back down at you and sees you crying and immediately panics.

"oh my god, it hurts, doesn't it? i knew this was a bad idea. i'm so sorry, baby-"

"no! no, it feels good, sannie. i promise. it feels good."

he looks like he doesn't fully believe you but then you tighten around him again and he gives in, cursing as bottoms out.

you lay like that together for a few moments before you start to get impatient again. you really thought you could handle just cockwarming him but being full of him only made you needier. shocking.

"how is it, baby?" san whispers, likely to try and hide the shakiness in his voice. "this what you needed?"

you sniffle and nod. "but i want more," you admit.

san mumbles your name in warning but you're already too far gone.

"please? please fuck me, please fuck me," you're begging and it's a little pathetic but you can't bring yourself to care. "please just a little bit, just a tiny bit."

"we agreed," he reminds you.

"i know but i need more," you whine, "i know you need more too, i can feel you pulsing inside of me... please, baby, i want to cum on your cock so bad."

your boyfriend hangs his head. "i don't know if i can," he confesses.

"you won't hurt me."

"no, i mean, i'm already so close that i don't know if i'll be able to make you cum first if i start moving- fuck, why did me admitting that make you wetter?"

"because i love you?" you try.

"you love that i'm weak for you," he amends.

"two things can be true."

san tightens his jaw and shakes his head down at you as he draws his hips back a fraction of what he normally would and pushes them forward again, building an agonizingly slow but steady pace. "you're lucky i love you too."

[solbaby7]

Wanting You, Wanting Me

pairing: azriel x reader

based off an anonymous request- got carried away but I tried to stay within the guidelines; this was actually a really cute concept

warnings: angst at first but it gets fluffy towards the end, swearing, jealousy, mutual pining, mentions of nightmares, sleep deprivation, probably some typos

summary: Silent yearning only remains silent for so long when you suspect your crush likes your best friend instead

--

Elaine was like flowers budding in the Spring; new and fresh, full of promise and beauty. She was kind and caring, compassionate and soft-spoken, dainty and slender—all the pretty things that males loved in women.

Or maybe it was just her.

Because you were fairly new and fresh too; just barely in your twenties and full on the idea of life and love and everything in between. Maybe you weren’t as kind, not as nice or welcoming; you didn’t always have the right words and in lou of sounding stupid or making a fool of yourself, you stayed quiet.

Watching; observing, learning the family around you as you navigated your place in it. Everyone already had their role; playing their parts as if they’d been trained their whole lives for it and even Feyre and her sisters had fallen into a steady rhythm after the Cauldron. But with all the new additions, couples pairing up and friendships pre-established a hundred years before you were even a thought—your place there seemed less clear.

Especially since Azriel had started paying such special attention to Elaine and her annoyingly beautiful garden and the plants that seemed to thrive tenfold at the mere sight of her.

You didn't mind at first; the three of you falling into a steady rhythm of hanging out together, taking walks and sharing stories but somewhere along the lines he stopped looking at you when he'd laugh. Envy builds for a woman too kind to deserve it and it makes you feel even worse--masking your distaste with soft smiles that you hoped looked as welcoming as hers.

You can’t even help the turn your thoughts take but no matter how much envy fills you; there’s not one con that presents itself when regarding her.

It becomes subconscious, the way you mimic her; fixing your posture, hands reaching to push back strands of hair and smoothen out the fabric that the soft curve of your stomach. Silently nitpicking parts of you that you’d never considered wrong before but that had to be when everything Elaine had got was so right.

He walks in like you’ve summoned him, steps silent and sure. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” You mutter a beat too late, only realizing he was regarding you when you’d finally glanced up over the book in your hands.

You’re acutely aware of his every move, the radiating warmth of his body contrasted by the cool kiss of his shadows sifting through your hair when he leans over the back of the couch. The smell of his soap reaches your nose when he leans in, hazel eyes skimming over the pages you're reading and you thank the good Mother above that you’d gotten past the naughty scene three pages ago; where the good guy who pretends to be bad slides his fingers between the maidens thighs, urging her to be silent as he worked her over through her clothes while being surrounded by a whole camp full of males and a looming threat lingering somewhere in the trees. “Bad dreams again?”

You pray he doesn’t catch the slight uptick of your heart rate, the closeness forcing your body to react without permission and it takes great effort not to tear the delicate pages under the pressure of your fingers alone. “Something like that,” You grit out, reminded of the nightmares that assaulted your slumber; the sight of Elaine and Azriel—kissing. Enough to rip you awake and force you to empty all of your stomach contents; you’d just barely made it to the bathing chambers, hairs sticking to your cheeks and nightgown damp with sweat as you leaned into the toilet.

You still hadn’t been able to keep anything down; stomach too unsettled and brain spiraling enough to distract away any signs of hunger.

“She’s been getting them all week,” Elaine softly adds, fingers busy with her knitting needles and yarn; a new blanket for you to add to the giant collection neatly folded your closet. “—won’t drink the tea I made for it though.”

“Because the tea makes them worse and then I wake up from them with my body still paralyzed,” You’re quick to say, familiar with your best friends tactics in divulging important information to the shadowsinger to ensure you actually did something about it—that you took care of yourself. “I’ll happily keep just the bad dreams.”

Azriel's not even looking at you anymore though, already rounding the couch to sit beside Elaine, ball of yarn rolling between them and you can’t help but stare. “Tell me more about this tea?”

“I make it from the plants in the garden,” She points at the window behind them, pale green yarn still wrapped around her finger. “Camomile and ginseng and usually it helps but she just reacts to it differently.”

Azriel hums and you hate the way the words make you feel; like there was another thing setting you apart from the others and this perfect life that didn’t seem capable enough to hold room for all of your imperfections. You don’t wait to hear anymore, steps light and hands quick to stick your bookmark in place and collect your tea cup before you’re gone and down the hall; tears burning in your waterline.

Because, you were sure that if you had to sit there and watch them a second longer you were going to scream.

Scream at Elaine for being so sweet and gentle; so knowledgeable and helpful and certain that it was you that was the issue and not her stupid herbs grown in her stupid garden. You wanted to scream at Azriel until you were blue in the face, listing off every single thing you've ever done to show that the thing between you was way more than just friends. How he was everything and you know that maybe you weren't perfectly skinny like Elaine was but you'd always found great beauty in things that were different.

You can’t tell if you’re happy or not that no one comes to check on you the whole four hours it takes for you to relax; binging the entirety of a book until you were too focused on someone else's life to focus on your own and only once you'd finished the book in it's entirety were you forced to leave the room in search for the one that followed.

The library is empty when you enter, only a few lights still burned and you’re already murmuring soft words to yourself while you search around for what your looking for, fingers bumping over the slides of books; their engraved titles all unique and beautiful and probably interesting but still not quite right. It takes some time but you’re certain you’ve found it, a few rows higher than you can reach but it’s easy to drag over a chair for assistance. "Come on," You mutter, nose scrunching with strain as the tips of two fingers graze the burgundy spine. You’re prepared to jump and pray the chair doesn’t collapse beneath you when the book simply slides out and floats down to you, cool shadows twirling up the length of your arm as if to stabilize you as you step down. “I didn’t need help,” You grumble without looking at your savior, the weight of the book now in your palm and excitement swirls at the thought of more.

“You never do.”

You don’t mean to be so snappy but the sleep deprivation takes a toll and it was becoming harder to distinguish truth from dream; your brain always stuck on his mouth leaning in for Elaine’s and the anger that ensues is all consuming. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Azriel shrugs, sighing as if he knows how this conversation will end and in no way will he ever come out on top. “I don’t know—just don’t get why you wouldn’t have told me you haven’t been sleeping.”

“Because, Az, what would you have done? Help Elaine make me tea’s? No, thanks.”

Confusion spreads on handsome features, hazel eyes fierce even with his lids lowered. “What does Elaine have to do with any of this? Because she told me?”

The breath you let out is heavy, defeat settling in once you realize the hole you’d been digging yourself and it’s a struggle to heave yourself out and drag the chair back to its original spot but Azriel’s there in seconds. He’s quiet; waiting for an answer as he takes it from your hands. “No,” You concede, all fight leaving when it was a one-sided battle. “She doesn’t have anything to do with it. It’s fine—I’m just tired.”

“Then sleep,” He urges softly. “I’ll stay with you.”

“I can’t.”

You can’t even focus on the words of your page under his stare. You’ve read the first line six times over and you still haven’t fully processed it. The thought of him being nearby as you slept, the thought of his eyes on your body in nothing but a nightgown and your hair free from all its carefully done braids. “Can you tell me what you’ve been dreaming about?”

His brows raise when you suck in a sharp breath, cheeks flinching at the suggestion and you shut the book altogether. “I’d really rather not.”

“What’s so bad you can’t tell me about it?" Azriel's hand covers your own, voice so soft it hurt. "You tell me everything.”

Your heart thumps so hard in your chest you can hear it in your ears, your free fingers fumbling against the other under the table and you can't refrain from the nervous chuckle that pulls free. There's a second where you want to just tell him; to confess your feelings and how much you loved the way he was looking at you but fucking hated how you knew that look wouldn't stay if Elaine walked in. The reminder of her alone makes your body deflate, gaze going far off and Azriel's concern only grows when you stay quiet too long to be normal.

The cool touch of a shadow grazing your cheek pulls you out of it. "I suppose this just isn't worth telling."

It's not the answer he wanted, that much is clear by the frown that tugs on full lips, the wings that tuck in tighter and you want nothing more than to give him everything he'd wanted and more to get his face to stop looking at you like that but before you can say another word, another person enters. "Sorry to interrupt, I was just looking for you.

His eyes instantly go to her, hand pulling away from your own and attitude seeps out when you regard her. "Well, you found me."

Elaine's eyes bounce between you and Azriel as if she could feel the tension in the room that held so thick you could cut it with a knife. Her voice is hesitant when she begins, a steaming pot held in hands covered by thick oven mitts. "I made a new recipe for the tea," You don't even hear the carefully curated list of herbs she rattles off, informing their uses and how well they work together but you can't stop shaking; chest tightening at the way Azriel watches Elaine gracefully flit about the room and you can't stop thinking about how quickly he pulled away his hand. "It's really strong so you can't have too much but the madja said that it would help with the sleeping and the paralysis."

You couldn't of cared less, snatching the kettle from her grasp and in your anger you can’t even hear her gasp, can’t feel the burn of the boiling handle against your palm as you pour a mug so thick it nearly spills over the top. “Thanks, Elaine. Really, I hope it knocks me out for a week.” You don’t stay to take in the worry on Azriel's face or the hurt that laced your friends features. Your book is tight in your grasp and you’re halfway down the hallway when you feel your palm begin to throb.

Your bedroom door shuts with a slam, pure frustration pulsing through your whole being and you can feel it ebbing from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. A sigh pulls when you take an angry sip, it burns your tongue, slightly bitter but it was eased with a little sugar and a teaspoon of honey.

Guilt swells at the kind gesture and your misguided anger; Elaine had only been trying to help, making things to quell the dreams she didn’t even know were centered around her and man you loved but didn't love you back. It weighs on you as you change into your night clothes, smoothening ointment and wrapping thick gauze around your burn; there was no blistering but the angry red mark was sure to remain there for quite some time.

You try to distract yourself, silently sipping as you read your book.

It’s alarming how quickly you relax, the giant mug nearly empty when your book slips between your fingers and thuds to the floor, body slumping into the sitting chair and you don’t even have enough time to drag a blanket over yourself before your eyes flutter shut and sleep takes over.

And this time, you didn’t dream.

There was only peaceful silence and maybe an uncomfortable pressure in your chest that it came and went in waves; too grateful for the relief that settled in your bones to care. It was like you were sinking, body slowly falling into a sea of cushion and comfort and you’d have been willing to stay there forever.

Your brows furrow when a noise pierces through the silence; eyes squinting in the darkness to find the source but the harder you try to make it out, the darker the rooms gets. A hand rubs against your chest, the pressure coming back and this time it’s so hard it makes you cough, eyes clenching shut and it’s like that was the switch to wake you up.

Azriel is leaning over you, hands on your chest and cheeks red with exertion when you cough and cough, soul aching to return to the peace—that silence where there were no dreams. “Why’d you wake me up?”

“Wake you up?” His voice holds no more room for placating to your wants; hands shaking at his sides and it’s then you see the fear. “You didn’t have a pulse. I came to check on you and you were—“ Azriel clears his throat, voice cracking with his clothes disheveled and full lips firm in a straight line as he stood before you, crouching down to meet your eye level. “Tell me right now, what were you dreaming about that was so bad that you were willing to die to stop them.”

Your chest heaves as you take in air, a ringing begins in your ears and you back away; avoiding the words, the conversation—the sight of his mouth on hers. “I can’t.”

“You can and you will."

"Azriel—"

Az groans at your tone, turning his entire body away as if he physically couldn't bear hearing another aversion; another lame excuse as to why you couldn't tell him what was going on when you always did. "Do you not trust me? Is that it?"

“What?”

You'd never seen him so upset, eyes blazing and wings rustling in his frustration as he stood. "I'm just listing shit at this point because all I've done is try to be there for you—me and Elaine, and you just keep pushing us away."

"Oh, please," You snap back, gaining the strength to stand and the ache in your chest only gets worse and you begin to wonder just how long he was on top of you breathing air into your lungs and willing breath to stick with the push of his hands. "If Elaine's around, I might as well just walk right out of the room because that means you'll be otherwise occupied shoving your head up her ass."

"You sound ridiculous." He lets out a gruff laugh, arms crossed over his chest. "Are you jealous or something?"

"It's clear you have feelings for her. I get it—she's perfect and pretty and skinny and obviously you like that sort of thing but don't stand here and pretend you even notice I exist with her there." There's no taking back the words and you don't even care to look into the way his brows furrow at you, words punching at him a mile a minute as a dam breaks and days and weeks and months worth of emotions rage forward with no signs of stopping. "How couldn't I be jealous? When it’s so obvious that you love her and not me.” It feels pathetic to say out loud, hands crossing over yourself as you did your best to remain strong; to get through the feelings even though your skin was on fire and you couldn't stop fidgeting. "That's what my dreams have been about. Why I've been missing sleep and hiding things from you because every time I close my eyes all I can fucking see is you and her."

You don't even realize how much distance you'd been putting between you two, subconsciously searching for a way out when Azriel inevitability let you down easy. "You love me?" Words die on your tongue, feelings laid bare and vulnerabilities left out for his viewing pleasure; eyes like drops of gold boring into you as you gently nod. He sinks onto the edge of your bed, a breathless laugh emitting as scarring fingers traced over the soft fabric of your duvet. "The only reason I started talking to Elaine in the first place is because you and her had gotten so close and I wanted an excuse to be around you."

Your brows furrow, lips parting in confusion and the nerves begin to fade. "No."

Azriel's head nods once, settling into the fell of your room and the little trinkets you'd kept close on the nightstand; pictures neatly framed and resting on books you favored a little more than the others on the shelves. Hand sculpted vases made from blown glass that scattered rainbows across the room when the sun shone through the curtains to feed the bright flowers inside of them. "Yes, but you kept leaving and I thought it was because you weren't interested."

"But, I thought—"

"I think it's safe to say we both were off in our assumptions."

It feels like a dream and not the kind you'd been running away from but the one you'd been sinking and falling into earlier before Azriel had pulled you back. The one that felt like peace and comfort and something like hope begins to brew in your belly when you dare you look him in the eyes. "You like me?"

Azriel's features soften, the fear and worry from before a thing of the past when he stood and walked towards you, shadows kissing at your legs when warm knuckles grazed your cheek. "I love you," He corrects gently, his touch like home and its instinct the way you close the proximity. You can feel his heartbeat on your chest, the strong muscles of his arms itching to be traced and a smile forms at the blush that forms on the tops of his ears under your attention. "—and those smutty little books you've been reading."

His chest is hard when you jokingly smack it, cheeks going hot and eyes darting to the book laid forgotten on the floor. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

The lie doesn't deter him and neither does the little gasp that pulls free when he gently forces you to look up at him, hazel eyes trained on your mouth and the tongue that darts out to wet plush lips. "I'll pretend I believe that if you just shut up and let me kiss you."

Maybe reality was better than dreaming.

Because this time, when he leaned down with intent to press his mouth against another’s for a kiss—it was with you.

[saetoshi]

“i want you to like me.”

you absentmindedly hum, flipping a page of your book. sae frowns, crossing his arms on the table. he sighs, hoping to get your attention.

it fails.

so, he sighs again, a little louder, a little deeper, and, maybe, just a little annoying. he bites back a frustrated groan when you don’t even bat an eye in concern.

he calls out your name, pouting. “don’t ignore me.”

“mhm,” your eyes widen slightly as you lean closer to your book. a hushed gasp leaves your lips, the corners of your lips quirking up into a smile as you read.

sae sighs again, resting his head on his arms, his cheeks flushed as he gazes at you. he supposes that’s the one good thing that comes with you ignoring him.

“i really want you to like me,” he says, his words hushed. a hint of a smile curls the corners of his lips up, an amused glint in his eyes as you don’t react to his words.

a dry chuckle leaves his lips before he tsks, shaking his head. “i hate you,” he mutters. (he doesn’t mean it. not anymore, at least.)

he hides his mouth behind his arms—a futile attempt at hiding the smile that you clearly won’t see anyway.

(he thinks he must seem pathetic.)

the corners of his eyes crinkle when he sees your expression shift from joy to shock. he thinks your book’s probably interesting. (not as interesting as you, though. he’s becoming cheesy.)

(he thinks it’s disgusting.)

“i like you,” he whispers, his words muffled by his sweater. his heart drums on his chest, butterflies erupting in stomach as you try to bite back a smile. (he wishes you were paying attention to him.)

a few beats of silence go by. sae sighs, the sound oddly dreamy before he chuckles when your brows furrow. he smiles, leaning up before gently pressing his finger between your brows. his smile widens when you finally look at him.

“something interesting happen in your book?” he smiles, his voice teasing.

you don’t say anything, but your slightly frustrated expression tells him all he needs to know.

“wanna tell me about it?” he chuckles when you swat his hand away. he laughs harder when you give him a dirty look.

“you wouldn’t understand,” you mutter, frowning at him. he can tell you’re angry he interrupted you. (he concludes you’re even prettier when you’re mad at him.)

(he thinks he might be ill.)

“says who?” he sticks his tongue out at you. the corners of his lips turn up in amusement when you stick your tongue out in return.

“says me,” you huff, flicking his nose. (he really wants to grab your hand and shower it with kisses.)

(he’s most certainly ill, he thinks.)

i like you, he thinks, his eyes locked onto yours. he smiles when you tsk, turning your attention back to your book.

sae calls out your name once more, “shouldn’t you take a break? don’t you think it’s better to read a book over several days?”

“shouldn’t you mind your business?” you shoot back, giving him a glare from behind your book, “don’t you think it’s better to shut up and not be a bother for once?”

he snickers, his ears flushing when he hears the small smile in your tone despite the harsh words. sae’s laughter slowly stops, his arms crossing on the table once more.

he softly sighs, resting his head against his arms as he looks at you. his cheeks flush when he sees your focused expression once more, a smile growing on his lips when you glance at him before looking back at your book.

he really, really likes you, he concludes.

(he thinks it might not be such a bad thing.)

[luveline]

Ok this sentence from your hotch fic "You're so busy, I could never," you say, shaking your head. 

got me thinking what about a lil story about a non bau gf being very upset but trying to hide it from hotch bc he’s busy and she doesn’t want to add to his plate

hope this is ok!! —hotch assures you he's never too busy to listen if you've been upset by something, 1k♡

You're doing the dishes when it starts to come back. It's weird that the nature of the things that hurt us is their ability to come back, to metastasise while we're unaware; you think you're doing a good job at moving forward and the claws of it sink into your back, your chest. One talon at a time. 

You ignore it, focusing instead on Aaron behind you at the dinner table. The sound of papers fluttering across each other as he turns a page, the click and drag of his pen as he writes. You can picture his cursive, and the frown he wears as he works. 

You're dying to tell him about what's hurting you, but beyond feeling small in the eye of the storm that is his job, he's been busy, evidenced by paper work at home and a yawning gap of communication. This is the first time you've seen him all week. You dread filling the time (wasting it, even) with something that doesn't concern him. It barely concerned you, someone else's unresolved issues turned to a bad mood and all the fallout on your shoulders.

"Is something wrong?" Aaron asks. 

He's like a shark for emotions, your tiny sniffle a drop of blood in the water. You wipe your nose with a soapy hand and shrug casually. 

"Nothing's wrong. Are you nearly done? Maybe we can watch a movie." 

Aaron stands up. You stiffen at the sound, but relax when his hand squeezes your shoulder. He braces his hands on the countertop and leans forward, looking at you. You meet his eyes. Usually so serious, softened slightly by worry. 

"You stancing up on me?" you tease. 

He doesn't buy into your jokes. You clear your throat, wondering what you might be able to change the subject to. You've been thinking about asking him if he wants to get a pet fish with you, an aquarium—

"You're upset by something," he says. "I think it's best if you tell me." 

"You think?" 

"Please, honey." 

You set the last dish on the drying rack and dry your hands slowly, buying time. Aaron indulges your behaviour though he undoubtedly knows what you're doing. 

"You're really busy, Aaron, I don't want to put more water in your levy." 

You've barely stopped talking when he begins. "If this is about my being busy, put it out of your mind. You know better than anyone that things have to wait sometimes, regretfully, when I'm working, but I'm here now." He fixes you with a fond smile. 

"Exactly, you're here, so let's not waste time on silly stuff that's bothering me." 

Aaron bears his weight on his hip against the countertop, taking your water-warmed hands into his, tacky skin sticking as he rubs your knuckles. Easing your forward with a gentle pull, one of his hands runs up your arm until his fingertips are nudging under your sleeve. An encapsulating hold, it says, I'm right here. Not too busy. Nothing too silly. 

And still, he says aloud, "Time talking about how you feel isn't wasted, even if you're upset by something small." 

You frown then, nose aching, eyes burning, because it doesn't feel small at all. "Are you sure you're not too busy?" you ask weakly, a high pitch attempt to salvage it and keep hiding how upset you are, but a simultaneous giving-in. 

"No," he says softly, all empathy as you descend into tears, "of course I'm not too busy." 

He hugs you close right there in the kitchen. Words won't come out and your shoulders shake under his hands with every attempt to explain it to him, not just that something bad happened to you, but that it's been really heavy to carry alone, and that weight being taken from you —by him, and so easily— is a moving relief. 

He pulls it out of you, an explanation made of fits and starts, and he gets mad on your behalf, but he pushes it aside to talk you through it. When you can cry without nearly choking yourself on breathlessness, he sways you minutely from side to side. 

"I knew something was upsetting you," he says, still so gently, "but I didn't know it was this bad. I need you to let me know. I'm sorry, honey, but I need you to tell me when it's bad like this if I miss it." 

You shudder in a breath. "It's not that bad." 

You both know it's a lie. Aaron pulls you in for another good hug, hand at the small of your back rubbing a dedicated circle. Your shirt bunches up and he takes a handful of your naked skin, thumb tracking around, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. "It's okay," he murmurs. "Take a deep breath. I will always be here for you, you know that?" 

It's odd to hear him strung like that. You take a deep breath like he asked you to, arms clasped behind his, your face too hot in his neck. 

"Even if I'm busy, I'm here at the end of the day. I promise. If I'm sitting at the table with you, that means I'm waiting for you." He cracks a small smile, his hand at the nape of your neck encouraging your head back. The other hand, dedicated to the patch of skin just above your coccyx, rubs upward. It releases a little of the tension building in your spine. "I love you, honey, I'm busy, but never too busy to hear what's wrong. Never." 

"You'll make me cry worse," you whine, letting him tip your head further back again, hand at your cheek now giving a soft squeeze. You blow a warm breath out at his thumb.

Aaron kisses you lightly, lips only half-touching. 

He pulls away. "Let me make you something to drink, hm?" 

Thus begins a night of adoring pampering and over the top doting. You pretend it's too much, but it's really, really perfect. 

[starniolosposts]

invite (1)

part one, part two

pairing: chris sturniolo x reader

summary: the popular frat boy, chris sturniolo, unexpectedly invites you, the shy and quiet girl, to his frat party.

warnings: shy/unpopular reader, confident/frat boy chris (but he’s still sweet), chris defends you 🤩, pretty long and will have a part two which is the final part

notes: SMUT IS IN THE NEXT PART (you could just read the next part for the smut but this one has all the tension leading up to it hehe;) )

not proofread/edited

“hey.”

you practically jump out of your seat from the voice in front of you, interrupting your study time in the silent library. you shrink into yourself in embarrassment at your reaction, and are even more mortified when its chris sturniolo standing in front of you.

chris grins and leans over the table, hair falling into his face as he scans the study page your on. “seems hard. whats your major again?”

you gulp, throat suddenly turning dry. you don’t answer, honestly kind of scared of saying the wrong or humiliating thing to the one boy you’ve been admiring from afar since college started.

he tilts his head and locks eyes with you, “so you don’t really speak, do you? i’ve never heard you talk before.” he observes, and you bit your lip.

“…i do talk.” you finally manage to say, avoiding anymore eye contact.

chris chuckles before pulling out the chair across from you and sitting down.

your heart rate picks up and you pray that he wont be staying for long. not because of him, but because then you have less of a chance of embarrassing yourself in front of him.

“so, whats your major?” he asks again, and he actually seems interested.

“oh, its animal science. i also minor in biology.” you whisper, seeing the librarian glance over at you both. chris obviously doesn’t care if he’s loud, since he responds with his normal volume.

“oh shit, so you’re smart smart.”

you blush and shrug, tapping your pencil on your notebook. “not really.”

chris smirks. “how humble of you. anyway, i have another question. what are you doing this saturday?”

your eyes widen as you glance up at him, stomach tingling with butterflies. why did that sound like he was asking you out? you bit the inside of your cheek in thought. you should study for an upcoming exam… you shake your head, “i don’t have anything on saturday.”

“perfect. i have a frat party that starts at 7 pm, but show up whenever you want.” chris exclaims, seemingly very pleased as he leans back in his chair.

you blink and then feel a sense of dread in your stomach instead of butterflies. “oh—uhm… i don’t really do parties.” you sheepishly mutter. what you didn’t want to admit was how you have never even gone to a party, nor have been invited to one.

chris smiles charmingly as he looks at you, and you feel so exposed and flustered. “i can tell. its alright if you don’t want to go, i just thought it’d invite you. you seem to study to much, your big brain needs a break.” he taps your study book as he tries to act unbothered.

you think for a moment, then blush blossoms your cheeks. “if i go, uhm, will i be able to stick by you then? i know i won’t really know anyone there.”

chris stares at you with an unreadable expression, his jaw squared and his eyes gleam. he finally nods. “of course. you can follow me around.”

you sigh through your nose and nod, the nerves already flowing through you. “okay.”

“you’ll go?”

“yeah, i think.”

saturday comes faster than normal, the anticipation of the frat party buzzing through you, and it even floats around the lectures you have. apparently a lot of people were going and it was going to be a huge party, everyone was looking forward to it.

while people were excited, you were kind of dreading it. what if chris abandons you and you’re left alone in a group of strangers? what if you trip and face-plant and everyone laughs at you? you shake your head, knowing you were overthinking.

you take a deep breath as you look at yourself in the mirror. this is the most you’ve ever dressed up, and you thought you looked okay. you wore a short, sparkly, black dress and your hair was curly down your back. no one had ever seen you with your hair down, so this was a big step. in the back of your mind you knew you were just trying to capture chris’ attention at least a little bit.

gathering up the courage, you grab your phone and make your way across campus and to the frat house. you can hear the music from a mile away and the flashing lights are prominent the more you get closer.

you glance at the time on your phone, 8 pm. you thought it was weird to show up exactly when the party started at 7, so you waited around for a while.

you tried not to think about how skin tight your dress was, or how short it was, or how your makeup looked. you pushed down your anxiety and tried to convince yourself you would have a good night. you walked inside, wincing slightly as the music was now clear and blaring in your ears.

your number one objective was to find chris, and fast. you looked around swiftly, dodging drunk people and catty girls side-eyeing you.

“y/n!”

you spun around and nervously wrung your wrists behind you, staring at chris as he walked up to you. “hi.”

chris’ jaw clenched as his eyes darted all over you. your hair, your face, your body. he blinked, wondering how you were the same person at the library a couple days ago. “you look great.” he finally says.

you smile shyly and look at his outfit. he wears baggy camo pants with a black long sleeve, a chain, and doesn’t wear his signature hat, so his hair is out and fluffy. he looks handsome as always, but you cant say that. “you too.” you meek out.

“i thought you skipped out, i was worried i would have to go to your dorm and drag you here.” he jokes and smiles, gesturing you to follow him.

you laugh softly and nod, following him into the kitchen with less people and muffled music. he grabs two red solo cups and fills both of them with something. he hands you one, then takes a sip of his.

you look at the contents inside the cup suspiciously, hesitate to try it.

chris looks down at you staring into your cup and chuckles. “don’t worry, i figured you don’t drink so its just lemonade.” he reassured, and you sigh in relief as you sip on it.

“thank you.”

“mhm. what made you agree to come?” chris asks suddenly, leaning against the counter, arms crossed with his cup still in his hand.

you gulp nervously, flustered as you stare at him. “can i be honest?” you ask, doing the same thing as him beside him.

he grins down at you and nods, “yeah.”

you fidget with your cup. “i’ve never been to a party, or invited to one. so when you asked i was nervous, but knowing i had you i was okay.” you blurt out, and you mentally slap yourself for saying so much.

chris is silent for a moment, and you want to run away and go back to your dorm, but then he nudges your shoulder with his elbow.

you look up at him and he smiles warmly. “hey, now that we talked and you came to my party, we’re best friends now. no need to be nervous when i’m here.”

you both stare at each other, and you swore he was leaning closer and glancing at your lips. unfortunately, a voice spoke up.

“chris, i love this party! beer pong was so much fun!” a girl strides in, b-lining straight towards him. she then looks at you weirdly, glancing at how close you were standing next to him.

chris nods at her and looks a little irritated, “good, it’s supposed to be fun.”

you awkwardly look down at your aching feet as they continue talking, this was your first time wearing heals for a long period of time.

the girl glances at you and then looks at chris with a look. “so, who’s she?” she asks as if your not there and she can ask you.

chris sighs and puts an arm around your back and his hand on your arm, making your eyes widen as heat filled you and goosebumps rise on your exposed skin. his hands are rough, but they are gentle with you. “this is y/n l/n, shes in our biology lecture. i convinced her to come.” your face feels hot as he says your full name, did you ever even tell him your last name? how did he know?

the girl hums and looks at you with a confused expression, “oh, i don’t remember ever seeing her. anywhere. but alright, i’m tory.” she smiles concededly. you try and smile back and nod at her in acknowledgment, “nice to meet you, tory. i like your dress.” you say. socializing and making friends is a little difficult for you, but you try your hardest. it didn’t seem to work as she looks you up and down and doesn’t say anything.

chris clears his throat and recognizes the tense situation and dislike from tory towards you, “tory, maybe we could ease off of her, yeah?” his eyes narrow at her, and you see his hand gripping onto his cup harder. you feel embarrassed, but at the same time you feel grateful and appreciated by chris, and its nice.

tory stares at chris in shock before scoffing under her breath, “whatever.” she walks away after that, going into the living room where the party is at.

chris finally takes his hand off of your arm, and you both don’t realize it but you think the same thing.

i miss his touch.

i miss touching her.

“…thanks for that.” you mutter, swirling your lemonade in your cup. chris nods and glares in the direction that tory walked off in. “i never liked her.” he explains, “in high school she dated my brother, matt. totally broke his heart and was so mentally draining towards everyone.”

you furrow your brows and frown, now wishing you weren’t nice to her in the first place. “i’m sorry.”

chris shakes his head and smirks down at you, making you slightly flush. “oh, don’t you worry. we got her back. pranked her for years on end and held blackmail against her.”

your eyes widen and then you laugh, an actual belly laugh. chris stares at you and then starts laughing as well. its just easy when it comes to you.

“its so bad, but i love it.” you giggle, then you ask, “you have a brother? does he go here?”

chris is ecstatic and proud, since he can tell your coming out of your shell around him. he likes it… he likes you. “kind of, i’m a triplet. both of them chose different colleges though.”

you tilt your head in shock, “really? thats so cool, are you all identical?”

his heart skips a beat at the sparkle in your eye and the curiosity in your voice. “sure are. they look exactly like me, but we all have our differences.”

you nod, “i understand.”

suddenly a guy shouts into the kitchen, “hey chris! come play a game with us!”

chris looks at you, and you shrug even if your freaking out inside. you liked hanging out and talking with chris, but with a huge group of people? not your thing.

chris scrutinizes you and states, “you don’t want to, i can tell.”

you silently nod but then shrug again, “i’m fine with playing, only if its with you though.” you look away from him to hide your blush.

he grins and nods before pushing off of the counter, setting his cup down. you do the same and closely follow behind him into the living room. the music is low now, and a group of people are in a circle on the ground or sitting in chairs/couches.

chris dabs people up and nods in acknowledgment at others, and you feel like everyone is staring at you as you follow him like a lost puppy. no one says hi to you.

you sit down next to chris on a loveseat, scooting down your dress uncomfortably. chris notices and swiftly gets up, goes to the front door, grabs his jacket off the hook, and then walks back over. you look at him confused until he laid his jacket over your legs and sat back down like he didn’t just do the nicest thing ever for you.

you feel your heart pumping fast and your veins turn hot. the little gesture made your thighs clench underneath the jacket that smelled like his cologne. glancing over at chris, it only makes you more aware of your attraction towards him. his arm is over the back of the loveseat, his legs spread slightly open as he leans back comfortably.

you feel dirty and flustered thinking about him like this, then snap out of it when someone speaks up from the group.

“alright, lets play the classic truth or dare.” a guy grins. everyone agrees and they start going around in a circle, asking random people. some of them do dares, but they aren’t regular dares, they are sexual. there was a three way kiss, stripping, and licking whip cream off of someones stomach.

your lower stomach only got hotter, the undeniable ache between your legs getting stronger. your mind always went back to chris for some reason, wondering what kissing him felt like, or how his tongue would feel licking whip cream off your skin. you shift, and your thankful for the jacket covering your legs since it blocked the view of your thighs clenching.

chris notices though . he always notices the little things about you. believe or not, he had been admiring you from afar as well. he couldn’t help it, he was drawn to you, the quiet girl in the back of the class. whenever he was in lecture, his eyes would drift to you and observe. he knows you bite your lip when your nervous or thinking, and he knows your leg bounces when your anxious. he knows that you secretly laugh at his jokes behind your hand and that you feed the stray cat that roams around campus. yeah, it was safe to say he liked you a lot, and he notices you.

“the girl beside chris.”

your head snaps up and you gulp nervously. its a blonde guy that smirks at you. “y-yeah?”

“truth or dare?”

“uhm, truth?” you say, but its more like a question. you really prayed it wasn’t anything embarrassing.

he thinks for a moment. “whats the worst thing that has happened to you during sex.”

chris clenched his jaw at the thought of you having sex with someone. its a weird thought, thinking of you with someone else other than himself.

your face immediately is red as you look down at chris’ jacket. you pick at the thread on it and clear your throat. “u-uhm… thats a little personal?”

“come on, don’t be a buzzkill!”

chris glared at the guy, “cut it out, clayton. if she doesn’t feel comfortable saying then don’t pressure her.” he glowers slightly, making clayton raise his eyebrows.

“its truth or dare, man. no outs. she has to answer.”

chris furrows his eyebrows and opens his mouth, but you cut him off. “i’ve never had sex, so i can’t answer.” your eyes are squeezed shut in embarrassment as you grip onto the jacket for comfort. everyone goes silent and you think this is the moment you want the ground to swallow you whole.

chris blinks at you with wide eyes then his jaw is set and his eyes turn dark. his pants are starting to get tighter than before and his hand clutches onto the back of the loveseat. “fuck.” he hisses out, but he made sure he was quiet.

“wait, so you’re a virgin in college? have you even had your first kiss?” tory asks, crossing her arms in amusement. she was milking your humiliation for all its worth.

you tilt your head down and dont answer, which makes her laugh slightly. “wow, so your really inexperienced. how are you even here at this party?”

“tory, stop. i’m serious. i still have those screenshots in my hard drive.” chris speaks up and threatens, looking her straight in the eyes. it makes you peak your eyes open to look over at him. he smiled reassuringly at you, and it makes you feel a lot better, and a lot more needy.

“…lets just move on.” a random girl says, chuckling nervously.

the game continues, and chris lowers his voice to speak to you with no one listening. “are you okay? im sorry that was pressured out of you, ill kill clayton.”

you shake your head, “its fine.” you whisper.

“no, its not. especially with what tory said.” he grunts out then sighs. “i’m sorry.”

you hesitate, but scoot closer to him and smile gently. “its alright. thank you for defending me, not a lot of people do.” you hadn’t meant for it to come out so sad and lonely sounding.

chris bites his lip before nodding, “yeah, of course.” he breaths out.

your eyes dart to his, and you catch a glimpse of desire you had been looking for. your chest heaves slightly harder, your stomach burns, and your eyes glance to his lips.

“…follow me.” he abruptly stands and holds out his hand for you. you knew what would happen if you took his hand and followed him, but you wanted it too happen. you’ve never felt such an easy and instant connection as you have with him, so you don’t hesitate to grab his hand and leave his jacket behind.

some people stare in shock as he takes you up the stairs, but you can only stare at him.

chris quickly takes you to a bedroom and closed/locks the door behind the both of you. he backs you into the wall, hands coming up to slowly grip onto your hips. you nervously look up at him, not knowing what to say or do. you’ve never been touched like this by someone you liked, and it was building up a fire in you that burned your core. the desire for him was too much, you wanted him now.

he gazes down at you with dark eyes. “i’m so glad you came to this party.” he sighs out, his hands slithering around to rest on your lower back, sinfully close to your ass.

your breathing heavily, your hands clenching onto his biceps as you lean into his touch. “me too.” you whisper, your head tilted back onto the wall to look up at him.

it silent for a moment, letting you feel his hands travel over your dress and to your waist. "i really like you, you know?" he whispers, and for the first time you see him slightly bashful but still confident, and your stomach tingles in the best way.

your heart jumps to your throat at his confession and your legs tremble, a shaky but content smile reaches your lips, "really?"

chris nods slightly before leaning into your neck and lowly muttering into your skin, "and i really want to fuck you, too." his lips come into contact with your neck, pressing feather light kisses onto your sensitive spots. he moved closer to you, caging you against the wall.

your heavy gasps and panting mixed together, and the bedroom got hotter by the second. then, he hiked your dress up to your hips and traced his fingertips on the lace of your panties, getting closer and closer to where you were desperate for him.

you gasped and clung onto him, whimpering as his fingers lightly brushed your clothed clit, but then teasingly moved back to tracing the edge of your panties. “chris…”

“hm? what is it, baby?” chris smirked into your neck, his tone teasing and amused. he loved your needy little gasp and wanton whimpers flowing from your lips. his cock was pressing against his jeans at how sensitive you were, knowing that you were this way because he was the first to ever touch you like this.

“i’m nervous.” you murmur, shivering as hands go to your hips to softly grip them. you look up at him and bite your lip.

chris glances at your plump, wet lips and wishes he could ravish them. but then he reminds himself that he has to go slow and teach you some things. “no need to be nervous, i’m right here.” his thumbs massage right beneath your lace on your hips.

you gulp and look to the side, contemplating what you were about to do. “…are you just saying all of this so you can have sex with me?” you blurt out your insecure thoughts, and frown at the silence heavy in the air. did you ruin the mood?

“hey, look at me.” chris demands gently, hooking your chin and making you lock eyes with him. “i never say anything i don’t mean. i know we only met a couple days ago, but i’ve always noticed you.”

your face flushes even more than it already was, your hands hesitantly running up his stomach to his chest. “i noticed you too.” you whisper. he shivers at your touch and words before sighing contently, “i know, i see you staring.” he teases, chuckling as you look away in embarrassment once again.

“on a serious note, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. but if you want to continue, i wanna set a rule first.”

your eyes dart to him, searching for any sign on him lying about anything. there is none, only lust and fondness in his blue eyes as he looks at you. you nod, “alright, what is the rule?” you ask curiously, getting more bold and sliding your hands up his shoulders and around to his nape. you play with his hair slightly and see that he holds back a groan, which you save for later use.

“if you say yes, you’re mine.” his tone is serious and low, it makes your thighs clench and the burning in your stomach feelings like molten. “no dating, fucking, or seeing other guys. we would be exclusively only seeing each other, i don’t just do random hookups on a saturday night.”

you softly smile and nod, “me neither, obviously.” you mutter with slight embarrassment. he laughs and grins at you, “so, do you want to continue, baby?” he asks teasingly, leaning down closer to your lips.

you lick your lips and nod shyly, “yeah. i really do.”

chris hums and one of his rough hands travels to the top of your panties. his fingertips dip into the fabric, trailing across your lower stomach slowly. his eyes stare into yours, savoring your reactions and small noises.

your pussy clenched as his lips suddenly grazed your ear and he lowly whispered, “do you want my fingers, y/n?”

you whine shamelessly and nod, too worked up from a simple whisper and some light touching.

“yeah? then beg.”

holy fuck.

to be continued with actual smut… sorry its so long! i cant help but like the tension leading up to it

[capslocked]

VANITY

male reader x kim chaewon

5k words

"Quarter to six?"

"Quarter to six."

"Quarter to six?" you ask one more time checking your watch, praying for a different answer.

She repeats herself with stern punctuation, "Quarter to six."

You hazard the obvious question, "I thought you said check-in was at seven?"

"I also said we’re meeting everyone for drinks at a quarter to six. You should listen to me more often."

"Well. Shit." You swing yourself about the door frame of the bathroom, your dress socks on the wood floor like skates on an ice rink. "Then we probably need to get ourselves—"

Your eyes immediately find Chaewon’s reflection in the mirror, astonishing, mesmerizing, confounding.

"Whoa." You have no idea if the word actually spills out of your mouth or the airy sound it makes is audible only in your thoughts.

A shy smile dimples her cheeks, pretending it doesn’t notice the obvious leer on your face. "How do I look?"

Gorgeous. Ravishing. Fuckable.

You swallow that candor back down somewhere into your throat before it might otherwise escape you, completely unrestrained.

"You look—incredible." The word sticks to the roof of your mouth as you dart your attention up and down the tiny cocktail dress that barely even constitutes clothing. Its black fabric hugs the contour of her figure so tightly it leaves little to the imagination, but even then you can’t stop imagining all the ways you might rid her of it.

Admittedly, perhaps shamefully, you didn’t think much of Chaewon the first time you met her. Just another pretty girl that would get up on stage to sing and dance—big deal. However, something wouldn’t let you leave it alone. Not only were you wrong, she made damn sure you were sorry for it. You’d found her obstinate, a tad selfish, and more than anything, entirely irresistible.

Before your brain can chide your hands, you saunter forward and wrap yourself around her hips.

"You’re late ya know."

"I wonder why that might be," you say, pressing your lips into her bare shoulder. Your nose tickles the bottoms of her primly cut hair and you breathe in deep. The muddled mix of her shampoo, perfume and the perfect smell that is simply her—it makes a flutter rise in your chest as you let the breath roll off your shoulders.

"You certainly weren’t putting up much of a protest."

"Didn’t realize I had been given a choice."

She smirks, the playful warmth in her eyes holding your reflection with ease. "That’s because you weren’t."

Chaewon pulls your hands forward, folding them gently atop her stomach, the thin material of her dress letting you feel the tightness of those muscles above her waist.

Grabbing a makeup brush off the counter, she delicately applies the finishing touches on a canvas of smooth, porcelain skin, the masterwork of an artist, stretching out along the meticulously drawn lines that define her figure. Your eyes on her and it fast becomes a grand heist of stolen glances; the perfect cut of silky hair resting at her jaw, sculpted eyebrows, sweeping lashes, those perfect lips—the true injustice being that she was so much more than simply the sum of her parts.

You blink your way out of the riptide of brown and gold in Chaewon’s eyes. "Should probably call your friends and let them know we’re running behind schedule."

"Why can’t you?" she asks, "I gave you Minju’s number didn’t I?"

"Well, I mean, they’re not my friends."

Her reflection shoots an eyebrow up somewhere behind those jet black bangs. "Since when are you worried about first impressions?"

"I dunno Chae—you tell me—are they the kind of people to judge a book by its cover?"

"As if there’s anything in those pages of yours worth reading."

Lowering your head, you whisper gently into her ear, "didn’t stop you from paging through them earlier today. Twice."

"Please," she pleads, sparing you a pitiful laugh and slapping playfully at your hands.

Chaewon turns herself in your arms, pulling the hem of that less-than-modest cocktail dress again over the curve of her rear—a battle she’d doubtlessly wage against the fickle garment all evening, one you can’t imagine you’ll ever tire of watching. Hell, you’re not even sure who you’re rooting for.

You watch her eyes widen, glistening, as she reaches her hand up along the edge of your jaw, feeling your smooth, fresh shaven face between her fingers. "You clean up surprisingly nice ya know."

You cock an eyebrow. "Surprisingly?"

Finding a bounce in her feet, Chaewon lifts herself out of her heels. No more than an inch or two, failing to arrive where she wants to be, she repeats the motion several times—her blatantly conspicuous method of demanding you reach down and kiss her.

"Chae… Is there something I can do for you?" you ask, a grin betraying your attempt to play dumb.

"You ass. Come here." A small huff billowing out of her chest, she teases her fingers at the smooth skin on your neck. "Let me at least get a kiss before this becomes all stubbly—otherwise I imagine I’ll have better luck making out with sandpaper."

Before you even get the chance to sink your shoulders, she wraps her fingers around the bottom of your tie, and with a twist and a tug she pulls you into her.

A kiss, sweet but efficient, lingers between you no longer than is prudent. The next, short and inquisitive, is like a second serving of ice cream—inadvisable. For a brief moment, you hold each other with your eyes, able to communicate far more than either of you could ever say. And the third, foolish as it is inviting, finds the last of your inhibition wanting.

You let yourself sink into her, the taste on her lips warming, welcoming, tempting. The spaces between your kisses fill no longer with shy smiles and bated breath, but with profound longing, crashing again in emboldening familiarity.

Your fingers dip dangerously at the hem of Chaewon’s dress, the boundary where smooth skin meets impossibly thin fabric—a playground of reckless decisions. Opposite of you, in no less good judgment, she slides her hands up your chest, quietly lifting your jacket up off your shoulders and finding room for it on the countertop beside you.

Your lips stretch into a coy smirk against hers. "What are you doing?"

Chaewon opens her eyes, mischief smoking from beneath her long lashes, and her voice lilts, "nothing."

She holds her gaze with you, her eyes smoldering with the same playfulness that paints the subtle smirk stretching across her face. She maintains her composure, delicately sweeping her bangs back perfectly into place with one hand, as though she weren’t prying her fingers into the buckle of your belt with the other.

"That’s a whole lot of nothing for someone who was—seconds ago mind you—on my case to hurry up."

"And you’re talking a lot for someone I can feel already getting hard through his pants."

You dig your fingers into the roundness of her ass, pulling her body flush against yours. "I thought you said we were meeting everyone for drinks at six?"

"And I also said check in was at seven," she says, snapping the belt away from your hips.

"You’re insatiable."

"Well, you’re the one who decided to kiss me."

Your eyebrows twist skeptically. "I don’t think that’s how I would describe it."

Her eyes run across the features of your face, resting on the glances she so loved to steal—finding herself contemplating how best she might put your lips to good use. Chin lifted, her voice opens again, "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Perhaps." A flat chuckle breaks your response. "Among other things."

Your hands wander from her waist, up the slender contour of her narrow frame, and you find the shoulder straps of her dress. Rolling them between your fingertips proves them to be as delicate and dainty as they look, easy to sweep off her shoulders with hardly even a simple push.

"Go on then. Let’s get it all out of your system." She unbuttons the front of your pants, sending them to a heap collapsed around your ankles. "What else?"

You think for barely a moment, chirping the first thing that comes to your head. "You’re self-centered."

She pinches the inside of your waistband with her fingertips, pulling it as far as the poor garment will allow before releasing it with a loud thwap. "Uh-huh."

"Spoiled rotten."

"Now that seems a little cold," she says, her voice feigning a despondent tone.

You pull the straps of her dress over her shoulders, letting them fall helplessly down the bare skin on her arms. "And you’re a bit of a brat."

Chaewon’s knuckles fight the tightness of your shorts as she slides her hand to meet the bulge stirring beneath them. She watches closely at the quick breath you draw through tucked lips as she lets her fingers find their favorite spots along your length.

You should be better at this game you play—it’s only the thousandth time you’ve played it. And the score hasn’t been worth keeping for a long time. Maybe somewhere along the way you could’ve picked up a trick or two, but Chaewon is always a step ahead of you, untouchable.

"And still—" Chin lifted, she taps her finger against her lips, her grip beneath the waistband of your shorts tightening. "You want to fuck me so bad."

If she didn’t know it then, she knows it now: somewhere inside you, a red light turns green. You see Chaewon’s mouth opening again, another taunt ready to launch from it, but you steal from her the opportunity, your hand reaching at the nape of her neck, tilting it back—you capture her tender lips again between yours.

Your hands under her arms, you lift her up onto the counter and her legs wrap themselves around you, the edge of her helpless dress rolling up along her thighs until it springs up around her stomach. Her kisses drag along your cheek until you can hear the heat of her breath in your ear.

"What was it you called me? Insatiable?" She works her hand still beneath the tight confines of your shorts as best as they might allow, varying the strength of her fingers’ grip around you—not to mention the unyielding touch of her palm—she rouses your cock fast against its confines. A haughty laugh precedes her. "When you’re this fucking hard?"

"Oh please. Pot, meet kettle." Dragging a finger tip up across the warmth of her entrance, sampling the damp fabric daring to hide it from you still, you listen to her suck a sharp breath past her teeth. 

Mimicking the smug tone of Chaewon’s voice just now, you taunt, "Chae, it lacks a lot of bite when you’re this fucking wet."

You pull the top of her dress down past her chest, two perfect handfuls of soft breasts jumping out over it, two tempting dark buds begging for your lips, your tongue, your teeth. Your nose runs the length of the cleavage gathered in your hands, before again finding her kiss. Once politely, and again expectantly, you pass your tongue against the swell of her lips until finally she lets you in.

"Mmph…" Her muscles jump as you slip your hand again between her thighs, your fingernails ever so barely making contact with gray fabric underneath them. Acquainting themselves quickly to their hot surroundings, your fingertips discover the touches that always make Chaewon weak.

"Twice just wasn’t—enough for you today was it?—you poor thing," you slip forward in the labored breaths between your kisses.

"If we’re keeping count." She bites onto your lip and her hands slide up your chest, looking for something to moor herself to as you press hard against her aching hole, a quiver jolting through her hips. "You only—came in me once."

"I don’t know Chae," you tease, forcing your way past the elastic band around her waist, drawing a gasp from Chaewon’s throat as you dip fingers past the wet warmth you discover. "Weren’t you going on and on about how upset Minju and Yena might be if we’re late?"

“Oh—” She squirms at the pad of your thumb, callously brushing her own wetness over and around her swollen bud. "Screw Minju. Screw Yena. And screw you."

"Well if that’s the case—suppose I could go all by myself." You begin to lean yourself away from her when she reaches for your wrist.

"Do not," she whispers, finding you again with her eyes, now lit so clearly ablaze with want and need.

Her chest jumps at the pleasure you bring, rubbing circles against her freshly shaved mound, and she can’t control the shy smile forming at the corners of her mouth as you drag and tug at the lips of her pussy on each revolving pass. One finger slips inside her warmth, squeezing past her tight entrance. She closes her eyes and tucks her chin to her chest, slowly drawing a purposeful breath in through her nose.

Her hands clutch greedily onto the fabric of your shirt, as you continue to explore the warmth of her hole, teasing at the spots you’ve long learned to recognize, the ones that could make her sing.

“So.” Rubbing and caressing the warm walls around it, your finger makes way for a second, Chaewon shuddering at the sudden inclusion. "You want to cum on my fingers? Or my tongue?"

"Don’t tease me." Her fingers grip tightly around the shape you imprint against your underwear and her brow furrows. "I want this."

There’s a part of you that wants to refuse her, especially when she dons that pouting look, eyes blazing and scowling—you’re convinced she’d trademarked it—but you’ve been trying your best to persuade your thoughts to think of anything other than pinning her to the wall since you caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. There was no chance.

You feel Chaewon clench around you as you slowly drag your fingers out of her pussy, your fingers coated still in her warm wetness. A step back and the two of you let your eyes communicate to each other exactly what it is you need. Two sets of underwear sliding down off your legs, you both gaze upon temptation, upon the only thing that might release you from it.

Your fingers still wet with the fruits of her excitement, you pump them liberally around your cock, lathering a slippery sheen from hilt to head. Chaewon’s eyes still fix closely on you, like an architect reading a set of blueprints, or a musician a new piece of sheet music, she studies you, undoubtedly taking meticulous notes. Even with the experience she’d built, entanglement after entanglement, seducing orgasm after orgasm out of you, she always had a hunger for more.

Coaxing her forward on the counter, she raises her hips and hangs her ass just over the edge of it, supporting herself on the hands she plants onto the counter behind her. Chaewon whines as you rub the tip of your cock between the lips of her pussy, gathering more of the wetness that glistens and shines around the warmth radiating just beneath its beautiful folds.

You shuffle your feet, adjusting your height to hers. "Ready?"

She hooks herself off the back of your neck, lip curling between her teeth, and for the first time in a while, Chaewon has no cute response, no quip to needle. She simply nods her head.

"Fuck," she hisses, her face wincing as you push yourself into her warm embrace. The further and further you fill her, the more you can feel her stretch to receive you. You hang your head a moment on her shoulder, overwhelmed by the heat, the depth, the tightness that is Chaewon around you. It doesn’t matter how many times you’d buried yourself inside her, it always rearranges your thoughts, makes it difficult to speak.

"Chae—god—you’re tight."

Your hips are second to move, Chaewon quickly lifting hers against you, desperately searching for the friction they now so desperately crave. She punches her breath into your ear, teasing again, "C’mon now. It’s not your first time—don’t just stand there."

A groan leaks from your chest, your cock carefully moving itself again past her entrance. You struggle with the tie around your neck, and Chaewon gathers the cue to start working at the buttons down your shirt, freeing you of everything save a pair of dress socks you hope she wouldn’t look down to notice. Though luckily she’s more interested in your lips—reaching her hands into your hair and seizing you into a kiss of her own. You can feel the vibration of each quiet moan that escapes her lungs rattle off your teeth as your slow thrusts find a momentary rest, deep in the heat of her aching cunt.

You cup Chaewon’s breasts between your fingers, squeezing the soft malleable skin a tad harder than you should, and a strained yelp spills through the seal of your kiss. The sound only persuades you to find her swollen nipples, rolling and gently twisting the sensitive flesh between your fingertips. You drink in the sounds of her reactions, wincing and gasping, working her between your hands.

Slowly, on account of the way Chaewon manages to suck you in, you find yourself moving faster, hitting deeper, the connection between your lips struggling to meet your rhythm. Chaewon’s legs reach around you, pulling you further into her at the end of each thrust, wrapping and gripping your cock with a perfect warmth. It’s your turn to roll your lip past your teeth, biting down to find a momentary release as the feeling of Chaewon’s tight body becomes foolishly enjoyable. You stammer, "You feel so fucking good Chae."

She closes her eyes tight. "Yeah—you’re—making me—so—wet."

Heavy breaths slice the words coming from Chaewon’s mouths into fragments, each rising and falling with the motion of your hips crashing against hers. "Your cock—it feels so—amazing."

Reaching forward, you find the soft skin beneath Chaewon’s jaw with your lips. The way she looks, the way she feels, the way she sounds—your thoughts are filled with her. A taste of salt from the first few beads of sweat enters your mouth, and there’s little left you can do to possibly escape her.

"Fucking—," Chaewon groans, her fingers digging into your back, "I need it faster—harder."

You pull yourself off her, untangling her arms and legs from your back and in one swift motion, gathering her ankles together over your shoulder. The toes of her shoes click against one another as you position her where you want her, where you need her. The weight of her round thighs pressed into one another—the slick walls around you—you feel it almost pushing you out of her warmth completely. But you dig in on your heels, pushing yourself into her and relishing the unreal tightness that you bury yourself in, again and again.

The sounds off her lips, they drive you mad. The look on her face, it drives you mad. The grip she has on your throbbing cock, it drives you mad. But its her eyes—filled now with urgency and need—lustful eyes that drink in the image of you fucking her, trusting eyes that look to you provide everything she could ever desire, gentle eyes that hold you tender yet, they effortlessly set your heart aflame.

No longer committed to words, having found the adjusted angle, the new depth, the novel sensation of your cock burying itself into her, she simply lets out a long, seedy moan, one that starts on the lofted pitch of a particularly lustful note, and ends panting miserably beneath her breath.

"Chae," You groan, teeth gritting as you slam your hips into the soft cushioning of her thighs, "you feel incredible."

"Faster." The word barely makes it over the out-of-breath puffs of dry air that heave off her chest. "Please—I need more."

You give her more. And then some. There’s little you can hear beyond the sound of your own thighs slapping wet skin against hers. Each time you bury yourself into her, you can hear the blood rush to your head, spinning and twisting your thoughts about and flushing back down as you pull yourself out along the slippery walls of her pulsing cunt. You hug tighter at the legs across your chest, gripping Chaewon’s delicate body and racking it beneath you—her moans grow louder, more intense, more needy.

Again her voice rasps, "faster."

Always is everything on her terms. It doesn’t quite make you angry, but you’d be lying through your teeth if you said she didn’t often frustrate you. You slow yourself at the end of a long stroke, dragging your throbbing length slowly out of her pussy and wiping sweat from your brow. "Hop down."

Exasperated, she complains, "What the hell are you—"

"Hop down."

Chaewon’s eyebrows twist in confusion, and she whines as you pull yourself from her grip completely. Her feet land on the floor and a huff of hot air shoots from her chest. Just because she’s a handful doesn’t mean you can’t steer her with a commanding voice, the sternest you can muster—a commodity increasingly in demand.

"Now turn around."

With a slight hesitation, and her gaze lingering in yours, she shuffles and faces the mirror. You press yourself behind her, your slick shaft welcomed by two gentle curves of her ass. She’s caught in your reflection, just as you are in hers. You watch closely how her lips purse and her eyes shut tight the moment you take her breasts in your hands. "Do you want me to make you cum?"

A quiet voice, subdued and meek, splits the silence, "yes."

You lean forward, lips hovering against her ear. "Grab the sink."

For once, Chaewon does as she is told, her fingers curling over the top of the chic white bowl beneath the mirror. The hourglass of her figure presenting itself perfectly at your waist, you grab a hold of hers, the bunched fabric of her dress filling your hand.

You dip your finger into her folds, quivering in exactly the messy state you’d left them. "Tell me exactly what I should do."

She raises her face between her shoulders, eyes practically glaring at you through the mirror. "Fuck me."

The tip of your cock against her, you tease the lips around her entrance, the obvious look of need filling in Chaewon’s expression."Aw—Chae—we both know you can give better directions than that."

Begrudgingly, desperately, she plays along. "I want you—I need you—to fuck me until I—"

You watch her mouth gape and her eyes widen as you drive into her. Burying yourself in the inviting, stretching, grips of her pussy, your hips land flush against the soft tender skin of her ass. It's an angle that hits deep, Chaewon still struggling to vocalize the words failing to leave her tongue, but as you thrust yourself into her again, the look of shock becomes one of pure euphoria.

You can feel a specific fatigue, one that arrives with three sessions—Chaewon’s appetite voracious—in a little under twelve hours, but any weary thoughts you harbor are galvanized by the image of Chaewon’s toned, tight, athletic body, folded against your waist, writhing in the pleasure only you could bring. Finding again a tumultuous rhythm, you fuck the girl in your hands with reckless abandon.

"How does that feel Chae?" Tightening your grip on the fabric of her dress, you pull her back into each of your thrusts, her ass receiving your hips and ringing with a strident slap.

"So hard—so deep," she gasps, her voice trailing off into an urgent cry, "so—fucking—amazing!"

The prim cut of jet black hair that rests on her shoulders had become disheveled and unruly, a rare sight. Her face twists and contorts deliciously in front of you as she watches attentively at the way you fuck her.

"God—God—God, fuuuuck!" she cries, rolling her hips back and rocking opposite your thrusts. Yearning, pleading, she needs you and your cock bad. Sinking her face between her shoulders, she slides forward onto the counter. "There. There. There. There!"

You can see only one hand, knuckles clenched, grip helplessly at the sink, while the other steals away between her thighs, rubbing and caressing at the hot mess between them. There was never an enough for Chaewon—always needing more attention, love, pleasure—little was ever sufficient.

The dress around her waist, bundled and clutched in your hands makes the perfect rein, and you pull back on its makeshift strap, bringing Chaewon’s shoulders nearly flat against yours. Taking in the image first on the mirror, your flushed faces inches apart, gasping for breath, you bend and kiss at the skin that draws her neck from her shoulder.

"Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck!" The cries of pleasure keep you locked into a dangerous cadence, slamming your hips into her, filling her with your throbbing shaft. She mewls, she moans, and you reach a hand against her breasts, pressing together soft skin—an outlet for your pleasure and a conduit for hers. "You’re gonna—I’m—fuck!"

You whisper into her ear, catching a nipple between your fingers, twisting, teasing, tormenting. "Cum on this cock Chaewon—cum however you like."

Her voice is hoarse, but still she begs, "Tell me—tell me how you like fucking me."

"Chae," you strain against gritted teeth, "I fucking love it."

"Tell me there’s no one—no one better."

"Nobody—" you clench your eyes tight, letting the blood flow anywhere else in your head. "Nobody is even close."

"I can’t!—Fucking—I can’t!—god it’s so—fuck!"

The words out of her mouth are less and less cohesive, your name, curses and nonsense all muddled beneath her breath in whatever order the pleasure reeling through her head prefers. She moans, she mewls, and all too obviously, she seeks release.

Her eyes find yours through the reflection above the sink, smoldering, they say a thousand words, most of them fuck and please admittedly, but you recognize the look that makes your heart, droning along its dull beat, catch fire and race—the one she held beneath her lashes the first time she told you she loved you, and every time after that.

She’s obstinate, selfish. She can be a bit of brat. But she’s perfect. And she’s yours.

"Chae I’m gonna—"

Just a little more, she mouths silently, nodding her head and struggling to keep her eyes open still, stealing everything they need from you.

It takes everything in you to keep yourself from crossing that threshold, to make it just a little more. Cumming together was for fairy tales, and you weren’t going to be around to see the look on Chaewon’s face should you beat her to it. You bite your lip, your cheek, your hands press relentlessly into her breasts, her ass, anything that might distract you just a few more precious moments from the intense, quivering heat clenching around your shaft.

"Fuuuuuck."

The word is long and drawn out. Through its vowels, it meanders from its initial register a scale of wildly salacious notes, each one more debauched and husked than the last, until finally it lands hard, crackling on those final consonants. Chaewon’s body goes rigid, landing forward again against the counter.

Leaning into her, you follow the curving rise of her spine, fingers digging harshly into the perfect shape of her ass—pulling her into the ends of your thrusts. She quivers and quakes, trembling through the storm of pleasure you’d both created between her legs. It clutches you, clenches around you.

"Fuck, Chae, I’m gonna fucking cum—"

A surprisingly lucid moment has you both staring into each other, Chaewon’s face twisted and strained—her eyebrows curling and her lip between her teeth—she nods. And on a particularly deep, rather unforgiving thrust, she takes you completely into her. The warmth envelops you and you begin to feel dizzy. You don’t even know how to describe the sound that leaves your lips, but it makes the tension building in your head more bearable all the same.

Chaewon’s cunt still quivering in ecstasy, you erupt.

Her voice rasps past your ears as you continue to fuck your cum into her, "Fuck—baby, that’s it, cum for me."

As much as you want to continue soaking in the visual in front of you, the curve of her back, the flare of her hips, the flustered look on her face, your eyes shut tight. A primal instinct, involuntary and cruel. You feel each jolt from your hips delivering more of your hot release deep into Chaewon’s orgasm—clenching and pulling you further into her.

Your hips slow to a halt, your cock still resting in her, and Chaewon reaches up again, finding your lips in a clumsy kiss, her lips cool, wet and comforting. Heavy breaths shared between you start to rouse you back into reality and the noise of Chaewon’s phone buzzing stridently on the vanity rips you both back into the world of the living.

Minju’s smiling face appears atop her name on the dark screen—slowly vibrating its way to the edge of the counter. You pant, gathering enough breath to ask the obvious question, "Are you gonna answer that?"

Chaewon stares at it blankly for a couple seconds, weighing her options, before finally reaching forward and picking it up. Her breathing still beleaguered, she does her best attempt at whipping a composed voice together.

"No—we’re still—I know, I’m sorry."

She mouths to you, pointing expectantly at the heap of clothes on the floor. And then she sees it.

"Were you wearing those socks the whole fucking time?—no, Minju, I mean—I’m sorry that was—" She gives you a sour look and tosses your jacket out the door. Holding her phone against her neck, Chaewon’s instructions are clear, "Check-in is at seven."

[fruitcoops]

Opening your page always reminds me of Jules- and we haven't seen him in a while!! Can he come back in one of your fics soon ?

Jules <3 Always a legend, always beloved here. Character credit goes to @lumosinlove, Hattie belongs to me, and the cinnamon roll recipe is lifted directly from this video by Claire Saffitz on the NYT channel! Bon appetit!

“Hello MTV, and welcome to my crib.” Remus paused, then turned to Julian. “Do you understand that reference?”

“No.”

“That’s so depressing. Why are you so young?”

“Why are you so old?”

Remus wrinkled his nose and turned back to the camera. “Welcome to a new installment of Lion Pride’s baking series. I’m Remus Lupin, and I’m here today with my little brother to make everyone’s favorite breakfast food—”

“Pancakes.”

“—cinnamon rolls.” Remus frowned down at where his brother was kneeling on a stool and rocking gently back and forth. “You knew that. We practiced.”

Julian arched a brow at him. “My favorite breakfast food isn’t cinnamon rolls.”

“Not everything is about you.” A light poke to his forehead made Julian stick his tongue out. Remus stifled a smile. “You ready?”

“To eat a spoonful of icing? Duh.”

“We’ll get there eventually.” Remus pulled a large ceramic bowl from the collection of dishware to his left; the pattern was faded around the rim from years of use, but the bowl itself was shiny and clearly cared-for. “Alright,” he began. “I’m not a huge baker, but Jules and I grew up with Saturday cinnamon rolls, so this is a bit of a family recipe. Someone is probably going to type it up for you guys since my handwriting is iffy—”

“Literally unreadable,” Julian coughed.

“Shut up. The recipe will be somewhere on the Lion Pride website, or linked in the description below. In the meantime, we’re going to do a step-by-step demonstration for anyone who would like to try this at home. Milk?”

Julian passed the half-gallon over before looking to the camera. “This recipe is also going to be on our mom’s Instagram, if you look up ‘baking with Hope’. All one word, no caps.”

Remus snorted as he measured the milk into a pan waiting on the stovetop. “Nice. Love the shameless plug.”

“I made a bet with Dad that she’d have more followers than you by the end of the year.”

“Of course you did.” Remus shook his head, but it was more fond than anything. “We’re measuring a cup of milk into a pot on the stove, and then we’re going to warm it up until there are tiny bubbles on the sides.”

“That’s called a simmer, for anyone watching,” Julian informed the camera.

“It’s called bubbles, for the rest of us plebians.”

“What’s a plebian?”

“You.” Remus took a whisk from a small bowl on the side and stirred gently. “Timing for this step kind of depends on your stove, so just keep an eye out and make sure it doesn’t burn. We’re going to keep the milk at the small bubble stage—”

“Simmering.”

“—for….a minute? Ish?” He shrugged. “Until it steams. Then we’ll turn the heat off and measure out a third of a cup.”

Julian pushed his elbows onto the countertop, leaning over to watch. “You should tell the people we’re doing this at night.”

“What? Oh, yeah, this is an overnight thing. It’s currently…” Remus squinted to something off-screen. “Just before eight in the evening. We’re going to let the dough rest overnight, then finish in the morning.”

“We’re staying over for the P-L-A-Y-O-F-F’s,” Julian said. They reached down to knock on the cabinets in unison with near-identical grins.

“We deserve some cinnamon rolls.”

“Hell yeah.”

“Ew, don’t swear on camera.”

“That’s not swearing.”

Remus raised his eyebrows and gave a threatening shake of the whisk. “If you drop a swear word right now, I’m hitting you with this. That’s a promise.”

“You’re the one that taught me all the swear words!”

“So not true.” Remus stirred the milk once more, tapping the whisk gently on the side of the pot. “Dad is responsible for at least half. Okay, this has been bubbling for a little while, so I’m going to turn the heat off and pour about a third of a cup into the bowl over here. Then Jules is going to add some flour to the main pot and give it a stir.”

Julian took the whisk from him with unbridled glee and dumped the flour in; Remus held the pot handle for him while he mixed, still leaning on the countertop to adjust for height. “It’s getting thicker,” Julian noted with a glance at the camera. “It’s kinda like…paste? Or Nutella.”

Remus’ mouth twitched with a smile. “Nutella is a paste.”

“Nutella is a butter.”

“It’s literally hazelnut and chocolate paste.”

“Butter is just milk paste.”

“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me,” Remus laughed. “God. Okay. Once your milk and flour looks thick like this, you’re going to add it to the big bowl with the other milk in it and add some cold water so your rolls aren’t messed up.”

“That was so scientific,” Julian said dryly.

“This is a lot of criticism from a kid that doesn’t even like cinnamon rolls.”

“I like them. They’re just not my favorite.”

“Then you’re lame, and I don’t want to hear it.” Remus clapped his hands on either side of the bowl and looked into the lens. “Wow, this is going to take forever. I’m not a baker. Bear with me. We’re adding three eggs to the bowl and whisking that, which I’m going to do because I don’t trust people under the age of twelve with raw egg.”

Julian narrowed his eyes. “I’m coming back here in three days and cracking very egg you own.”

Remus smiled. “Happy almost-birthday. Anyway, the bowl is mostly cool now, so we’re going to add all that flour in here—yep, thanks, bud—and then a half-packet of yeast so it gets fluffy.”

“Why isn’t Sirius doing this? He’s better at baking than you are.”

“Wow.”

“He is!”

“You’re not getting a single bite of this frosting.”

“Don’t hide from the truth.”

Remus shook his head at the camera. “This was supposed to be a cute family bonding video. I’m going to mix this now, because apparently I suck at any kind of baking more complicated than that.”

“I didn’t say that, I just asked why Sirius isn’t doing the stuff he likes doing.”

Remus turned the hand-mixer to a lower, quieter setting and rested his hip against the edge of the counter. “How often does Sirius voluntarily get in front of a camera?”

Julian inhaled, then faltered with a grimace. “Hmm. Yeah. Never mind. He’s still better at it than you are.”

“You’re still not getting frosting.” Remus clicked the mixer a notch higher. “We’re keeping this at a pretty low setting so the dough stays soft, and we’re only going to let it run until the dough is one big lump. Now that that’s together, we’re turning the mixer off and covering the bowl with a towel for about five minutes while we get our sugar, salt, and softened butter ready.”

The camera cut briefly; when it returned, Julian was scraping fine crystals off the countertop into a towel Remus was holding over the edge. “Slight problem,” Julian said through a laugh. “Uh, we got a little bit excited about the sugar.”

“Oh, god, it’s getting all over the floor—” Remus straightened slightly and whistled. “Hattie! Treats!”

The house was silent for a moment before the sound of skittering paws reached the camera. Both Remus and Julian broke into wide grins, and Julian dusted his hands onto the floor so he could reach down and pet the pointed ears just barely visible over the counter edge. “Hi, baby,” he cooed, leaning over until he was mostly out of frame. “Aw, little vacuum cleaner. Is sugar bad for dogs?”

“She has eaten so much worse.” The inky tip of Hattie’s tail was the happiest metronome in the world while Remus dumped a small container of salt and sugar into the dough. “We’re going to blend this until the dough gets stretchy instead of lumpy, still on low speed, and—hi, honey, I don’t have anything in my pockets. I promise. No, you can’t eat my keys. There’s definitely still some stuff on the floor for you, though.”

A black nose appeared by Julian’s knee and he giggled as it wandered down the side of his pants, honing in on each pocket. Hattie sneezed when she reached his sock and gave the hem of his pantleg a light nibble. Julian beamed up at Remus. “Can I bring her home with me?”

“If you steal my dog, I’m donating you to Goodwill. Okay, this is going to go for about twenty minutes and they’re definitely going to speed that up in editing, so here’s the rundown: mix this for 20 minutes, add your butter in tablespoon chunks, mix it until the dough is soft, then let it sit on your counter for an hour before putting it in the fridge.”

“Why don’t we just put it right in the fridge?”

“Because the yeast would die.”

Julian’s eyes went wide. “Yeast is alive?”

--

The kitchen was much brighter when the video returned—the new camera angle allowed sunlight to stream in through the side window unhindered, as well as giving an unobstructed view of Hattie on the floor by Remus’ slipper-clad feet. Her yawn squeaked, pink tongue lolling, but her full attention was fixed on the activity above.

“It’s about eight in the morning now, hence the pajamas,” Remus informed the camera. “I took the dough out of the fridge about ten minutes ago, and you can see it’s close to doubled in size.”

Julian gave the bowl a mournful look. The cowlick on the side of his head matched Remus’ with frightening accuracy. “How long is this going to take?”

“You can go back to sleep once it goes in the oven. We’re going to do the filling right now, though.” Remus held a hand out; Julian passed him a crinkly plastic cracker sleeve. “These are airplane cookies. Or biscotti, or whatever the fancy name is. They have cinnamon roll spices in them because I’m too lazy to track down all the individual bottles from the spice cabinet this early. You can probably find them in the recipe. I don’t know. You can crush them in a food processor if you want to wake up your entire family, or you can just use a rolling pin.”

Remus set the sleeve of cookies on the countertop and handed over the rolling pin—one half-started “wait” and an enormous THUD later, both of them were frozen, staring at the ruptured end of the plastic sleeve where shards of cinnamon cookie had burst forth.

“Oops,” Julian whispered.

“Or,” Remus began. “You can give your little brother a rolling pin and kill two birds with one stone.”

“…my bad.”

Remus glanced at the ceiling. They were silent for a handful of seconds. “Honestly, dude, I don’t think anyone noticed.”

Julian muffled a laugh in the crook of his elbow and Remus turned away for a moment to compose himself, filling the kitchen with quiet snickering as Hattie cleaned up the few crumbs that had fallen onto the floor by her paws. Finally, Julian picked up the rolling pin and began gingerly crushing the rest of the cookies. “I’m gonna keep going until it’s kinda powdery, I think.”

“Good plan.” Remus shot a quick, small smile at the camera while he watched Julian work, brow creasing with the effort. “We’ve got a stick and a half of soft butter here when you’re ready.”

It didn’t take long; Julian carefully poured the crushed cookie into a bowl and folded the butter through with a faintly rainbow-tinted spatula. Remus took a pan from the ever-shrinking pile of dishes beside them and lined it with parchment paper, ripping the edges so they would fold nicely in the corners.

“Kay.” Julian tilted his head at the filling and nodded. “It’s smooth.”

“Sick. Scootch over, I’ll roll this out.” Remus tossed a small handful of flour onto the countertop before dumping the dough out, dropping a playful elbow to Julian’s side. “Ope, sorry.”

“You’re so mean to me.”

“Whatever. We’re going to make this into a rectangle so it’s easier, and it should be fine for rolling because it was in the fridge all night. I’m going to flatten this until it’ll fit in the pan. It’ll be…an inch thick? Half an inch, maybe? And then Jules, you’re gonna spread the filling over it.”

Julian frowned. “We’re cooking it flat?”

“What? Why would we do that?”

“You said it should be the length of the pan.”

“Yeah, so that all the pieces will fit.”

“Oh. That makes more sense.”

“We’re not making cinnamon pita.”

Julian tipped his head back and forth. “Doesn’t sound bad, actually.”

“You’re eleven, you’re basically a garbage disposal.”

“I’m basically twelve.”

“Three days.”

“Ugh, you’re so annoying.”

Despite the back-and-forth, Julian tucked himself close to Remus’ side while Remus rolled the dough into an even rectangle, and spread the filling across it with intense focus. “Leave a little space on the sides to roll it up,” Remus suggested gently. Julian’s tongue poked out at the corner as he scraped the edge clean and gave a last sweep with the spatula before leaning away.

“Good?”

“Perfect.” Remus loosened the edge closest to him and began to roll it up with steady, methodical hands. “You want to go slow with this part, or else it won’t spiral. And once we get it to the end here, we’re going make sure it’s all nice and even before cutting. Uh, I’m using unflavored dental floss right now because that’s what I have, but you can use string or whatever. If you use a knife, you might squish the inside and get a wonky shape.”

“Dad uses fishing line.”

“Mhmm.” Their concentrated frowns matched while Remus slid the floss beneath the roll and wrapped it around, allowing the floss to slice cleanly through the dough. Julian buried a yawn in Remus’ shoulder and gave a slow, sleepy blink. Once the rolls were cut, they filled the parchment-lined pan to the edges. Remus cracked his knuckles and looked up at the camera. “We’re going to take a quick breakfast break while these double in size, and I’ll put them in the oven at 350 degrees for 15 minutes after that. We’ll see you for the frosting!”

“Your TV voice is weird.”

“Your TV voice is weird,” Remus mimicked, prodding him until Julian hopped off his stool with a laugh. “Go eat your Cheerios.”

The video sped through their break—Remus collected a few items from the fridge and returned to the counter to mix a handful of ingredients into a bowl. The pan steamed, the coffeepot bubbled, and Hattie waited dutifully by his side for her allotted bits of ham, hand-fed alongside a few Cheerios from Julian. The rolls went in and came out without a fuss as Remus finished the scramble and smiled to someone off-screen.

“Frosting,” he announced when the video returned to normal speed. “Super easy. Cream cheese, powdered sugar, vanilla. Mix it up, then add a stick of butter, because this recipe is delicious and also personally clogs your arteries. Jules, touch the rolls for me.”

“Why?”

“To check if they’re cooled down.”

“But they might be hot.”

“Right, which is why I’m making you do it.”

Julian scrunched his nose at him, but gave the rolls a tentative poke. “They’re fine.”

“Sweet.” Remus tugged the pan to the middle of their workspace and scooped a lump of frosting into the center. Overall, it kept its shape as he slathered it to each edge and corner. Julian gave an expectant look; Remus paused, but scraped the last bits off the sides of the bowl and handed the laden spatula to him with an affectionate roll of his eyes. “Don’t tell mom.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jules said around a mouthful of thick sugar.

Remus pushed the rolls toward the camera with a smile that dimpled one cheek. “That’s all for today, folks. Hope you enjoyed making cinnamon rolls with us, or at least enjoyed seeing the real star of the show—”

“Me.”

“—Hattie. Make sure to tune in for our home game in Gryff tomorrow night!"

[formulaforza]

puppy-- m.schumacher

pairing: mick schumacher x reader word count: 680

“Oh, look at this one!” You grinned at your phone screen, turning it to show Mick, grinning at him. On the screen, a picture of a puppy that was up for adoption at your local shelter. You’d been looking, trying to convince Mick that the two of you needed to get a dog together, to get Angie a playmate, for months now. He’s completely against it, but, you know he’s wrapped around your finger. It’s only a matter of time before you break him. 

He doesn’t even look at the screen, dramatically covers it and turns it back to you. “We are not getting another dog.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Angie needs a sibling.” You say, and the dog’s ears perk up from the end of the couch at her name. “She told me.”

He laughs, cocks his head to the side. “Did she, now?”

You cross you arms over your chest, reaffirm your statement with confidence. “She did.” He nods, pets her. “When you were in the shower earlier.” You say, return your attention to the website, try to find a dog he’ll think it cuter, one he won’t be able to resist. 

“Oh, well if Angie told you.”

You head shoots up from the screen to him. “Really?”

He smiles like he’s going to say yes, even nods, but then his face drops. “No.”

You roll your eyes, and he chuckles. “Fine.”

You trick him into just looking a few weeks later. Run errands with me, please, you asked him that morning, and he agreed, figured he be spending the day twiddling his thumbs and walking the line of honesty and cruelty while sitting in the boyfriend chairs at your favorite stores. Maybe, he thought, if he was really lucky, you’d take him to the grocery store and he’d get to have a say in the snacks in the house this week. 

“We have to stop at the pet store,” You told him. “Ange needs more food.” You’d seen on the shelter’s social media page that they were hosting an event at the pet store in hopes of getting some of their dogs and cats adopted this weekend. Mick, was clueless, didn’t even notice the sign at the front of the building, didn’t put the pieces together until he heard the little yelps of puppies and was being dragged to the play pens by you. 

“I just want to look.” You said, knew there was no way you weren’t leaving the store without one of these sweet dogs. There’s no such thing as just looking, it’s a ponzy scheme created to manipulate your partner into falling in love with an animal, and it works every time. 

It’s not ten minutes later and Mick is in love with a puppy–a golden retriever mixed with a super mutt, probably. Very fitting, very cute. “We’re just looking.” He says when he catches you smiling, giddy, because you’re looking at your new dog. You nod, pretend, just like he does, that you don’t know the truth. 

A couple hundred dollars worth of toys and food and a collar and a bed and all the other necessities–luxuries–a new puppy needs are being purchased by the end of the hour, along with the little golden puppy. “I think we should name him Gary.” You say, holding the dog, kissing his little nose. “Gary and Angie.”

“Absolutely not.” He says, takes the receipt from the cashier and sticks it in one of the many bags. “We are not naming our dog Gary.”

“Do you hear that Gary?” You say, voice half and octave higher, baby talking the dog. “Dad doesn’t like your name.”

“Your name isn’t Gary, Gary.” He tells the dog. 

“But he just called you that, didn’t he?” You giggle, follow behind Mick to the car and half-ass helping him put the bags in the car because Gary is already falling asleep in your arms and you don’t dare wake him. 

“I’m never just looking at anything with you, ever again.” He says in the car.

“I think we should just look at engagement rings.”

[daydreaming-en-pointe]

╰┈➤ i won’t sleep till you’re safe inside.

Pairing: Pavitr Prabhakar x Sister!Reader (platonic obviously)

Type: Fanfic - Fluff -> Angst

Word count: 8.5k (🫢🤯)

Warnings: NOT CANON-COMPLIANT! (I’ll make a list of everything that’s probably not canon but is for this fic) colour-coordinated dialogues to make it easier to understand who’s talking, starts out fluffy but evolves into angst, cussing, reader is desi, usage of Hindi (translations given, except for the Sheila Ki Jawani song), hahaha culturedumping & projection go hand in hand 😭

Some Goldenmodel (is that their official ship name??) too! (pls they’re literally so cute 🫠🫠)

A/N: Basically where Pavi loses his sister instead of Gayathri :D

The numbers at the top of every section indicate Pavitr and the reader’s age respectively (reader is older than Pavi) :)

Andddd the Pavitr Bhim Prabhakar hc continues 😁

Probably (Definitely) Non-Canon List:

-reader’s existence basically since she’s the daughter of Maya Aunty and Uncle Bhim (so she’s not technically his sister she’s his cousin but close enough!)

-I actually have NO idea how Pavi’s parents died or anything abt them so I’m basically making stuff up hehe

-Reader also gets the scholarship to Mumbattan that Pavitr got, but for a different subject

-kinda waffling on Bhim’s death since I’ve never actually read the comic where he died so idk much of anything

-Reader helps Pavi make his webshooters (kinda)

-Pav may be a teensy bit ooc I apologize for that

-there’s probably a lot more but none I can pinpoint specifically right now

(this is the song that Pav sings btw)

title inspo:

Will you call me to tell me you’re alright?

Cause I worry about you the whole night

Don’t repeat my mistakes

I won’t sleep till you’re safe inside

(Safe Inside, James Arthur)

——— ———

4 & 6.

“Didi!”

You stifled a giggle, peeking out from behind the tree you were hiding behind to see the tiny boy scrambling over rocks and protruding tree roots, his eyes squinted in concentration as he searched for you.

“Come out, come out wherever you- ai!” He cut himself off with a sharp squeal of surprise, stumbling backwards as you leaped out and bared your teeth like the demonic rakshasas that seem to lunge right off the pages of your mother’s - Pavitr’s aunt’s - mythology books.

“Not fair,” Pavitr complained, glaring up at you and crossing his arms. His nose scrunched at the injustice and you laughed, sticking your tongue out at him and ruffling his hair.

“Totally fair.”

“Nahin! Pura cheating! Didi, tum hamesha dhokha deti ho!” (No! Fully cheating! You always cheat!)

“Oy, Pavi, main kaise dhokha de rahi hai? What nonsense you’re talking.” (How am I cheating?)

“I’m telling Maya Aunty that you’re being mean to me.”

“Wait-”

“Arrey, both of you stop squabbling and come up here,” Maya Aunty’s voice carried down into the lawn from the veranda as she poked her head out of the kitchen. “I made gajar ka halwa. Come eat before Bhim gets back and finishes everything.”

Pavitr’s eyes lit up at the mention of the carrot dessert, all earlier frustrations forgotten for the moment. “Race you!” He turned and darted across the lawn, his hair bobbing as he kicked up clouds of dirt under his shoes.

“Pavi, how is this fair?!”

——— ———

6 & 8.

“Didi! Checkmate! I win!”

“Ai, Pavi, that’s not… chess doesn’t work like…” He turned to you with big, shining eyes, grinning from ear to ear because he thought he had won. You trailed off with a resigned sigh, not having the heart to tell him that he had just got his own king killed.

“Wow, Pavi, you’re getting so good at this! You’re a natural!” You ruffled his hair affectionately, despite his protests and attempts to fight you off.

“Y/N! Yahaan aao!” (Come here)

You immediately perked up, eyebrows drawing together as you heard your mother’s voice, only… something was off. She sounded like she was holding back tears, the beginnings of a raw sob lingering in her throat.

“Haan, Amma? Kya hua?” (Yes? What happened?) (Amma/Maa just means mother)

She sat hunched next to the balcony, a phone in her slack grip. Your father - Pavitr’s Uncle Bhim - knelt with his back to you, holding her and rubbing her shoulders comfortingly. Tears fell from her eyes and the only sounds that split the air were her jagged heaves between soft sniffles.

“Amma? Papa, what happened to Amma?” Unease twisted in your stomach, knitting your eyebrows closer together as you moved forward and grasped your mother’s hand.

Your father turned to look at you and you inhaled sharply.

That was the first time you had ever seen your father cry.

“Pavitr’s parents were involved in an accident,” He struggled to keep his tone even for you.

“An accident? You mean…”

“Yes, beta. They’re… they’re gone.”

Your breath hitched and you backed away slightly, steadying yourself against the wall behind you.

You didn’t know much about what happened - and it would probably stay like that since you were ‘too young to bother yourself with the worries of the adult world - but you knew one thing for sure.

This is going to break Pavi.

I can’t let that happen.

You heard soft patters of bare feet on the marble floors and looked up just as Pavitr’s dark hair disappeared to the side of the doorframe.

Not trusting yourself to speak without breaking down mid-speech, you got up and left without a word, patting your mother’s hand sympathetically on the way.

You found Pavitr sitting against the tree you used to play hide and seek around. He pulled his knees to his chest, resting his forehead on his kneecaps and raising his head when you approached. “What happened, Didi?”

You grasped at words that would help convey it, but to no avail. How could you tell a 6 year old - one who was essentially a brother to you now - that his parents had died?

You had two ways out.

…I should tell him.

“Pavi… Maya Aunty will explain, but… basically, you’re going to be spending a lot more time with us - with me. How does that sound?”

Pavitr grinned, his eyes shining - and of course he had to look like a trusting puppy. Of course it had to make you feel guilty the moment those words, a romanticized version of the truth, left your lips.

“That sounds awesome,” He said happily, half-turning to wrap his arms snugly around your waist in a hug. “We’ll have so much fun! You can finally teach me how to play kancha and lagori like you’ve been wanting to! Right, Didi?”

“…yeah. You’re right.” You leaned down to kiss the top of his head as he nestled comfortably against your side, the strands of hair tickling your chin as you rested your head on his. You felt tears starting to well up as the depth of the situation hit you at full force.

Kaayar. Coward.

——— ———

9 & 11.

“Didi!”

You looked up from your schoolwork as Pavitr burst into your room. “What’s going on?”

“Maya Aunty said there’s some sort of… scholarship? They said we have to go to Mumbattan!” Your eyes shot wide open and you pushed your chair back from your desk to follow him into the kitchen. What scholarship? Mumbattan?

Maya Aunty had told you both that she had submitted samples of your writing and a few of Pavitr’s blueprints for futuristic designs he had come up with for various robotics competitions, but… you never thought the entry would ever amount to anything.

“Amma, Papa, yeh sach hai? Did we get a scholarship to Mumbattan?” (Is this true?)

“Haan, beta.��� Your mother looked slightly tired, weary - but ultimately happy. The happiest you had seen her in quite a while. Your father patted your head affectionately, a large smile on his face. “Well done, both of you. Mere champions.” (My champions)

The moment dissipated like it was never there in the first place when Maya Aunty’s eyebrows scrunched together with worry once more as she turned to Uncle Bhim. “Arrey, Bhim. Hum kaise kharch uthayenge? Mumbattan mei, woh kiraaya-” (How will we afford this? The rent in Mumbattan-)

The moment you heard those words, you let out a soft exhale and took Pavitr’s hand, gently tugging on it and leading him away from the ‘adult’ conversation. By now, you were almost conditioned to do your best to avoid conversations that always got your parents stressed out and sometimes led to frustrated breakdowns which simmered into tearful apologies and doubtful plans.

“Let’s go play kancha, Pavi. I’ll even let you start this time.”

You ran out onto the lawn with him, your hand holding onto his smaller one tightly as if you could protect him from all the harm and sadness and worry that the world had to offer.

——— ———

11 & 13.

“Didi!”

“Don’t didi me. You agreed to this, remember? You brought this upon yourself,” You said between giggles that got increasingly louder at how ridiculous he looked.

Maya Aunty and Bhim Uncle were both out buying groceries, and Pavitr was so bored that he accepted your challenge to see who could balance more than five stones on their forehead. And if he lost, you would get to do his hair and makeup.

That was why he was currently sitting in front of you, bright pink eyeshadow on both his eyelids and wearing the brightest red lipstick you could find. He winced in pain, loudly protesting every two seconds as you tried to put his wavy hair into a Dutch braid. He had let it grow out over the past few months, and at the rate he was going, if he left it for even a little while more it’d be longer than yours.

“You need a haircut, Pavi. I think you might be getting split ends…” You couldn’t help but chuckle at the expression of pure horror that crossed his face at your words, which quickly turned to annoyance. “Shut up, you’re just saying that because you’re jealous- ow!”

“Whoops.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“Did not.” You looped a rubber band onto the ends of the braid, finally finishing and tilting your head to critically examine your handiwork. “There, you’re all done.”

Pavitr glanced at his reflection in the compact mirror you offered him. “Wait, I don’t look that bad. I can pull this off pretty well, actually.”

“Sure you can, sweetie. Let’s do your nails now.”

“You’re the absolute worst.”

——— ———

12 & 14.

“Didi! Rise and shine!”

You groaned softly, turning over onto your side. “Get out.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet and definitely not a prime example of you being mean to your younger brother. Seriously though, we have to get going soon for school.” He expertly dodged the spare pillow you threw at him, deciding to kneel by your bedside and stare you in the eyes like some psychotic cat.

“Not everyone’s a morning person, Pavi. Besides, it’s 6 in the damn morning. Come back in another hour.”

Pavitr didn’t respond, just started humming a tune and tapping out a familiar beat on your bedside table, using two pencils from your desk’s mug of stationery as makeshift drumsticks.

“I know you want it but you’re never gonna get it, tere haath kabhi na aani…”

Your eyes shot open as you recognized the song. “No, Pavi, I swear to God-”

“Maane na maane koi duniya yeh saari, mere ishq ki hai deewani…” Stifling laughter, he backed out of range before you could smack some sense into him with another pillow.

“Pavitr! Stop!” You chucked a pillow at him, sitting up and staring at him in utter astonishment at his song choices.

“Kisi aur ki mujhko zaroorat kya, main toh khud se pyaar jataun! What’s my name, what’s my name, what’s my name…?”

“Pavitr Bhim Prabhakar, if you don’t stop singing that song right now-” You lunged forward, trying to grab him and muffle the lyrics of the Bollywood song he was singing - granted, he wasn’t a terrible singer, and in fact he could sing in Hindi quite well, but out of every song he could’ve chosen… this? “By the way, you missed a few lines, but that’s not the point! Stop it!”

“My name is Sheila! Sheila ki jawani! I’m too sexy for you, mei tere hath na aani-”

Chaos ensued in the next few seconds. Pavitr, who had been running around your room doing whatever choreography he could remember from the scene with that particular song in the movie you had both watched, tripped on the fallen pillow and fell flat on his face.

You had been chasing him around and tripped over him, rolling over and landing beside him. Luckily, you managed to break your fall with your palms.

“How’d the ground taste, hmm?” You asked, offering a hand to help him up.

“You’re mean,” Pavitr complained, taking your hand and pulling himself up. You fixed his slightly ruffled hair, a little surprised at how soft it was. Was he already going through the phase of being obsessed with how he looked?

“Yeah, well. You’re in my room at 6 am singing one of the sluttiest Bollywood songs you know, so… you’ll live, buttercup.” You gave his head a rough pat, turning to reluctantly make your bed - might as well, since you were already awake - as he hovered over your shoulder with a grin.

“But hey, it did get you up, didn’t it?”

——— ———

13 & 15.

“Didi! Where are you? I need to tell you something!”

“…I don’t understand. What are you saying?” You felt so paralyzed that you didn’t even register your brother’s voice. Instead you stared at the person you thought was your boyfriend, dangerously quiet. The calm before the storm. He shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with his sleeve and clearing his throat.

“Um, I think we should break up. I’ve kind of been… seeing another girl. Shreya.”

You were careful to keep your expression neutral, crossing your arms to prevent you from worrying at your nails. “For how long?”

“Uh, I-”

“How. Long. It’s a simple question.”

“Five months.”

“Son of a bitch.” You kept your voice low, sweeping a hand towards the door. “The exit’s there. Leave.”

“Listen, I’m really-”

“Get out. I’m serious. Get the fuck out of here before I make you do so.”

He stopped and stared at you for a few seconds, realizing just how angry you were.

“Okay. Well, it was… good seeing you, I guess. I hope you-”

“Didi?”

This time you heard Pavitr call you, soft hesitancy in his voice that carried into the room from the other side of the door. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Pavi, I’m fine. You can come in.” You covered the cracks in the screens of overly pleasant tones that you layered over your voice so as to make sure he didn’t worry.

He quickly entered your room, and from the way he glared daggers at your now-ex-boyfriend you assumed he had heard everything - or at least, a large chunk of the conversation.

“Hey there, buddy.”

He had the nerve to smile and hold his knuckles out for a fist bump. Truth be told, you felt a sort of bitter satisfaction when Pavitr just glared up at him and didn’t bother lifting his hand to return it.

“Fuck off.”

“What?”

His eyes widened slightly and traveled from the harsh scowl fixed on Pavitr’s face to your dangerously calm demeanour.

“You heard him, didn’t you?”

“I… yeah. I’m going. See you around.”

You followed him with your eyes as he inched toward the door, shutting it behind him.

The moment he left, your unbothered façade cracked and splintered into pieces. You moved yourself to sit on your bed, slipping the covers over your legs. “Thank you,” You murmured to Pavitr, closing your eyes so he wouldn’t see the tears threatening to spill. He came over to sit beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

“Mat rouoh didi. Hum ek movie dekhenge?” (Don’t cry didi. Wanna watch a movie?)

“Haan, please. As long as it’s not Tees Maar Khan, I am not watching that again with you. I’ve had enough of that Sheila ki Jawani. Wait, Pavi, you said you wanted to tell me something?”

“…that’s not important right now, don’t worry about it.”

You didn’t notice him anxiously trying to peel off the edge of the blanket that was stubbornly sticking to the pads of fingers.

——— ———

A week later.

It had happened so suddenly. No one seemed to know anything.

Well, except the fact that your father had died somehow.

I know we fought a lot more in… in the end, but I love you. I always have and I always will, Papa. You made me who I am today, you taught me to know my own worth and accept no less. Believe me, I think about it every day. If you were here I’d tell you.

You wished you could say that out loud, to offer everyone present a window into your thoughts to prove you weren’t just an angsty teenager - or a family disappointment, which a few aunties seemed to believe by the way they were whispering and shooting overly sympathetic looks your way which were quickly followed up by hushed giggles.

But instead you kept your head down and used what little energy you could muster to give a nod of acknowledgement every time a distant relative - even ones you hadn’t seen since you were a baby - popped up in your face to console you.

“Where’s Pavitr? Did he come to the antyesti?” You jumped; you hadn’t noticed your mother hovering beside you until she laid a light hand on your shoulder. She seemed to move around like a spectre; dressed completely in a simple white salwaar kameez with a long white shawl wrapped around her in such a way that it obscured both her arms and her hair, along with part of her face.

“No, I don’t think so - at least, I haven’t seen him.” You looked over her shoulder at the priests starting to get everything prepared for the ceremony and searched the crowds of vaguely familiar people.

Where the hell is he?

Getting the priests to agree to Pavitr - who wasn’t exactly Bhim’s son but the closest thing to it - leading the rituals was hard enough. But then again, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice, did they? You couldn’t exactly do it - the rituals of an antyesti were to be performed by the eldest son. Or the priests themselves, if he couldn’t do it for any reason. Never a woman.

You and Maya Aunty weren’t allowed to do anything except watch and pray.

And now if Pavitr didn’t show up in time-

Thwip! Thwip!

You frowned and shook your head slightly, wondering what the source of that noise was. Oh, well, probably just a pesky mosquito buzzing in your ear.

“Didi, Maya Aunty, I am so, so sorry that I’m late. Did they start already?” You jumped again in surprise - what was it with people sneaking up behind you today? You took in Pavitr’s crisp white dhoti and neatly styled hair, and for a second you couldn’t decide whether to hug him or punch him in the face.

“I’ll tell you everything later, didi. Pinky promise,” Pavitr murmured to you, offering his pinky to you. You linked your little finger with his, looking into his eyes as concern bubbled up to mix with the hurricane of emotions already clamouring for attention in your brain.

He had horrible bags under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept properly in a week. And when you gently squeezed his pinky, his breath hitched as if he was in pain and he drew his hand back after a few seconds. You blinked in confusion, getting a brief glimpse of painful-looking faint purple splotches all along his hand and the underside of his arm. They looked like bruises that had been poorly covered up by foundation that was almost three shades too light for his skin, but before you could say anything he turned to make his way through the crowd.

“Pavi-” You started to ask what was going on, what happened, what was wrong, but he just shook his head, angling his chin toward the priests waiting patiently for him.

“Badh mein, didi. Antyesti ke badh.” (Later. After the antyesti)

——— ———

After the ceremony.

“Pavitr Prabhakar, if you don’t tell me what’s going on-” You came face-to-face with one of your more distant aunties, who immediately lit up excitedly in a way that was probably not suited for a cremation ceremony as soon as she recognized you.

“Arrey, beta! You’ve grown so much! How old are you now? You still sing, no? Kya aapne college ke bare socha hain?” (Have you thought/started thinking about college?)

“Haha… hi, aunty… no, aunty… no, I haven’t thought about college yet… have you seen Pavitr anywhere? I need to find him and it’s really urgent but… oh, uh… yes, of course, I would love to catch up over chai sometime. Sure, we should plan that - oh, sorry, bye! Tell my mother that I’ve gone to look for Pavitr, okay? Thank you!”

Seizing the opportunity that presented itself in the form of another aunty who came waddling over to greet the first one, you squeezed through the crowd of people in sarees and dupattas, some milling about and some dispersing, all accompanied by the almost suffocating smell of jasmine. God, did everyone use the same horrible perfume?

Luckily for you, the antyesti was held fairly close to your house - on a large terrace that was only about a 15 minute walk away.

You got to the front door and fumbled with the set of keys in your pocket for a second, your fingers shaking slightly as the shock and grief began to set in. Adrenaline could only take you so far, it seemed.

“Pavi? Pavi, I’m home, where-”

You opened the door to your room and inhaled sharply at the sight that lay before you. Pavitr leaned against your bed, sitting on the floor with his knees hugged close to his chest, chin resting on his kneecaps. His eyes were squeezed shut, eyelashes fluttering as tears slipped out one after another from underneath them.

“Pavi…? Oh, Pavi, mera chhoti bhai, kya hua? Kisi ne… tumhein chot pahunchaee?” (My little brother, what happened? Did… someone hurt you?) You scooted closer to Pavitr, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and drawing him into your side. He buried his face in your shoulder, tears soaking through the thin fabric of the kurta you were wearing.

“Shh. Sab theek ho jayega. Mujhe batao, Pavi. Kya hua?” (Everything’s okay. Tell me, what happened?)

“I’m Spider-Man.”

You blinked in surprise. Out of all the possible explanations he could have offered you, that was certainly not on your list. “Spider-Man? Matlab… the superhero?” (Matlab means meaning)

The hero had emerged only a week ago. Wearing an intricately patterned mask that left his wavy hair loose at the top, a blue-and-red spandex suit and blue dhoti pants on top of them, he was basically impossible to ignore. You had seen some key similarities between Spider-Man and Pav’s hair, but you had always just assumed it was related to how boys cut their hair like their idols sometimes.

“Chacha died because of Spider-Man. Because of me. He got caught in the crossfire and I couldn’t reach him in time and-” Pavitr’s words spilled together in a panicked haze, blurring each syllable and tripping over letters in an attempt to get them out before he could break again. (Chacha is another word for uncle)

You shifted to face him, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Shaant ho jao. Main yahaan hoon. Main kaheen nahin ja raha hoon.” (Calm down. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere)

“I can’t-” His breath quickened as his whole body started to heave with dry sobs. “Please just… just listen to me. This is what I wanted to tell you last week. I’m Spider-Man.”

He mistook your silence as a sign of disbelief and carried on speaking, trying to convince you. “There were these bullies I was running from, and I tripped and fell into a tree hollow and there was this yogi who said he’d give me the powers of a spider to fight the evil in this world, and I didn’t know it would turn out like this so I accepted and-”

“I believe you.”

That caught him off guard. He pulled back to look at you, his eyes wide. “You do?”

“Of course. You think I haven’t noticed you sticking to everything? You almost ripped the couch’s upholstery clean off because you weren’t paying attention.” You gently swiped your thumb near the corner of his eye, wiping away the tear that was at risk of spilling out. “It’s okay, Pavi. Let’s.. talk about something else for the moment.”

As much as you wanted answers - how exactly had your father died? Which sick, twisted, psychotic ‘villain’ killed him? - you knew when to stop pushing Pavitr and now was definitely that time. Tears still shone in the corners of his brown eyes, not quite ready to fall but not small enough to be blinked away.

“Spiderwebs!”

“What?”

“You need spiderwebs, naa? So you can swing like a spider instead of leaping around and relying on sticking to whatever surface you can reach. Ooh, it’d be so cool if you could shoot them from your hands and lasso bad guys and when they fight back you go dishoom dishoom.” (dishoom is basically just a sound effect for beating someone up 😭 usually punching someone)

“… you mean webshooters?” Pavitr watched your emphatic display of just what dishoom dishoom meant to you with a mildly concerned look on his face before he took a folded up piece of paper out of his pocket and smoothed it out. It was filled with designs for some sort of gadget, the sharp, jagged pencil lines highlighting every feature and listing possible building processes.

“I’ve done some research and I’ve got everything, so I know how to make it. But I need something that can contract if I wrap a web around it… kind of like a yo-yo? But it also has to fit on my wrist so that it’s easy for me to angle where I want the web to go.” He absentmindedly tapped the pencil against the silver bangle you were wearing. The soft clinks gave you an idea and you quickly got up, going to your dresser and rummaging around in the drawers.

“Wait, I think I might have something that’ll work…”

Your fingers closed around what you were looking for and you fished it out. You held two large golden cuffs in your hands, but they weren’t regular heavy cuffs. The top and bottom were actually two separate pieces, joined together in the middle by a stretchy piece of white nylon that went all the way around.

Just looking at it made your heart ache a little as all the memories associated with the simple accessory came flooding back.

Your father had given it to you a few Diwalis ago, when you were throwing a tantrum about having to wear the large bangles to go to with the itchy salwar you had on - against your wishes, of course. But your mother warned you that her mother was a stickler for traditions and insisted on everyone wearing the most colourful ethnic wear you all had, including Pavi.

Your father had slid one of the cuffs onto your right wrist, laughing gently at your surprise look when you discovered how light they were, a stark contrast to the gold bangles that weighed down your other wrist.

“Compromise paaya, hain na?” (We’ve found a compromise, right?)

“Haan, papa.”

Now, more than eight years later, you held one of the last things you had left to keep your father’s memory alive.

And what better way to honour him than to use his kaadas to fight evil and protect the city?

“Use these.”

Pavitr looked up and immediately shook his head, gently pushing away your outstretched hands. “No, didi, I can’t- this is what Uncle gave you-”

“I know. He gave them to me as a gift. And now I’m passing them down to you. Please, Pavi. Take them.” You took his hands, pressing the kaadas into his palms and closing his fingers over them.

Something in your tone made him search your gaze for a few seconds before giving in and bringing the cuffs up to his eyes, testing out the nylon middle. “Wait, this is perfect. If I can just…”

He reached into the depths of one of your drawers and pulled out a small device that looked like it had some sort of fluid sloshing around in its… fuel container, maybe? You furrowed your brow in surprise. “Has that always been there? In my cupboard?”

“Well, yeah. Can’t have Maya Aunty accidentally pulling it out of mine, can we?” He gave you a grin. “Besides, you have so many things stuffed into that one drawer that it’s basically impossible to find.”

He attached the device to the inside of the cuff with a small click and slipped it onto his wrist.

Thwip! Thwip!

With two tiny flicks of his wrist, he had shot two webs to the ceiling and was now hanging upside down, a satisfied grin on his face.

“Well, this is working pretty well-”

Thud.

“Don’t you dare,” Pavitr warned you as he winced and rubbed the spot where he had fallen on his backside.

“I will not laugh. I will not laugh. I will not-”

You couldn’t help but burst into giggles at his mildly pathetic sad-puppy expression as he sat dejectedly on the floor after falling from the ceiling.

“So, uh… the web strength may need some work.”

“Everybody, this is Pavitr Bhim Prabhakar, Mumbattan’s Spider-Man.” You pretend to speak into an imaginary microphone, gesturing animatedly towards Pav as he lay on the floor.

“Oh, sure, announce it to the whole world, why don’t you,” He grumbled, reluctantly pulling himself to his feet.

You gave him an overly sweet smile, leaning over to mess up his hair. “Never. I’m gonna take this secret with me to my grave.”

——— ———

14 & 16.

6 months really went by quickly.

6 months of monthly poojas to honour your deceased father. 6 months of Pavitr being Spider-Man. And also…

“Didi! Why isn’t my hair staying down?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because that bad guy threw you into an electricity tower? Pavi, why are you dressing up all of a sudden anyway?” You sat on the floor of your room as you skeptically watched him brush out his hair. He had insisted that your mirror was big enough and ‘had the best lighting’.

He stayed silent, though you could see him scrunch his nose a little in embarrassment. The realization hit you and you let out a loud - maybe overly dramatic - gasp.

“Oh my god! You have a date!”

“…maybe. So?”

“So that means I get to meet and terrorize them! You know, sibling stuff!”

Pavitr froze for a split second, a small smile starting to form in the corner of his mouth at the last part. Siblings. In all honesty, didn’t that word describe the bond you both shared almost perfectly? Siblings - not by blood, but by something so much bigger than either of you could’ve imagined.

“Absolutely not. Gayatri’s-”

“Gayatri? Is she Punjabi? Ooh, is she pretty? Is she really badass and cool and-”

“She’s a model,” Pavitr interrupted, smoothing down his hair and glaring at you. “And this isn’t my first date with her. Just for the record.”

“Wow, and she’s your age? Damn, Pavi, you managed to pull a model! I’m so proud of you right now.”

“I will strangle you if you don’t stop talking,” Pavitr grumbled, punching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not saying anything bad!”

“Sure you ar-” Pavitr stopped mid-sentence and stiffened, craning his neck and glancing out the window over his shoulder like a cat that had heard something strange. “Wait, someone’s here. Gotta go!”

He dashed into the bathroom and came out two seconds later, fully decked out in his spider suit and mask.

“Don’t get your ass kicked!” You called out as he nose-dived out the window.

“Ha, ha! Very funny!”

——— ———

10 minutes later.

“Pavitr, what the hell?!” You leaped backwards as a strange sort of alien materialized in your room for a split second before they disappeared into a black hole-like void, followed by a… Spider-Man? Not Pav. This one was taller and his suit was red and black, and oh God, was he bleeding from his armpits?

You were tempted to offer him a few cotton wipes and something to clean the wound but he disappeared in after the weird teleporting alien before you could ask.

Pavitr came crashing in through your window, landing on the floor and glancing around. “What? I thought they came here-”

“Really?! Now you show up? I’ve just had some sort of cow-man and a new Spider-Man teleport into my room through a pit and-” You stopped short as another Spider-Man landed on the floor. Except… Spider-Woman? She wore a suit in the shape of a white-and-black ballet leotard and had a hood with web designs on the inside.

“Pavitr, is… this Gayatri?” You tried to wrap your head around the fact that there were three different types of Spider-People and a cow on the wrong side of evolution who had just phased through your house. “Oh, hi, Gayatri, I’ve heard so much about you. Pavi thinks you’re really classy and cool and you’re the prettiest girl alive and-”

Pavitr webbed a pillow and swung it into your face before you could finish, temporarily shutting you up. “Didi, this… this isn’t Gayatri.” Despite his face being covered by his mask, you could tell from his tone that he was embarrassed out of his wits. “This is, uh… this is Gwen. She’s a Spider-Woman. Look, it’s hard to explain, but they’re all from different universes and I think the New Guy’s in love with Gwen, so we gotta go save their romance before it shatters. Bye!”

He leaped out the window again, followed by Gwen - who was stuttering and tripping over her words trying to form a plausible denial for his last statement.

Never a dull day in Mumbattan, I guess.

——— ———

5 minutes after that ordeal.

“Arrey, your chai is getting cold. Drink fast, no?”

“Haan, Amma. Ek second.” (One second) You moved away from where you were hovering near the window. As much as Pavitr reassured you that he was okay, that being Spider-Man was easy now - you still remembered having to disinfect wounds and ice bruises and watch him hiss and crinkle his face up in pain every time you wiped a tissue soaked in Dettol along his cuts.

Maybe those were only fairly harmless flesh wounds, but what kept you up at night was the worry that one day it might turn into something worse.

“I’m drinking it,” You said defensively and sat down as Maya Aunty lifted an eyebrow at you over her own mug. Just as you sat down the whole ground seemed to shake, a horrible din filling the air, screams and the sound of rubble falling mingling together in the cacophony.

“Oh, someone blew down Alchemax,” said Maya Aunty once the noise died down. With a small shake of her head, she casually returned to her chai as if this sort of thing happened almost every day.

“What an idiot.” You glanced out the window, squinting into the distance and widening your eyes as your eyes snagged on a flash of vibrant fabric flying through the air, just barely visible through the pieces of flying rubble.

Oh, fuck, that’s my idiot.

——— ———

You figured the easiest and fastest way to get near Alchemax was to take the bus. After all, those bus drivers had basically decided long ago that they were above the rules of the traffic. They honestly didn’t give a damn about the speed limits and you respected that.

“Hi, Y/N!” You turned at your name, tilting your head curiously because you didn’t recognise the voice.

You found yourself looking at someone who looked oddly familiar, you just couldn’t place it - until you glanced briefly out the window and saw a Zomato billboard. Of course if had to be her, how else would she know your name?

“Oh, are you Gayatri? Hi! It’s so nice to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you from Pavi.”

“Aww, that’s sweet, and likewi-“

The bus swerved sharply and you, Gayatri and more than half of the people who weren’t holding onto the railings were slammed against the back window before the bus started to tilt forward. You blinked away stars for a few seconds as the wind was knocked out of you.

When you regained your vision you let out a yelp of surprise. Someone yelled “Fuck!” right next to you, followed by a string of unrepeatable Marathi cusswords - while also listing out gods and praying to them that they’d make it out alive - and you could understand why.

Some dumbass - or maybe a large piece of rubble - had ripped a hole in the middle of the fucking Mumbattan Bridge. The whole bus was falling right into that hole, and unfortunately the bus driver’s magical ability to fly straight over potholes seemed to have evaded him right now, judging by the fact that he was currently contributing to the chorus of terrified screams.

“Hold on!” Gayatri caught your forearm right as your grip on the flimsy side railing was loosening and pulled you up to latch onto the railing at the back. Good lord, was this girl strong. You decided right then and there that you definitely liked her.

You saw Pavitr stop mid-swing and turn around, his mask’s eyes widening as he saw both of you pounding relentlessly on the back bus window in the hopes that it would break in time.

He shot a web that stuck to the back of the bus, tipping it almost vertically as he held onto one of the bridge supports. His eyes narrowed with effort as he struggled to hold onto the deceptively delicate-looking silky tendrils.

You silently thanked whatever higher power existed for the time when Pavitr fell from the ceiling 6 months ago. If that hadn’t happened, you and the other people on this bus would’ve been flattened on the ground by now. Don’t look down, don’t look down, don’t look down.

Pavitr glanced behind him, his shoulders falling slightly in shock. The web holding onto the bus stretched and dipped, threatening to snap any second. He wrapped the silken web around the support, trying to bring it up.

You and Gayatri were just barely hanging on, your entire bodies dangling down with gravity as you held onto the railing for dear life.

Suddenly something changed. Another web attached itself to the bus and pulled you onto the bridge. Another Spider-Man, possibly?

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding as the bus levelled itself on solid ground again. Gayatri gave you a weak smile, grasping your hand and pulling you straight into the throng of people rushing to exit the bus.

The moment she stepped outside Pavitr wrapped her in a hug, eliciting a surprised squeak from Gayatri.

“Are you okay? I was so worried-” He realized his mistake mid-sentence, drawing back from her and patting her shoulders with both hands, unsure whether to cross his arms or rest them on his hips. “Uh, you seem like a nice young woman who I do not know…”

Gayatri chuckled softly and looked past him. “Papa!”

“Gayatri!”

She ran at him and he wrapped his arms around her tightly. Seeing their bond warmed your heart but also made it ache slightly with the acceptance that that could never happen to you with your own father.

“Real smooth, Pavi,” You grinned at your brother, who grumbled something under his breath and closed the distance to crush you in a hug.

“Shush, didi. I just saved your ass.”

“Yeah, I suppose you did.” You ruffled his hair affectionately and pulled back, smiling at the growing shouts of ‘dhanyavadh, makhdi-bhaiya!’. (Thank you, Spider-Guy!)

“Amma’s going to kill you, by the way. She thinks you snuck out to go to some p-”

You let out a soft mmph as you collided with possibly the boniest person you had ever had the misfortune of bumping into. You were pretty sure you had just got stabbed in seven different places by various joints.

“Sorry, I didn’t-” You paused as you looked up, taking in spikes, a leather vest, pins, a guitar, and mask eyes which looked like running mascara.

“Holy shit, you’re really cool.”

The Spider-Man variant blinked in surprise and let out a laugh. “Why, thank you, poppet. I try. Pisses the fascists off so much that they call me Spider-Punk.”

You heard the twang of a well-known (almost infamous, at least in Mumbattan) accent and glanced at Pavitr. “He’s British,” He confirmed, giving Hobie a high-five.

“Well, I don’t care. He looks awesome.”

“Oi, Pav, I like this one.” He gave you an appreciative fist-bump, and you lifted your eyebrows at the sheer size difference between both of your hands.

“That’s my sister.”

“Makes sense. But you know I didn’t mean it like that. She seems cool is all.”

“Wait. If you’re British, can you do us a favour and steal back the Kohinoor? Please?”

“I’ll try my best, but I can’t make any promises. Fuckin’ Sweeney*, I doubt they even know where it’s kept.” (*Sweeney/Sweeney Todd - Cockney rhyming slang for Flying Squad [the police])

You nodded along politely with a smile like you actually understood even one word of that sentence. “Well, okay, in that case-”

You turned and almost burst out laughing. Pavitr looked like he was on the losing end of a staring contest, his hand almost engulfed in Inspector Singh’s much bigger one. Gayatri stood behind him, looking between them in awe. “I’ve never seen him so emotional.”

“Excellent job.”

Your bother just gave a nod, but knowing Pavitr he was internally over the moon and would hold that simple statement close to his heart, insisting that his girlfriend’s dad “loved him”.

“Man-like Miles, my guy!” Hobie grabbed the red and black Spider-Man - Miles’ - shoulders and shook him excitedly, punching him lightly as the people of Mumbattan started cheering.

You were about to join in when something happened. Well, not happened, really, but… something felt off somehow. You had read something once that said a person’s hair stands on end as a warning when lightning’s about to strike. You imagined that’d feel like you you were feeling right now. And you could hear whistling… was that sound just your ears being weird?

The cheers died down suddenly and you turned around too late. One of those portal-holes, slicing through the air like a deadly frisbee, slammed into you and knocked you inside in such a way that you got teleported straight off the side of the bridge. You scrabbled for the supports, but to no avail as you sailed right past them.

You heard Pavitr’s panicked yell, the sounds of confused and worried chatter bubbling among the ground, and the air rushing around in your ears as you free-fell.

You can’t save me, you realized as you saw Pavitr dive off the bridge, reaching out his wrist in preparation of shooting a web. You won’t get here in time. You focused on mouthing the next few words that came to your mind, because if you were going to die and leave your brother you would do so by reminding him that he was - and always would be - loved. Pavi, I’m sorry. I love you. I always will.

Your stomach dropped and your head spun - but by some mercy you didn’t feel the final impact.

——— ———

Pavitr’s POV.

“No, no no no- please, please no-”

Pavi, I’m sorry.

I love you.

Six words. Six words which shouldn’t be used in the same sentence. Those two sets separately, sure, but in very different scenarios.

Those would not be the last words you said to him. They couldn’t be.

Time seemed to slow down, making his movements sluggish and hazy. He stretched his wrist out till it ached, silk erupting from his - no, your - kaada. Come on, come on…

The silk shot toward you and for a second he thought it would reach in time.

Then he heard a crash and watched you fall straight through the flimsy tin roof of an abandoned warehouse. “No!”

He landed after you, shooting a web at a street lamp and pulling up to break the built-up momentum at the last second. Kicking down the warehouse door, he rushed over to your limp form, sprawled across a few empty crates in the dimly lit space.

“Nonono you have to stay with me, please don’t go, I can’t-” Pavitr swallowed hard as he picked you up and set you down with your back against the wall, holding up your jaw so your head didn’t fall forward. He snapped his fingers in front of your face two, three times - no response.

He could feel his vision starting to blur, heart practically causing an earthquake as he shakily put his finger to the pulse point on your neck.

Nothing.

“No,” He whispered into the still air, as if that would be able to revive someone who was so much more than just a cousin. You were his sister, his closest and most annoying friend, his anchor. You were supposed to be a constant in his life. If you were gone… what would go next?

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, cradling your lifeless body in his arms. But after a little while Hobie dropped in through the hole in the ceiling, and Miles and Gwen came in through the door. He didn’t understand anything they were saying. Pavitr felt like he was underwater, the cold, murky silence filling his ears and bleeding into his brain.

Someone else, much bigger than him tried to drag him away. Someone wearing a beige police uniform and a turban. He kicked and fought, screaming at them that they didn’t understand, he couldn’t leave you, this wasn’t how it was supposed to end. That you were going to wake up soon. You were only unconscious, after all. You had to wake up sometime.

You had to, right?

Pavitr watched as you were placed on a stretcher, a white cloth laid over your body. He slumped in the hands of whoever was struggling to drag him away as all his hopes of you waking up splintered into a million pieces. Pieces that he would step on and trip over and they would cut his skin a billion times. Little tiny paper cuts. Paper cut after paper cut, till he bled out.

Through whatever shocked haze his brain was forcing itself into, he knew that something inside him had broken. Duct tape could fix it. Duct tape could fix anything. Was this metaphor for something? His brain really needed to slow down, he couldn’t keep up with what was and what wasn’t fixable with a single roll of duct tape.

He pictured his heart, the muscles and blood vessels torn clean through in the centre, forming a hole in the shape of you. Did it stop beating? It felt like it stopped beating. Was there a way to check if he was still alive? He hoped he was. Though there didn’t feel like much reason to be. Not anymore, at least.

Oh. Maya Aunty. Someone would have to tell Maya Aunty. No, he would have to tell Maya Aunty.

Two funerals in the span of 6 months. Two core members of the family gone.

Twin flames burning warm and bright, always lighting up the entire place with their own unique luminosities, until they couldn’t anymore. The wicks were extinguished and the candles melted into stumps before their time.

The Spot knew exactly what he was doing, Pavitr realized. Because he might as well have set fire to his entire home.

——— ———

15 & still 16.

Pavitr Bhim Prabhakar was many things.

He was Mumbattan’s Spider-Man. He was Maya Aunty’s nephew. He was Gayatri’s boyfriend. He honoured his dead parents with his last name. He carried the legacy of his dead uncle with his middle name alone.

Most of all, he carried the memory of his sister in every scar that he got that day.

Suddenly every moment you had spent with him seemed too little. Even just one of your hugs would take away some of the pain.

Keep them in your heart, they’re watching over you. Recall the memories you made with them.

What did that even mean in this case? You had gone too soon. Dead, cremated at 16. You weren’t even an adult. And what hurt the most was that everything - from your room to your belongings - was exactly how you left it.

It had been almost 3 months and he still hadn’t let anyone change anything in your room. The messy duvet could stay messy. And the pillow that was thrown at the foot of the bed had taken up permanent residence there.

The room smelled like vanilla and honeycomb. And it would stay that way for as long as he could help it. If someone rearranged anything, would that part of you disappear from this house? He didn’t want to find out.

Everything that made this room yours would stay there, it had to. The way you meticulously arranged every makeup and hair product by height, colour and serial order on your chest of drawers. The way your cupboards always smelled of cotton candy because of an essence diffuser your friend had given you.

Gayatri, Miles, Gwen and Hobie had all tried their best to help him, and Margo had even dropped in a few times and offered to play video games with him. And admittedly, he was in a much better frame of mind than how he was only a little while ago.

He sat on the floor, hugging his legs loosely to his chest and clutching a mug of chai in one hand. Pavitr couldn’t say anything even if he wanted to; the altogether lack of the owner of this room made the silence even more oppressive and suffocating.

He stretched his legs out slowly, refusing to let his mind wander. Focus on the wallpaper. Focus on the sound of traffic. Focus on the chai. Focus on anything except the posters, the pillows, the way that it felt like time itself was holding its breath inside this room.

Pavitr’s leg brushed something hidden underneath the rug in front of him. Frowning slightly in confusion, he leaned forward to peer underneath the fuzzy square of fabric - finding nothing but a small notebook and a pen.

He pulled it out and, upon recognizing it, drew in a surprised inhale. The leather-bound cover was dusty and worn out. The label that read Bhim Prabhakar in neatly printed handwriting had been scratched out, jagged words cutting across the paper like tiny knife strokes. His heart squeezed when he read the word written in the second handwriting.

Y/N.

Of course he remembered this book, how could he not? On days when you had noticed he felt sad, you tore out two lined pages of paper and made him write down what was bothering him in a letter.

“Here, Pavi. Write it to anyone you want, and fill it out with everything bad that happened today. You don’t have to send it to them, don’t worry. I’ll even do it with you.”

He still remembered the first time he had done that activity with you. You both sat back-to-back, scribbling down all the ‘yucky feelings’, as you had put it once. Pavitr had finished his letter and surprised you by addressing it to you, twisting around to hand you the folded piece of paper.

You hadn’t addressed your letter yet, so you wrote his name on the top in big block letters.

To: Pavitr Prabhakar.

Because it was a very official document, you had explained solemnly.

And when you took a look at how he had mentioned you, you had lunged forward and trapped him in a bone-crushing hug.

To: The Best Didi In The World.

He felt tears well up slightly as he recalled the amount of times he went and wordlessly sat at the edge of your bed, pointing to the leather journal. And you would pull out two pages, hand him a pen, and sit back-to-back on the floor. Every time, without fail.

Pavitr opened the book, running a hand along the pages of handwritten letters that were unevenly glued or stapled in. Some were tearing at the edges, others had chai-stains or ink splotches.

He carefully pulled out a page - only one this time - and picked up a pen from the mug of stationery on your bedside table.

Pausing to think for a second, he tested the pen on the bottom of the page. Then moved the tip to the first line.

Dear Y/N,

Pavitr stopped and narrowed his eyes at that. It felt strange, almost alien for some reason. A foreign word on these pages.

He tapped his pen on the page as he got an idea. He scratched out the two words he had written, addressing it to someone with a different yet more familiar title, at least to him.

To: The Best Didi In The World.

I know very little about the antyesti process so if anything’s wrong don’t hesitate to correct me! <3

Glossary:

Antyesti - Antyesti literally means "last sacrifice" or "final auspicious ceremony", and refers to the funeral rites for the dead in Hinduism, which usually involves cremation of the body. This rite of passage is the last samskara in a series of traditional life cycle samskaras that start from conception in Hindu tradition.

Saree/Sari - A saree is a garment consisting of a length of cotton or silk elaborately draped around the body, traditionally worn by women from South Asia. It is usually worn with a blouse that exposes part of the midriff, but blouse styles can vary.

Dupatta - A length of material worn arranged in one or two folds over the chest and thrown back around the shoulders, typically with a salwar kameez or a kurta, worn by women from South Asia. (Srry guys u have to look up those two definitions if ur curious,, it’s better to see how it looks rather than read a description anyway)

Kancha - Kancha is played by using marbles. It is popular in small Indian cities and villages, among small boys only as a gully sport. It is rarely played by girls. The participant has to hit the marble kept in a circle. If he hits the target properly, he wins. The winner gets the kancha (maybe kanche is the plural form? idk) of the other participant boys.

Lagori/Pithoo/Seven Stones - Lagori is a traditional game from the Indian subcontinent. It involves a pile of stones and a ball.

A member of one team (the seekers) throws a ball at a pile of stones to knock them over. The seekers then try to restore the pile of stones while staying safe from the opposing team's (the hitters’) throws. The hitters' objective is to hit the seekers with the ball before they can reconstruct the stone pile. If the ball touches a seeker, that seeker is out and the team which the seeker came from continues, without the seeker. A seeker can always safeguard themselves by touching an opposite team member before the ball hits the seeker.

@hobiebrownismygod @l0starl @therealloopylupin2099 @vhstown

[wh1sp3rr]

𑊡˚+₊🤍✦ — 2:56AM + bkg; one shot

cw: sfw, established relationship, fem! reader, hurt & comfort, slight fluff!

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

it’s 2:56 in the morning and your sleep is distracted by the thinning of new light through your lids. it’s warm, dim and to the right of you, just where your boyfriend coincidentally is…

“why are you awake?” you slowly say, testing the words since fatigue had clouded your language, “what time is it?”

“almost 3,” his lower than usual voice says. he shuts his book gently, puppy-earring the page as he shifts his body to become parallel to yours. your eye is stretched from the unintended pulling of your arm as you lean against it, it cushioning you as you wean yourself on the comfort of flesh rather than bedding for the soon coming touch of each other. you laugh breathlessly, “so why are you awake?” he shrugs. his face does too with the rise of his eyebrows and the pout of his lips. “just felt like reading, it’s one of those nights.”

one of those nights. the nights where his memories would threaten his peace and disrupt his equanimity. that force him to forget that he is safe and he is at fault for certain things he punishes himself for. one of those nights where god would play puppeteer with his mind, and mush it to something unpleasant and pained. where his eyes water more often at random things you would say and his already quiet nature quieter.

you fix your posture so that the eye contact is easy. so that katsuki looks forward into you rather than down at you. your eyes flick towards the aforementioned book and you try to read the upside down title by uncomfortably twisting your head, poorly sounding out the name of it. katsuki notices and swiftly twists the book around with his fingertips, easing your illiteracy for upended literature.

it was one of his heavier books, infinite jest. your eyebrows raise similarly to how his did before, simply at the awe of how deep in the puppy-earred page was. “you’re so smart,” and you claw at little threads of his volumised hair. he only smiles. you tuck hair behind his ear, trying again and again as it pops out each time with frisk till you give up and start braiding at the blond inches.

he’s looking down. sorrowfully. like he’s thinking of only metaphorical knives to his thrice over scarred wounds. you kiss softly at his cheek, to bring his attention back to the reality of the moment. how it doesn’t have to be flourished with conversation between the two of you or plastered with bitter thoughts of his own. you remind him of how he still has control, and in you taking notice of your own, you hope maybe he will too.

his countenance lightens, his stare less brutal and tiny than before. you kiss again, higher, so your nose tickles his bottom lashes, so brown and boyish. and he turns to you, at last.

he wants to say something and as soon as he does, his hurt betrays him, catches in his throat, slits him up and paws at the stretch of his tongue, gnawing for its desperate escape. to call out to his lover that he wants her, so badly. so badly so that she can save him, stick her hand down his throat, clasp and tug at his hurt and save him. free him from this agony as she nourishes and cares for his hurt, healing it to be something wiser, something newer, something better. his hurt shivers his voice so that when he does attempt to speak, there’s a heavy crack at his voice, and his lips immediately blanket his teeth. a sore attempt to drown out the cry from within.

your face is still, but hopeful. you mustn’t let him down with your worry. “baby?”

he breaks. all the waves of anger, of pain, of tender reminiscence come flooding out. and his chest heaves. god, his chest heaves so bad that there’s a wheeze in his cries. your shirt, his actually, soaks with his drops of “i can’t do it anymore,” “i’m sorry.” “i just can’t.”

you slip your fingers into his hair. kissing at it, leaning your face’s weight against it, wishing for it to come above you so you could see his face. so you could promise his hurt away with not only your dulcet affirms but your nurturing eyes, like a mother.

your heart beats so fast when it’s like this. when you think of all the dangerous consequences if you don’t do the right thing. if you encourage this pain with your own. if you let it turn into a wallowing mess rather than a sympathising confinement. the evil reminder that if you don’t say something soon, do something soon, the last grain of sand would dip into the heap.

so you act.

you let him wail out sentiments that may or may not be grandly true but are in this very moment and let yourself morph into a catharsis, though you already were: his safety. his spot of comfort. and you pull his face up to meet yours. he refuses to. is too ashamed of the emasculated sludge he’s become. but you dip your head down to celebrate this exhaust with him. to commend him for not letting the bottle explode and become just a little lighter than it was before. beautiful katsuki, who doesn’t understand how angelic he looks when he cries. he looks alive, a contrast to how he is the days leading up to times like this.

his pretty pinks of cheeks and his little rudolphing nose. the young swell of his eyes and the dampness of the trail to his neck. your forehead leans into his, and your eyes shut, and it’s perfect. it’s what he didn’t know he needed. the key.

it was in translation to him: ‘i’m listening. i’m here and i’m listening.’ and he let it stay that way. he didn’t let his ego, his overtly masculine pride, confuse himself with what was the best thing to do. for once, he let his heart think, instead of his brain feel. and while not always, today was a time where it favoured him. where it told him to touch her arm, her hand, and cling to it. that it would not be a sin to leave his forehead magnet stuck to yours and that if he would accept the grogginess of the next day, you two were allowed to talk for hours.

he breathes in and sighs. “okay, so, um..” he is cut off by another harsh cry. “shhh, it’s okay, katsuki. take all the time you need.”

he sniffs up the sticky, infant green that traps his nose and starts again, “it’s just i was remembering that one time when…”

the night berried on into a strike of gold and wisps of white, filled with your dialogue and the eventual song of birds.

it was sweeter now. it deserved to be.

you smiled and laughed, controlled, wary of the others next door whom are still asleep. “what time is it now?”

you’re now blanketing his chest, as is he to you. his back against the headboard while your hands pillow his head before the wood discomfort. his hands haven’t moved from your waist, so the feeling is loud when he traced with his left finger 7:00am.

you gasp, “no, you’re joking.” and peer behind yourself to look at the brightening of the day. “oh my god, we’re fucked.” you squeal, scrunching your face into humoured disappointment. “no, we’re not.” he peppers your face with kisses, eyes still swollen from the hours before. “cuz we’re not going in.”

you “ugh”, though you were secretly joyed, this secret present in the two of you. “they’re gonna be so mad.” katsuki ponders on it, knowing it’s actually maybe a bad idea. he “ughs” too and swings you down onto your back, tickling at your neck with his nose. “but i’m so tiiirrreedd,” he mocks your higher voice and all you can do is laugh and giggle and glee.

“fine. but you’ll read infinite jest with me then.”

your eyes widen and you shake your head, “you can read infinite jest to me.” he squishes your cheeks and voices your name, “read with me and i promise i’ll read to you.” you smile and sarcastically roll your head to notion that you’re actually rolling your eyes, “okay, but you’re buying me the book.” “already have.”

he’s so smug it’s annoying. “you’ll love it.” and to that you say, “i better.”

“7:05 now.”

you stretch up and touch your feet to the different, cold texture of the floor, looking at the ground and then suddenly meeting katsuki’s lips as you turn. “thank you, y/n. i love you so much.” he kisses again. “so so much.”

you revel in the plush of each kiss. the kindling ignited more each time. “okay.” he smiles, pushing himself off the bed, offering his hand to his lady.

“we’re gonna be late. already 7:10.”

[topaz-witch-tea]

I know I already comment on the ao3 page, but like, I can't shut up about the new fic!!!! Mimi as usual is the best pet ever!! Like, Yas, Slay Queen!!! 😍😍🥰🥰 She maybe gentle and fluffy and adorable, but if you hurt her cub, or when she's out for your blood, then you better RUN!!

Oooh, this reminds me when you said Jing Yuan sulk when Yanqing became Mimi's fave, do you have any HC like this??? Like, I imagine Jing Yuan can't decide if he should be jealous that Mimi prefer to be with Yanqing more, or if he should be jealous that Yanqing prefer Mimi's cuddle than his XD

Thank you!!! Mimi is adorable and I’ve been wanting to write about Mimi for so long. She’s so cute and she adores her family so much!!!

Jing Yuan has spent so long being Mimi’s favorite that he isn’t sure how to cope with not being her favorite anymore. She would welcome him home every day and sit patiently by his side at the dinner table. Now, Mimi spent her days by Yanqing’s side. Sometimes she’ll go to Baiheng’s place when Yanqing is taken there and play with him there. Other times, she’ll wait for him to come back in the early afternoon. At dinner, she’ll enjoy her meal next to Yanqing’s high chair and follow him around until it is bedtime. If Jing Yuan wants Mimi’s attention, he’ll either have to call her or go to her. She will not leave of her own volition.

Yanqing also adores Mimi. Babies adore fluffy animals and Yanqing is no exception. Mimi was soft and attentive and can quickly pick up when Yanqing is going to cry, making it easy for her to soothe any temper tantrums. Sometimes, she’ll stick her nose in between the bars of the crib so Yanqing can know that she is there with him in the middle of the night. If Yanqing is sitting on the ground, sofa, or his parent’s bed, Mimi will jump lay her face on Yanqing’s lap and poke him in the stomach with her cold nose. This is a bit sad for Jing Yuan since Yanqing used to love curling up in his dad’s arm since his dad was always warm.

Jing Yuan starts sulking because he is no longer welcomed home by his fluffy cat nor is he sought out for hugs. It breaks his heart a bit when Yanqing crawls to Mimi for hugs instead of him or when Mimi ignores him entirely to join Yanqing. He does curl up in bed and doesn’t talk to anyone until his husbands start inquiring why he was in such a somber mood. He does the childish thing where he doesn’t say anything and instead just hugs his pillow and turn towards the wall. He feels guilty and a bit childish for being jealous of his pet and child. It reminds him of when he was younger and Yingxing and Dan Feng preferred the company of each other to him.

Yingxing manages to pry him out of his stupor with relentless teasing. Dan Feng on the other hand, is incredibly amused by it. With the little bit of prodding, Jing Yuan spills the whole thing while clutching his pillow. It remind Dan Feng and Yingxing about when Jing Yuan was younger and would look like a sad cat fished out of the river when he sullked. They found the whole thing terribly amusing and while no one was willing to pry Yanqing away from his new found friend, they did give Jing Yuan lots of cuddles to make up for it.

I always imagine him as someone who enjoy physical contact. He loves to pet and pick up Mimi. He prefers to carry Yanqing around rather than put him in a carrier. Yanqing still loves being picked up by JIng Yuan and he finds him warm and comfortable but Mimi is much quicker and shorter, so it’s much easier for Yanqing to reach her.

Thank you for the ask! I really enjoyed answering it! It was so, so CUTE!!!

[forestdeath1]

Hopelessness

@prongsfoot-microfic

It turned out that this microfic is 1600 words long, so if it's more convenient for someone to read on AO3, here's the link.

It's jilypad.

---

Sirius kisses Lily’s belly, stretched by a muggle T-shirt with Black Sabbath on it, his gift. The air's filled with the light scent of jasmine from the open window, letting in the cool June breeze. Lily isn't really into Black Sabbath, but Sirius hopes the band's symbolism might somehow influence Harry’s musical taste, since he’s got no hope with Lily and James. As Lily recently said, she wears that T-shirt solely because it features a "handsome vocalist" who reminds her of Sirius.   Sirius is quite pleased with that outcome.

They're sprawled on a wide sofa under a soft blanket, Sirius snuggled up beside Lily. The quiet of the Potter home, only interrupted by the ticking of antique clocks, always puts Sirius in a peaceful state. Lily gently strokes her rounded belly, while Sirius, with his arm around her waist, draws patterns on her skin, occasionally leaving soft kisses in response to the baby's sharp kicks. James, sitting opposite in a battered chair once favoured by Fleamont, reads the newspaper, his eyes scanning the pages gloomily.

"Oh," Lily exhales lightly. "He's been kicking all day. Extra lively today."

"Harry," Sirius murmurs softly, amazed at the depth of feeling he has for a child not yet born. "My handsome, smart boy."

"When did you get so sentimental?" James asks, not looking up from his paper.

"Since you married this incredible woman and started your own amateur production of 'Tiny Humans.' Even my frostbitten heart had to defrost for the premiere."

"Oh, my love," Lily, smiling softly, reaches out to gently ruffle Sirius's hair, "sometimes I think, what if I'd married you instead of James? How much prettier would my child be?" Lily's light, carefree laughter makes Sirius smile.

"Hey," James perks up, pretending to be offended. "There’s a lot of Blacks. And only one of me. Harry's gonna have the most unique hair in all of Magical Britain."

"And the dullest sense of humour," Sirius shoots back, still focused on the belly, speaking in a teasingly sweet tone as if talking to Harry. "Hopefully, you’ve got a better one. You got a bit short-changed on the genes from one side, but I promise to teach you."

"At least my humour doesn’t make people want to off themselves," counters James.

"You adore my jokes, don't kid yourself."

"Haven't heard one yet."

Sirius flicks his middle finger at James, who just chuckles, then removes his glasses and rubs his nose bridge in mock exasperation.

"Everything alright?" Lily asks him, concern in her voice.

"Yeah," James replies, trying to mask the worry in his voice. "Just going to make some tea."

Rising from his chair and heading to the kitchen, James leaves a trail of unspoken thoughts behind him. Sirius watches him go, and Lily, with a soft sigh, shakes her head.

"He's like this all day. Lost in thoughts about the war. Sticks to me like glue. Fancy taking him out somewhere? Hit a pub? Even stay out all night. He needs to get out more. He can't keep guarding me from God knows what," Lily adjusts a stray lock of Sirius's hair, a simple, familiar gesture.

"Alright, but not tonight," Sirius responds tenderly, kissing Lily's belly one last time before gently running his hand over her soft skin and carefully standing up from the sofa to not disturb her.

"Patrol?"

"Yeah," Sirius glances at the old wall clock, "and I'm already late."

"Why don't you move in with us?" Lily stops him with the question she poses every month.

"Don’t start," Sirius says with a light reprimand. "I'd end up covered in old people's dust here, sipping teas and reading newspapers. Tea? Seriously? When was the last time I drank tea?"

Her laughter, bright and full, fills the room, reflecting off the warm glow of the candles. She could easily shift from a pensive mood to mirth, and really, it took nothing to make her laugh. Lily was always so light, Sirius adored that about her. Like an autumn maple leaf playfully dancing with the wind – always ready to soar at the slightest breeze.

"Come here," she extends her arms, and Sirius leans in, allowing Lily to plant a tender kiss on his lips. "I love you," she looks at him, her gaze filled with care and tenderness, "Be careful."

"You too," Sirius smiles and ruffles her hair. "Look after Harry."

Stepping into the hallway, leaving Lily resting on the sofa, Sirius grabs his jacket from the coat rack and pulls it on, whistling a tune he caught in some noisy muggle café.

"James! I’m off."

James peeks out from the kitchen, holding a pack of tea.

"Not staying for tea?" he asks, knowing the answer already.

Sirius isn't much for tea, yet James has been offering it to him for years. In an attempt to make the drink more appealing, he once even started spiking the tea with Firewhisky. That gimmick worked for a while, but soon not even Firewhisky could dispel Sirius's irritation with the whole tedious, monotonous process.

"No, got patrol."

James looks slightly disappointed, tosses the tea pack onto a table cluttered with books and newspapers, and approaches Sirius.

"Lily suggested we should hit a bar," Sirius mentions.

James shrugs, adjusting his glasses absently.

"I can't leave her alone. Every time I go on patrol, you know it’s torture for me. I keep thinking something might happen, that they might attack our home, and…"

"I know," Sirius cuts him off. "That’s why I’m not inviting you. Just passing on Lily’s words."

James gives a soft smile, tilting his head slightly.

"You’ll come over on Friday?" he asks.

"Yes."

"And stay the night?"

"Of course."

James nods and hugs Sirius, pressing his face to his neck. Sirius leans into his ear, kissing it and breathing in the scent of earthy moss and the morning forest. James's scent always carried the notes of their moonlit adventures, as if his skin had absorbed the essence of those nights. They stand in silence for a moment until the soft hum of an old radio playing a vintage jazz tune Lily adores drifts in from the living room.

"Everything will be alright, James, hear me?" Sirius whispers, probably a bit too roughly patting James on the head as his movements have grown more abrupt lately. "I promise. Everything will be alright. With Lily, with you, with Harry."

"Yes," James says, rubbing an eye then running a hand through his hair. "Of course. It'll be alright. With you too."

"I'm not that important."

"Don't talk like that," James responds in a strained voice.

"I’d do anything for you, whatever it takes," Sirius says in a matter-of-fact tone, as if they’re discussing a Christmas dinner menu, not talking about things people usually don’t say to each other when everything’s fine.

James steps back, looks up at Sirius, and smirks, chasing away the worried shadows from his face.

"Have I mentioned you’ve become sentimental?"

"I've spent too much time around a mushy sod like you," Sirius grins, shrugging. "Bad influence."

James laughs, shoving Sirius's shoulder then pulling him in close, as if wanting to hide away in Sirius's broad embrace.

"I love you, you idiot," he kisses him, fingers threading through Sirius’s hair, tousling it. "Don’t be late on Friday. Lily’s making your favourite blueberry pie."

"I won’t," Sirius breathes out huskily.

James nods, and Sirius steps out the door. The June air hits his face, a warm breeze flicking a lock of hair from his forehead. The scent of night flowers mingles with the smell of fresh paint – someone nearby decided to give their fence a fresh coat.

Sirius moves a few meters away, casting one last glance at the Potters' house. James stands in the doorway, leaning on one shoulder against the frame. Sirius catches his worried gaze and nods subtly in response.

A moment later, Sirius apparates, but James's troubled face lingers in his mind like an echo. Usually, James's face brings peace, but this time it leaves a quiet itch, a reminder that Sirius is missing something, yet can't quite grasp what it is.

The war makes everyone nervous, anxious, and lost, and Sirius knows better than to succumb to these draining sentiments. But seeing those feelings in James – the person who made Sirius believe that even in the coldest winter, there's an unbeatable summer living inside him – Sirius realizes things are grim.

Of course, Sirius will come over on Friday. Perhaps he'll stay for the weekend, and they'll spend it together, like old times, before the threat of war knocked so clearly on their doors. They'll wake up to a late breakfast in the garden, reminiscing about school under the rustling of green leaves and birdsong, and perhaps even making plans for the future where the war is just a distant memory—a future where Sirius already knows exactly how to raise Harry and what gifts to give him from the very first months of his life.

A future where they're together.

After breakfast, they'll apparate to the lake, where James will set up broom races, beating Sirius yet again.  Lily, always rooting for Sirius, will put on a theatrical display of disappointment and spend the day cheering him up, recounting for the hundredth time the tales of James's rare Quidditch misplays at Hogwarts—as if Sirius didn't already know each one by heart.

After dinner, James will suggest a game of wizard chess, and Lily will pick out a book to read aloud by the fireplace. Soon, she will head to bed early, as has become more common since she got pregnant, and James and Sirius will go out to the garden, lie on the grass, and spend the night forgetting all worries, remembering that it's moments like these for which they're fighting and ruthlessly suppressing the hopelessness that seeks to consume their souls.