#hi to my rain world mutual you know who you are

[thornrings]

kind of low effort rain world doodles from andrew cunningham's stream tonight ! if anyone else was there hiii :-)

[skunkg1rll]

🦨💭

[oddinary4bts]

Chasing Cars | ch 11 (jjk)

☆summary: when your brother goes to study on a semester abroad, your life collides with his best friend Jeon Jungkook, who's coincidentally your roommate. Will you survive the collision, or will you crumble into dust?

☆pairings: brother's best friend!Jungkook x younger sister!female reader

☆rating: 18+ (minors DNI, this chapter contains mature content)

☆genre: forbidden love?au, college!au, slice of life!au, smut, angst (as usual a lot of it), fluff

☆warnings: cursing, alcohol, minor character ghosting everyone, cheating?, explicit content: a spicy videocall, mutual masturbation?, fingering/jerking off, sex toy (vibrator)

☆word count: 8.4k

☆a/n: this one hurts, but I hope you'll still love it :') thank you to @moonleeai for beta-ing, you're the best <3

☆series masterpost

☆add yourself to the taglist here!

☆☆☆☆☆

If I lay here If I just lay here Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

☆☆☆☆☆

Tuesday, April 30th 

You’ve been lost in thought for hours - every hour feels like a whole day, and you can’t focus on what Ria is saying right now. She went off while speaking about Seokjin, but all you’re able to do is look out the vitrine of the café where you’re sitting along with Nabi. It’s raining - you think it’s fitting now that Jungkook is gone.

He’s texted you throughout the day, more than he usually does. It’s been reassuring, yet you feel like there is finality in the world today, in the way raindrops chase each other on the glass of the vitrine like you used to chase cars around Jungkook’s head. You haven’t replied to his last text message, haven’t even opened it yet.

You don’t dare to when you’re sitting with your friends.

“Are you even listening?” Ria’s annoyed voice cuts through your thoughts, and you startle, looking at her.

“Sorry, what were you saying?”

She groans loudly, and then says, “What do you think about Seokjin?”

You widen your gaze, holding in a smile. “Why do you want to know?”

“He’s annoying, right?” she says.

“Is that why you’ve been spending all of your free time with him?” Nabi interjects, earning a glare from Ria.

“I have not.”

“You certainly have,” Nabi insists. “Both you and Y/n have been MIA to study sesh during the finals because you were with your boyfriends.”

Your heart drops to your stomach, your throat drying. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Nabi and Ria both throw you a no-bullshit look, but Ria loses it first, saying, “And I’m not dating Seokjin.”

“Where were you yesterday?” Nabi asks.

The prolonged silence is revealing, and you burst out laughing at the same time as Nabi.

“It doesn’t mean anything!” Ria says.

You pick up your smoothie, taking a long sip from it as Nabi says, “Obviously not. That’s why you have a hickey on your neck.”

You choke on your sip as Ria blushes, yet in pure Ria fashion, she wiggles her eyebrows. “What about it? At least I’m not fucking my brother’s best friend and lying about it even though everyone in the world literally knows.”

You put down your drink, gaze widening. “That was low.”

“Deserved though,” Ria insists, folding her arms on her chest.

There’s no animosity to the way she is speaking. Just amusement, and a teasing undertone that strikes a nerve now that he’s in Paris and the future of your relationship is so uncertain.

“For what?” you let out, looking towards Nabi for help. She pretends she isn’t listening, looking down at her empty latté mug, but you see on her face how she’s waiting for you to say something. “Tae wouldn’t let it happen.”

“Tae was gone for the semester,” Ria points out. “And you spent a lot of time with Jungkook, and he always drove you home and shit. We know, babes, I don’t know why you try to pretend it wasn’t happening.”

“You’re just trying to get the conversation away from you and Seokjin!”

It’s a weak comeback, but it’s all you can do.

“For real, even though I might be sleeping with Jin,” Ria says, introducing a nickname you’ve never heard her say before, “I’m not into him for more than that. But you and Jungkook…”

You feel like throwing your smoothie at her, but you choose peace and remain silent.

“So you are fucking Seokjin,” Nabi chimes in, throwing you a lifeline you immediately grasp on.

Ria shrugs. “So what if I am?” she asks. “It’s just sex.”

You think about Seokjin, about the forlorn look in his eyes whenever you’re out in public, and she flirts with other people. You highly doubt it’s just sex for him, but he’s too respectful to tell Ria, isn’t he?

“Is it though?” you say.

Ria nods forcefully. “At least to me it is. If it’s not the case for him then that sounds like his problem, not mine.”

You wince in time with Nabi, and she says, “That’s mean, Ri.”

She throws her hands up in defence. “What do you want me to say? I don’t like him like that.”

That’s fair enough. You can’t force a heart to love, like you’d realized last November with Hoseok. 

No matter how much you’d tried to love him, you’d never even had butterflies with him. Maybe even then you knew that true love wasn’t to be found with Hoseok, but with Jungkook instead…

“He’s great though,” Nabi says. “He’s got a solid research grant.”

“I’m not a nerd like you guys. I don’t care about his research grant”

You snort. “You so are a nerd. You like anime.”

“Anime isn’t for nerds,” she insists. Which, you totally agree with the statement. You’ve watched a couple of them with Jungkook, and you found each and every one of them fun to watch.

But Ria doesn’t need to know that.

“Yeah yeah,” you say. “Keep telling that to yourself.”

She glares at you, but Nabi intervenes with, “Why wouldn’t you care about the grant? It’s really good for him.”

Ria shrugs, falling serious. “Because I don’t care about him like that. He’s just a good fuck.”

Ria’s always been like this. Ever since you’ve met her, she’s always been the type to sleep around, and you’ve always encouraged her for it, as it was helping her get over the fact that she was cheated on. Yet right now you feel bad for Seokjin - maybe because you know he’s into her, and you wish for her the happiness you’ve been experiencing with Jungkook.

Happiness that is now on hold, possibly never to resume.

“Fair enough,” you say, and you grab your smoothie to finish it, taking two long sips.

“What about you and Jungkook?” Ria then asks, and she smirks victoriously.

You put the empty smoothie glass away, sighing deeply. “Honestly right now there’s nothing to tell.”

“Did you fuck him?”

You purse your lips, shrugging. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because it’s so obvious!” Ria says. “Your hair sometimes smells like cologne, and you can’t tell me it’s someone other than him. You would have told us if you were seeing someone else.”

“Not that I want to stir shit but…” Nabi trails off. “She’s got a point.”

“Leave me alone,” you grumble, though you don’t see the point in hiding it anymore.

It’s not like they might say something in front of Jungkook’s friends, who would then tell Taehyung. You’re planning to tell Taehyung the second he lands and crosses the threshold of your shared apartment after all.

“You’re blushing,” Ria teases.

“Because you’re putting me on the spot!” you say, shaking your head. “Leave me alone.”

“Oh no.” Ria’s face falls, and her mouth hangs open for a few seconds as her eyes go round. “Oh no, babes.”

“What?” you let out, sounding grumpier than you feel.

No, you just feel apprehensive as her whole demeanour changes.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

It falls like a hydrogen bomb, leaving nothing but dust behind. And you can’t answer. All you have to offer is a blink, and the sound of your heart shattering in the distance.

“Oh no,” Nabi cuts in. “Y/n, you know his reputation…”

“We’ve been together since Valentine’s Day,” you quickly say, only so that they stop before making you feel bad. You’ve gone down that road before, and you’ve long come back from it. “Or as together as we can be considering Tae.”

“Bitch you what?” Ria shrieks. “That’s insane. You were letting me go on and on about him while you were with him?”

“Wait, you’re with him like boyfriend-girlfriend?” Nabi asks before you can reply to Ria.

“I knew he wouldn’t get with you,” you say to Ria, and then you glance at Nabi. “And no, we’ve never really talked about it, or referred to it as boyfriend-girlfriend.”

“So, it’s a situationship then?” Ria asks.

Though the words pain you grandly, they ring true. Far too true for it to be comfortable. “I guess so. But… I know the feelings are reciprocated.”

You sound delusional, even to your own ears. Maybe because he’s on an entire other continent - out of sight, out of mind. But you saw his soft gaze whenever he looks at you. You were there when he kissed you by the door before leaving yesterday. 

I promise I’ll come back to you and make it work, he’d whispered.

And fuck, all you want to do is believe him, believe that there’s a way you truly can make it work.  

“I hope you’re right,” Nabi says, though she sounds infinitely doubtful.

You don’t blame her. They don’t truly know Jungkook - not like you do.

“Wait…” Ria repeats, though this time she continues with, “That means you were together with him when you went to New York.”

The extravagance of the luxurious condo where he’d grown up flashes before your eyes as you nod once. “Yeah.”

“Bitch!” Ria lets out. “I knew it! I can’t believe you pretended you guys were just friends then.”

Unable to stay silent anymore, you retell your relationship to your friends. You tell them everything - how it started, how it entirely changed in New York, what he’d whispered right before he’d left. You tell them everything, not mentioning the fact that Jungkook is rich, feeling like that isn’t your story to tell. 

You feel lighter after. Like finally being able to tell people has taken a weight off your shoulders. You reckon, you might start flying when Taehyung knows. When you don’t have to hide it from anyone anymore - you’ll be weightless, like a cloud in the sky up above.

It’s with that in mind that you head home for dinner, Nabi having something planned with Namjoon and Ria having to head to work. You check your phone as you walk home, safely hidden underneath your red umbrella.

[4:14 pm] JK: any chance we can facetime tonight?

It’s almost an hour later, yet Jungkook’s text makes butterflies flutter in your stomach, and you smile down at your phone as you reply with,

[5:07 pm] You: i’ll be home in 10 min, you still up?

Jungkook’s answer comes almost half an hour later when you’re trying to cook some noodles the same way that he showed you - a lot spicier than what you can handle, but spicy makes you think of him, so spicy it is.

[5:33 pm] JK: i’ll call you in two

You assume he needs to find a place to hide so that your brother doesn’t hear, and you apprehensively - in a good way obviously - wait for him to call as you gauge the amount of gochujang to put in your noodles. He ends up calling five minutes later, and you immediately answer, a bright smile on your lips.

Jungkook is smiling just as brightly when he comes into view, his eyes sparkling at the sight of you. He looks a little dazed, like maybe he’s had something to drink, but he still looks just as beautiful as he always has.

Even a phone camera cannot dim Jeon Jungkook’s beauty. 

His eyebrow piercing glints in the soft light on his side of the line, where he’s sitting outside. He toys at his lip piercings, glancing away from his phone for a few seconds before setting his gaze back on you.

“Hey peach,” he greets you.

Your heart is warm, gentle, when you reply, “Hey Kook.”

He notices you’re in the kitchen as you stir the noodles, and his gaze widens just a little as he says, “Are you cooking?” You flip the camera to show him your creation, and he nods approvingly. “You’re getting good at this,” he praises, and a light blush covers your cheeks.

“Only because I had the best teacher,” you say as you flip the camera back towards you.

He chuckles. “The best indeed.” There’s a pause as he glances around again, seemingly making sure that no one can hear, and then he asks, “What were you up to today?”

“I went to a café with Ria and Nabi,” you admit. Your cheeks burn even more, and you avert your gaze.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook asks, immediately noticing your unease.

“I might have told them about us,” you reveal, and you worry at your bottom lip.

You think he’ll be mad, upset, but instead he laughs, a clear sound that makes your heart flutter in your chest. “You’re adorable. I can’t wait to tell my friends either.”

“As soon as you come back,” you promise. “We’ll tell Tae the second he walks into the apartment.”

Jungkook nods vehemently. “I’m not waiting a second longer,” he agrees. “And if he’s pissed, we can just run into the sunset together.”

That makes you laugh, and Jungkook watches you, his eyes sparkling with amusement and what you want to believe is love.

“He will be pissed,” you warn him. “But we’ll figure it out.”

“We will.”

You fall silent as voices are heard on the other side of the line. They’re speaking French, so you can’t really tell what they’re saying, and you wait as Jungkook watches them walking by before focusing his eyes on you again. 

“Where are you?” you ask him.

“Just in a park outside of the Airbnb,” he replies. “Thought it might be better to call you while outside.”

“Good call.” You move the pot in which you’re cooking your noodles away from the heat on the stove, turning it off. “What did you do today?”

Jungkook tells you about his day as you pour your noodles in a bowl, and then sit at the table to eat. It’s too hot for the first few minutes, so you just listen as Jungkook tells you about his overnight flight, and about the struggle to find the Airbnb. He admits he napped for three hours straight when they finally got there, and that they went out for dinner after, coming home around the time he texted you earlier to Facetime.

The first bite of your noodles reveals that you might have made them a little too spicy, but under Jungkook’s watchful gaze, you make sure to eat everything, dousing the spice with the Yakult you’ve bought because Jungkook likes to mix it with soju.

“You know,” Jungkook says as you finish eating, your cheeks red with the spice. “I wish you were here with us. Seeing Sera and Jimin, and Ariane and Tae…” he trails off, offering you a sad smile. “I really wish you were here, peach.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest, and you offer him a small smile. “I really wish I was with you, too.”

A beat of silence passes, while you get lost in his gaze and he gets lost in yours. He furrows his brows a moment later, and he says, “Tae texted me to come back.”

“Oops,” you let out, and he chuckles softly.

“I don’t want to hang up though,” he says, and he pouts in that cute way of his.

“Keep me in your pocket then,” you challenge. “I’ll be mute as a rock.”

He cocks an eyebrow as he laughs. “I’ll turn off my volume just to be sure. I’ll try to hide in the bathroom or something.”

You approve of his plan, and a second later your screen goes dark as Jungkook does indeed hide you in his pocket. You move to your bedroom as you wait, and you hear noises coming from his side, though most of it is muffled by the fabric.

It takes almost ten minutes, but Jungkook pulls you out in a blindingly bright bathroom, the fan loud enough to hide your speaking.

“I’m back,” he says.

You chuckle. “Obviously.”

He narrows his gaze, and then scans your features. “You’re so pretty.”

The compliment takes you by surprise, and your cheeks turn red as you let out, “Oh.” You gulp, and then add, “Thank you.”

“And you might think I’m insane but, fuck, am I crazy for wanting you right now?”

Your blush deepens as you watch his gaze go from sparkly to lustful as he pulls on his piercings.

“Right now?” you repeat, feeling a little breathless all of a sudden.

He nods. “Yeah. I already miss how you feel when I’m balls deep inside of you.”

You roll your eyes, the redness lingering on your cheeks. “We had sex yesterday morning,” you remind him.

“Yeah, and?”

He’s insufferable. He’s insufferable and adorable and, if everything goes well, this man might be yours in a week.

It sets your nerves alight with reciprocated desire, and you bite at your lower lip. “Nothing,” you innocently say. “I’d definitely suck your dick right now though.”

His gaze hardens almost imperceptibly. “Peach.”

You smirk. “What?”

“Anything else you’d do?” he asks, and he shifts where he’s sitting.

“Mmh.” You pause, let the suspense linger. “Maybe I’d tie you up. You’re always trying to control everything, maybe you deserve to be put back into your place.”

“Shit.” You know your bold words had their effect on him when he shifts again, sucking on his piercings harder. He runs a hand through his hair, and then he says, “I’ll fuck you so hard when I come back, peach. I want to hear you screaming my name.”

“So loud Tae hears?” you tease.

He has the decency to look slightly embarrassed, yet you know him enough to know it probably just turns him on more. 

“Definitely,” he says. He inhales sharply, leaning back against the wall. “I’ll fill you up until you’re dripping with my cum.”

You’ve never had sex without a condom, but you remember that first night when he’d fingered you with his cum…

You’ve always been insane for him, haven’t you? 

You clench your thighs together, seeking friction, as you notice Jungkook moving to touch himself too. 

“You will?” you say, breathless.

He nods, and then he curses under his breath. “Now I’m hard for you.”

“Yeah?” you let out. “Show me.”

His eyes darken even more, and he chuckles lowly. “I don’t do nudes, peach.”

It surprises you so much that you lose your arousal for a few seconds, up until Jungkook grunts.

“Well, you’ll do it for me, mmh?” you tease, a smirk adorning your lips.

“You’d like that, huh?”

You would. A lot more than you should - you’ve never been big on nudes either. But… phone sex isn’t exactly nudes, is it?

“I would,” you say after a few seconds of debating if you should or should not do it. “I want to see you, Kook.”

The nickname undoes him. Jungkook sucks on his piercings, and then he moves, his camera blurring. You know he’s taken his pants off when he comes back on screen, his eyes swirling with lust for you.

“Why don’t you show me yourself first?” he asks.

You don’t even hesitate. You’re in bed after all, and ridding yourself of your clothes only takes about thirty seconds, as Jungkook listens to the rustle of the fabric.

You grab your phone when you’re fully naked, making sure that he can’t see anything yet.

“What do you want to see?” you ask, and you only then realize that Jungkook is shirtless, and from the motion in his bicep, he’s clearly jerking off.

You turn molten, liquid lava, like you’re the magma under the tectonic plates. 

“All of you,” he purrs. “I want to see all of you, peach.”

You oblige, propping your phone against a pillow as you lie against another pillow. Jungkook immediately moves his camera so that you can see how he’s stroking himself, and you let out a breathy sound as your hand slides between your legs, pressing lazy circles on your clit. Jungkook watches you hungrily, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck, I wish I could touch you right now,” he says, voice low and husky.

“I wish you could,” you echo.

He picks up his pace on his dick, wrist twisting when he’s close to the top, grip tight like you know he likes it. It’s sinfully beautiful, arousing, and your circles grow faster, quicker, desperate as you seek the pleasure only he can provide.

“Don’t be shy,” he says after a few seconds. “Use your vibrator.”

You don’t need to be told twice, and the second the toy is vibrating and buried inside you, you let out a low-clipped moan.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Jungkook says. “With your tattoo and just… fuck.”

You just answer with a moan that sounds like his name, and he curses again.

“You make me such a mess,” he says. “A fucking mess for you, peach.”

“Yeah?” you breathlessly let out.

“Fuck yeah.”

Your pussy makes squelching sounds as you push the toy in and out of yourself, the buzz a background to the lustful actions you’re partaking in. Jungkook’s camera isn’t quite angled on his dick anymore, but you don’t even care.

Not when you’re aware he’s watching you, drinking every little sound you emit as pleasure rakes through your body. The thought is far too enticing, arousing, and your walls clench around the toy.

“Shit, I’ll come so quickly,” you admit, not even embarrassed about it.

“Do it, peach,” Jungkook says. “Fucking come for me.”

You don’t need more, the crude words pushing you over the edge. You still the motions of the toy inside of you as your walls pulse and pulse, yet you keep drawing circles - slow again - as you milk your orgasm out of you. Jungkook watches it all like he’s starved for you, and when you finally pull your toy out of yourself, he’s the one that groans, “Fuck peach, I think I’ll come too.”

You don’t even have to say anything. He immediately comes, white spurts of cum shooting from his dick. The white cum covers his hand, his tattoos, and you almost want to start again, the sight so devilish yet so beautiful to you.

“Fuck,” Jungkook says, grunting as he keeps milking his climax out of himself, his pace barely slowed down. 

Eventually, his dick stops twitching, and Jungkook stops, hand wrapped around the base. You eye the cum still dripping from his hand, rolling down the back of it.

It’s pornographic. Deadfully so, and you bite at your lower lip.

“That was hot,” you breathe.

“Yeah,” Jungkook breathes, and he puts his phone down, revealing the ceiling and the light fixture. “It really was.”

You assume he’s cleaning himself up, so you quickly do the same, heading to the bathroom. 

Jungkook comes back into view when you’re on your way back to your room, and you feel shy under his gaze. Not embarrassed, but what just happened makes your heart skip beats and your cheeks burn, in all the right ways.

“We should do this again,” Jungkook says when you’re lying in bed once more, your vibrator cleaned and put away in your night table.

You smirk mischievously. “Wouldn’t you like that?” you tease.

He laughs, and it makes you miss him so much your heart squeezes in your chest.

He’s only been gone for a day, and you’re already going insane. You’re lucky it’s just a week - in six days he’ll be back, and hopefully you’ll never have to be apart again.

“I would,” he says, and he offers you a lopsided grin that makes you want to hold onto him, forever.

You take a deep breath around the emotion as it swells up in your chest, in your soul. The smile you offer him is warm, filled with all the feelings that your heart hosts for him, and he immediately reciprocates.

“Can’t wait for you to be back,” you admit, voice small as if you’re afraid he’ll reject you.

You know he won’t - you’re creating that universe where it makes sense for you to be together after all.

“Soon, peach,” he promises. “And then I’ll annoy your ass until you don’t like me anymore.”’

As if that would be possible. 

“Good luck with that.” 

He chuckles softly, and it breaks into a yawn, reminding you that, even though he’s just on the other side of the screen, he’s in an entirely different timezone, and he’s likely still jet-lagged from his overnight flight.

“Tired?” you ask.

He nods. “I’ll go to bed as soon as we hang up,” he says. “We’re visiting the Louvres tomorrow.”

Your phone vibrates in your hand as a text comes in, but you can’t read the text at the top of your screen before it disappears. You switch to your messages app, brows furrowed.

“Where did you go?” Jungkook whines.

Your heart drops to your ass as you read the text once, twice, trying to make sense of it.

[6:07 pm] Yoongi: hobi left and blocked me

A second text comes in just a few seconds later.

[6:08 pm] Yoongi: he didn’t even say goodbye

You immediately switch to your conversation with Hoseok, and you ask him what’s up, but the text remains green despite the fact that the rest of the conversation is filled with blue bubbles. 

He’s blocked you too. And when you go to the group chat with all of your other friends, you notice he’s left it as well, and you’re blocked on social media too.

“Where are you?” Jungkook whines again, the pout in his voice evident.

You go back to Facetime. “I think I’ll have to go.”

He looks displeased, and he toys with his piercings, his tongue pushing into his cheek a second later. “Why?”

“Yoongi needs me,” you say. “And!” you quickly add before he can say anything. “It’s about Hobi.”

“What about Hobi?” Jungkook asks, and you hear the annoyance just as well as you see it etched on his features.

You usually find him adorable when he gets jealous, but right now you can’t even focus on that, your thoughts going to Yoongi, whose heart is likely shattering on and on at the moment.

“He left and blocked everyone,” you tell Jungkook. “So yeah, I think Yoongi’s going to need me tonight.”

Jungkook doesn’t like the explanation. It’s clear as spring water, yet he still says, “M’kay.”

“We can call again tomorrow?” you suggest, hoping that it’d reassure him.

Even though he doesn’t need reassurance - there’s no one else in your heart but him, and you hope he knows it.

“Sure,” he says.

It’s your turn to pout. “Please?”

At that he melts, his features softening. “Well if you ask so nicely…” 

That ends the conversation, and you quickly say goodbye, wishing him a good night. You take him in up until he hangs up the call, missing him the second that he’s gone. 

But you know Yoongi needs you, no matter how much you wish you could stay here with Jungkook. 

*****

Two hours later, you’re sitting on Yoongi’s bed, Namjoon on your left while Yoongi sits on the floor, his back against the bed. He’s drinking a beer, and you have an unopened one next to you. Condensation covers the bottle, yet you haven’t found it in you to drink yet.

Yoongi has been silent. You’d got there almost at the same time as Namjoon, and you’d been surprised to see him. Namjoon had just shrugged and said, “I’ve known him my whole life”, and that had been that.

It’s hard to cheer Yoongi up. Even harder after he told you that all Hoseok left behind was a letter of apologies. And you’ve read the letter - it broke your heart too, and you can’t even begin to imagine how Yoongi’s feeling.

In the letter, Hoseok explained why he decided to leave. You were right - he wanted to leave because of his relationship with Yoongi, seeking to flee from the reality of it, from the fact that Yoongi was his best friend, and that he felt like he’d lost that. It’s something you can understand - losing a friend is always hard, and sometimes the friendship is worth more than a relationship. At least it was to Hoseok. And though in the letter he claims that he’s enjoyed the last few months with Yoongi, his sudden absence, with no way to contact him, is proof enough that he didn’t really.

At least that’s what Yoongi’s been saying. 

Namjoon was shocked when Yoongi revealed his relationship with Hoseok. Even more so as he realized that you, out of everyone, were the only one who knew. Yet he’d taken it in stride, offering to have a beer with Yoongi.

“It’s fucking bullshit,” Yoongi says for what seems to be the hundredth time. 

You’d let him say it a thousand times more if that helped him feel better.

“You know what we should do?” Namjoon says from beside you.

You glance at him, before setting your gaze on the back of Yoongi’s head again.

“What?” Yoongi asks, looking over his shoulder.

“What about a rage room?”

Yoongi laughs an empty laugh. “No thank you. Though maybe it would help temporarily, I kind of just want to find a way to tell Hobi he’s a dick.”

You quickly found out that Hoseok has indeed blocked everyone from the friend group. As if cutting everyone out of his life was the only way he’d find solace in his new life. You think it’s a cowardly thing to do, and you’ve said so a couple of times already, to Yoongi’s delight.

“I don’t think that would bring you anywhere,” Namjoon carefully answers, the voice of reason itself.

You disagree, as you’ve always had more of an explosive personality, but you remain silent.

Yoongi glares at Namjoon. “It’d bring me a lot of satisfaction, thank you very much.”

Yoongi is funny. Behind all the cold exterior he has for people he doesn’t know, he’s got a funny persona you never thought was there. And you love it - he reminds you of you in some ways, and maybe that’s why you’ve gotten so close so easily.

“I personally think we should find out where he went and slash his tires,” you innocently say as you grab the beer bottle.

Namjoon narrows his gaze. “I doubt that’d be a good idea.”

“But fuck if it wouldn’t feel good,” Yoongi says, and he hands you the beer opener.

You open your beer, immediately bringing it to your lips as it foams and it threatens to spill. You drink as much of it as you can, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“It would,” you echo. “But maybe we can resort to more peaceful options. I feel like Namjoonie here will go insane if we keep suggesting stuff like that.”

“He’s boring, isn’t he?” Yoongi says.

“Yeah, why did you invite him?”

Namjoon snorts. “You guys are aware that I’m right here?”

“Did someone say something?”

Yoongi tilts his head to the side, pursing his lips. “I’m not sure. Maybe the apartment is haunted.”

“It has to be,” you agree, nodding forcefully.

“What the fuck is wrong with you guys?” Namjoon asks, and you burst out laughing in time with Yoongi.

You’re relieved to hear him laugh. You didn’t know what to expect when you’d suggested coming over, but it’s a relief that he isn’t that much of a mess.

But then again, you have a feeling Yoongi is the kind of person to put on a mask whenever he’s with people. And maybe that’s okay - maybe tonight you’re just a distraction to keep him from spiraling out of control. 

You don’t mind. 

“Nothing,” Yoongi says, sighing deeply. “Besides the fact that I’ve just been ghosted by my best friend.”

You wince at the harsh reality of his words, but Yoongi shrugs it off as Namjoon says, “It’ll get better.”

Another sigh moves through Yoongi, and he nods. “I know. It’s just going to suck for a while.”

You shift, sliding from his bed down to the floor so that you can sit next to him. “And that’s okay.”

He avoids your gaze as you look at his profile, and so you glance away, your eyes sliding to his record player. The record he put on when you arrived has done playing, and you’ve been sitting in silence for fifteen minutes, but it’s a comfortable silence.

Maybe because you speak when needed, and Yoongi and Namjoon have a calm aura to them that you find you appreciate far more than you’d expect. You’re used to Ria after all, and though you love her, she’s a tornado everywhere she goes.

“How are you and Nabi?” Yoongi asks all of a sudden.

Namjoon blushes, as the quick glance towards him tells you. “You sure you want to talk about that?”

Yoongi shrugs. “It’s not because I’m miserable that everyone has to be.”

“You’re not miserable,” you gently say.

Yoongi’s side eye makes you stifle a laugh. “Let me be miserable.” There’s a pause, and Yoongi eventually pushes up from his bed, sitting straighter so that he can turn and look at Namjoon. “So?”

“We’re good,” Namjoon finally replies. “I’m trying to take things slow because of…” he trails off as he looks at you. “But yeah, we’re good.”

“That’s great,” Yoongi says, and though it doesn’t sound sarcastic at all, he adds, “Genuinely. You deserve it man.”

You don’t know a lot about Namjoon’s previous relationship. Just the girl’s name - Julia - and you can’t help the curiosity that overtakes you. But you’re not a dick. Indeed, you hold your questions in, instead saying, “If you hurt her, you’re a dead man.”

He winces, laughing lightly. “Ria told me the exact same thing.”

“Because Nabi is too precious and she needs to be protected at all cost,” you vehemently say, half-joking. You follow up with, “But seriously, please do take things slowly, and always be honest to her. She’s had this massive crush on you, and I really don’t want her to get hurt.”

“I know,” Namjoon says, and he sighs, looking down the neck of his half-empty beer bottle. “I’ve had a crush on her too so…”

“You did?”

Yoongi laughs. “He so did. He kept mentioning her for months, saying that she was just a friend.”

“I mean, technically she was,” Namjoon says, trying to defend himself.

He’s blushing furiously now - it’s climbing up his neck and covering his whole face, and you think, that right here is what Nabi deserves.

“We always knew it wasn’t just that, though,” Yoongi says. “Clearly Julia knew too.”

Namjoon’s expression falls, and he sighs deeply. “Yeah. To be fair, she’s the one that decided to end things.”

You remain silent, taking a long sip of beer to refrain from saying something stupid, something that would silence Namjoon. You hate the taste of beer though, and you scrunch up your nose in disgust as you swallow. It goes unnoticed by both men, as Yoongi says, “Honestly, Julia was a bitch.”

“She had it rough growing up,” Namjoon replies, his voice drowning in what you think might be nostalgia, or regrets. “Hopefully she’ll get better from now on.”

“Having rough circumstances growing up doesn’t give someone an excuse to be a dick though,” Yoongi flatly says, not one to mince his words after all. “But yeah, hopefully she’ll get the help she clearly needs.”

Damn. You almost feel bad for the girl, but then again you don’t know her. Maybe Yoongi’s animosity towards her is deserved, and you don’t feel like questioning it.

No, you’d rather Namjoon forget about her and focus on Nabi instead.

“Whatever,” Namjoon lets out, shrugging his shoulders. “Even though everything with Nabi is recent, I feel a lot better with her than I ever felt with Julia.”

“Not hard to beat,” Yoongi grumbles underneath his breath, which earns him a slap behind the head from Namjoon.

“Hey, I get that you’re sad but don’t be a dick,” Namjoon sternly says.

Namjoon is a natural leader. You’ve seen it before, when he’d led your team from Frosh week to success. And you’ve seen it every time he’s TA’d a class, yet right now you realize he might be a leader in his friendships as well. Indeed, Yoongi folds, apologizing right away.

You end up spending the evening at Yoongi’s place. Your other friends join, and though the air around Seokjin and Ria is clearly tense, you end up having a blast. Even Yoongi seems to be enjoying himself, but when you notice him increasingly silent, you suggest heading home. He offers you a thankful gaze, and you guide everyone out of the apartment.

To your surprise, Yoongi hugs you goodbye, holding you close for a few seconds longer than you’d thought he’d be comfortable with. But then again, you reckon he might need it, so you hug him tight, letting him choose when to pull away.

“Thank you for tonight,” he whispers when he does, and his eyes glint with the silver on his waterline.

You offer him what you hope is a comforting smile. “Anytime, Yoongi. Just say the word and I’ll be here for you.”

“I’ll remember.”

You smile again, and then you wish him good night, walking out of the apartment last. Yoongi keeps the door open as you all walk down the stairs, and he shuts it when you’ve all disappeared from view. 

You send him a silent prayer to be gentle with himself, and you can only hope he hears it over the sound of his breaking heart.

Friday, May 3rd

You like your summer job. It’s chill, and you don’t have to start too early, so you always enjoy it. You’re an assistant at an optometry clinic, which means you do the pre-tests for the doctors, and since they don’t start before 10 am, you don’t either. 

What you don’t like is that one of the optometrists finishes at seven pm, which means you also do, and finishing at seven pm on a Friday evening should be a crime. It’s no wonder you’re slightly grumpy when you finally walk outside, waving goodbye to the optometrist.

At least she’s chill. She could be an asshole, but she got the team donuts today, and she even bought you lunch when you admitted you didn’t bring anything.

You walk to your car - the one you share with Taehyung - and you pull your phone out of your purse as you do so, eyes skimming over all the texts you’ve received.

You’re going out tonight, to a bar that Yoongi chose for its relatively chill ambiance, and you’re excited for it. Yoongi’s been MIA since you all hung out at his apartment, so you hope it’ll cheer him up, and you hope it’ll also help with pushing Jungkook out of your thoughts.

Not that you mind thinking about him - sometimes you believe him to be the president of the land of your mind. But he’s been texting you less and less every day, and you haven’t facetimed yesterday despite him saying he’d try.

You’ve been trying not to make a big deal out of it, but something about it feels off somehow. You reckon you’re probably just imagining things where none are, afraid as you are of the fragility of the relationship. 

But then again you’ve always trusted your gut feeling, and it’s never really failed you before.

You sigh, trying to ignore the foul taste in your mouth so that you can read the texts on your screen instead. Ria’s the one that texted you most recently, saying,

[6:46 pm] Ria: can we get ready at yours?  [6:47 pm] Ria: tho my mom’s happy I moved back in for the summer, she doesn’t want me to invite people over [7:06 pm] You: sure, heading home now

You reach your car, opening the door and throwing your purse on the passenger seat. A second later you’re sliding in, and you turn the keys in the engine. The car purrs to life, and soon enough, you’re on your way home, listening to the music on the radio.

Your mood brightens slightly when you reach home and see that there’s a spot on the street right in front of your apartment. You immediately grab it, even though you suck at parallel parking and it takes you three tries, and then you’re jumping out of the car, climbing the stairs to unlock the door.

You manage to take a shower before Ria shows up, a sour look on her features. You cock an eyebrow, letting her in. She breezes past you, not saying anything, and that more than anything else tells you that something’s wrong.

“What’s up?” you say as you carefully shut the door behind her.

She sighs loudly, extravagantly. “Jin isn’t coming tonight.”

You widen your gaze. “Oh?”

“He said he’s tired from work,” Ria says, and she folds her arms on his chest. “He sucks.”

You snort. “Why are you so worked up?”

“Because I know he’s lying!” She takes off her leather jacket, putting it away in the closet, and then she kicks off her shoes to strut into the kitchen. “Can I grab a glass of water?”

“Sure,” you say as you follow behind her. “Why do you think he’s lying?”

“He’s going on a date and doesn’t want to come to the bar after,” she admits, and the frown on her face tells you everything there is to know.

She is jealous, but she’ll never dare admit it. She’s way too proud for that, and though sometimes you know it protects her, you feel like it can be her demise all the same.

“Oof,” you only let out.

“Right?” She chugs the glass of water, putting it away in the sink. She leans back against the counter, folding her arms on her chest. “He’s just got out of a relationship, why would he get in another one?”

“I mean…” you trail off, shrugging. “Isn’t that what Namjoon did with Nabi?”

“That’s not the same,” Ria insists, shaking her head. 

It is, as a matter of fact, the same, but you refrain from saying so.

“He doesn’t even know the girl, she’s a blind date that his colleague is forcing him to go on,” Ria adds. “Why would he want to go?”

“Well…” you let out. “Maybe he just wants to throw himself out there again.”

Ria doesn’t like you saying that, and she offers you a scalding look that makes you snort again.

“You’re so mad,” you tease her.

“I’m not!”

“Do you like him?”

She makes a disgusted face, shaking her head. “No, of course not.”

“Then why does it matter if he’s going on a date?”

The answering silence is telling enough, and Ria clenches her jaw once, before pouring herself another glass of water. “I hate when you make sense.”

“Love you too,” you answer, and you walk to her as she’s got her back turned to you. You hug her from behind, saying, “We’ll have fun tonight, I promise.”

And you don’t know who you’re trying to convince. You or Ria. Because the dreadful feeling that sits in the pit of your stomach only intensifies as you get ready, putting your makeup on in the bathroom while Ria curls her hair with your curling iron.

You’re almost done, about to put your setting powder on when the music stops, and the unmistakable sound of the Facetime ringing fills the room. Your heart jumps to your throat, and you quickly put your brush down, grabbing your phone.

“Damn, who’s calling you?” Ria teases your reaction.

You frown as you see Taehyung’s picture from your contacts - you’d expected Jungkook. 

You pick up, and it takes a few seconds before it connects. Taehyung’s smiling face comes into view, and it takes you half a heartbeat to figure out he’s drunk.

Jimin is laughing in the background, and you hear Sera scolding him, though all you can see is Taehyung, and you think the shoulder beside him might belong to Ariane.

“Sis,” Taehyung greets you. “Not ignoring me anymore?”

“Hello!” Ariane says, and she comes into view, resting her head on Taehyung’s shoulder.

“Hi?” you answer, and Ria chimes in with a far more enthusiastic “Hello!”

“Y/n!” Jimin says in the background.

Taehyung turns his phone just enough for you to see Jimin, who’s waving like a madman.

They’re all drunk. That much is clear. What’s clearer is the absence of a certain Jeon Jungkook in the group, and you can’t help but wonder what he’s up to.

He hasn’t texted you since this morning after all.

“What’s up?” you ask.

“Just thought I’d check in with you,” Taehyung says, his speech slurred. “Anything fun planned tonight?”

“Going out with some friends,” you answer. “Nothing extravagant. What are you guys up to? Isn’t it crazy late in Paris?”

Taehyung frowns, focusing on something. “Just two am, not too bad.”

Right.

“What are you doing?” you ask, and you sit on the closed toilet, glancing once at Ria who seems fully focused on doing her hair.

“We’re just chilling while Jungkook finishes up with Gaby,” Taehyung says. “They fucking stole the bedroom.”

Ria’s head snaps towards you, as time slows and slows and slows, coming to a halt long enough for you to say, “What?”

“Yeah, you’ll never imagine,” Taehyung says. “Ari’s best friend here is JK’s ex from high school. She’s French but she grew up in New York.”

Chronology is interrupted - you think there might be a hiccup in the line of time. But then it starts again, far too quickly, and your blood fills with adrenaline, your heart picking up in your chest.

“Who?” you let out, sounding infinitely stupid.

But then again, maybe you’ve been a fool all along, since that very first kiss he’d claimed to be a fake Valentine’s Day kiss.

“Gaby,” Taehyung repeats. “Gabrielle. She’s pretty chill.”

Your heart aches in your chest. It burns like someone threw acid on it, and you feel it shrivel behind your ribs, slowly turning to dust.

“Oh.”

“What’s wrong?” Taehyung asks, and you wonder if you imagine the knowing look that passes on his face.

“Nothing,” you quickly reply, but you can’t breathe anymore.

It’s like there’s no more oxygen in the room, and you’re choking on the nitrogen, your mind spinning.

Taehyung gets up, and then everything is truly spinning. You think you hear Sera saying something that sounds like ‘Come on’, but then again you might be deaf.

All you hear is that sentence Taehyung said - We’re just chilling while Jungkook finishes up with Gaby.

When you were younger, you’d always believed your heart to be invincible. You’d felt invincible, like maybe you were meant to conquer all mountains. 

Tonight, you realize you’ve never been invincible - you just never cared enough about anything to thoroughly break, your heart shred beyond recognition.

Taehyung is walking somewhere. He laughs on the way, and Jimin is close behind, as you can see his head peeking over your brother’s shoulder.

“Don’t open the door,” Jimin says.

Taehyung snorts, and it’s like he forgot you’re right there. Or maybe he’s enjoying this.

Maybe he’s known about Jungkook all along, and this is his own twisted way to kill the relationship before it really starts. 

Your reckon, you deserve it. For all the lies, for the truth hidden, you deserve it. But then again, isn’t Jungkook the true responsible of the neverending breaking in your chest? Because it’s breaking - like a glass dropped, your heart is shattering. 

Perhaps chasing cars around Jungkook’s head was only ever leading to an inevitable crash.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung singsongs, and then you hear a door being opened, and the camera flips.

You don’t even know why you’re still looking. You know exactly what’s going to be under your eyes - what is under your eyes - but you can’t stop watching. Can’t really see it either, blurry as it is behind the tears pooling in your gaze.

I promise I’ll come back to you and make it work

He was never going to come back, wasn’t he? He was bound to be left in the past - you should have known when you’d kissed him by the door. Should have known to take the time to commit his features to memory.

Your vision clears, and the scene comes in focus. He’s dressed. He’s fully clothed, and so is she - you don’t even know if it’s a relief. Because they’re clearly kissing, and you think maybe he’s ripped your heart from your chest.

He was lying to you. He was lying to you through it all, wasn’t he? You should have listened to everyone, should have run while you still could.

You’re crying. You only realize you’re crying when Ria steals your phone from your hands, quickly hanging up the call. 

“Y/n,” she gently says, and she kneels in front of you, wiping the tears on your cheeks. “Y/n.”

“Holy shit,” is all you’re able to say before you break into sobs, shaking from the ferocity of the heartbreak. 

Your heart, now shards of glass, pricks your skin, pricks your soul. Everything hurts - you burn and drown, you freeze and blaze. You can’t breathe around the sobs, choking on them as they rock through you, yet you can’t stop them.

And as you break, you see him on Valentine’s Day. You see his sparkling eyes, his gentle gaze. See his lips right before he’d kissed you, so gentle like he’d been afraid to break you. You see him in New York, see him as he’d fucked you like you were in the clouds. You see him every day since then - you’d been so convinced of the reciprocity of the feelings that you’d forgotten who you were dealing with.

You think perhaps you’d truly just been the little sister, a fantasy he had to check on his bullet list of things to do in his life. And perhaps he’d been afraid of breaking you, of the inevitable consequences on him.

“He fucking lied to me,” is the first thing you manage to say through the breaking.

Ria pulls you in, and you fall on the floor, where she holds you as you cry. 

“He fucking lied.”

She strokes your hair. “I’m sorry.”

And it hits you then - Jungkook never really said he had feelings for you. It’d just been an act - the grandest act of his life, perhaps. And you’d been foolish enough to fall, to fall and fall and think he’d catch you. You’d thought you were diving in sweet waters, yet tonight you crash on concrete, the Earth’s gravity destroying you until you’re just a memory, meant to be carried away on a wind of heartbreak.

Ria stays with you until you fall asleep in your bed, your makeup ruined by your tears.

Your heart ruined by Jeon Jungkook.

Prev | Chapter 11.5 | Next

☆☆☆☆☆

.................. i am deeply sorry. please don't hate me for this one, and feel free to scream at me too :') (i promise everything will make sense one day)

All rights reserved to @/oddinary4bts, 2024. Do not copy, repost or translate.

[zweiginator]

Crawling After You (Patrick Zweig x Reader)

includes: mutual pining, friends to lovers, secret relationship

Patrick was your best friend in the whole world since childhood. You both went to tennis camps together and then to boarding school. Your parents are best friends, and they all thought your friendship would fizzle out by the time you hit puberty, but you stayed close.

And both of you would be in your own respective relationships that would inevitably fizzle out when your partners couldn’t get past your closeness. The bona fide twinkle in your eyes when you saw each other, even when it had only been a day or two.

Your friends all have crushes on him; they giggle and twirl their hair at his matches. They say they’re there for you, but you see how they blush when Patrick grunts, when he peels his shirt off and throws his battered racket against the pavement.

“You’ve never thought about fucking him?” Your friend asked you after your match. You were pissed about losing; Patrick was in your peripheral, beaming with his own friends about his big win against an NCAA favorite from UCLA.

“No.” You took a gulp of water, shaking your head. “I haven’t.”

“Do you think he thinks of fucking you?” Another friend butted in. “I mean, how can you resist that?”

You repeated yourself. “No.” Another sip of water, to help you hold your tongue. You weren’t in a good mood. “Patrick does not need help in the dating department, I know he doesn’t think of me that way. We are friends and that’s it.”

Except, since last summer, you had been fucking. A lot. The problem was that you and Patrick hated being told, “I told you so.”

And every single person you had crossed paths with, from middle school teachers, to tennis coaches, to acquaintances in your class were convinced you and Patrick would inevitably end up together. The story was too picturesque, your interests too aligned.

So you kept it a secret. You kept your chin high when girls fawned over Patrick, and he bit the inside of his cheek when boys whistled as you entered the court.

Last summer, Patrick and you got in a huge fight. You had never fought before; your friendship was uncomplicated. Neither of you ever directly competed against the other in tennis, you had almost everything in common. But after a team dinner one night in July, he and you were seething.

“Oh my god, Patrick.” You shoved his chest, annoyed that he barely moved from the force. You were in the parking lot, leaning against his expensive Jeep, a gift from his parents. “All you do is talk about the most shallow, meaningless fucking things.”

It started after he began to complain about your piqued interest in politics. You had always been well-read, but as Patrick said, “You just don’t need to talk about it all the fucking time.”

“What the fuck do I talk about that’s shallow? Tennis? Because last time I checked we both do that.” He rolled his eyes. “And don’t fucking shove me.”

You mocked him. You knew that was his biggest pet peeve. “You’re mad because I care about what’s happening in the world? Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m mad because you sound like a piece of shit politician, and your fucking personality changes as soon as you start talking to a new guy. And you’re becoming so fucking pretentious since you started hanging out with that fucking douchebag Vincent.”

You scoffed. “I find it funny you call me pretentious when you grew up in a fucking castle. Ironic coming from a kid who had escargot and caviar served to him on a platter at age 6.”

“What are you even talking about? You’re just saying shit that doesn’t even make sense because you know I’m right!”

You looked up at him through your eyelashes. “I don’t change my personality. I’m not even talking to anyone right now, and if I were, why does that even concern you?”

“Oh okay.” Patrick nudged you to move you away from the driver’s side door, letting himself in. “Get in, it’s about to rain.”

“No. What were you gonna say?”

He yelled your name. “I don’t want to get drenched. Just fucking get in!”

You crossed your arms. He was right, the wind was picking up, goosebumps peppered your arms all over and your hair blew into your face.

“Fine, then don’t.” He got into the car and started it. The headlights hurt your head and burned saucers into your retinas.

The rain began slow; fat droplets splashed against the curb and dribbled down your cheeks. And then it was faster, and the wind grew stronger, and you stood your ground. Patrick watched you, he watched your gray Stanford shirt get soaked, and your tennis skirt become plastered to your legs. Your hair was flush against your cheeks, eyelids heavy.

“Fucking get in the car.” He wasn’t yelling anymore. His shoulders were slumped, and you know he felt defeated as he got out of the car.

“Why don’t you tell me anything?” You started to cry. You didn’t know where this was coming from; this tantrum.

Patrick was soaked too. “I do tell you things!”

“Not as much.”

“It’s hard. It was easier when we were kids.”

“But what changed?” The engine grew louder, almost crescendoing in your ears.

"We aren't kids anymore. Everyone is always asking about me and you. There's no such thing as our innocent little friendship."

His words broke your heart. And he saw that as your shoulders slumped and your eyes welled with tears. "So what?" You asked. "What are you saying?"

Patrick sighed, pushing his wet hair away from his face. His white t-shirt was see-through, his broad shoulders rippling as the wind tore against his lean body. His voice was soft now. "Let's go back to the hotel. Stay in my room and we can talk."

The ride to the hotel was silent. Usually, Patrick would complain about water all over his leather seats, but he didn't say a word, and you wondered why, out of all the heartbreaks you had been through, why this conversation had chewed you up and spit you out so violently.

You sat on the bed with him and waited for him to speak first.

"Do you need a towel?"

You shook your head.

"What I was saying before," He began. "Why do we act like it's normal that in each of our relationships, the common denominator is that we are way too close?"

"We've never-"

"I know." He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just saying maybe this friendship isn't really serving us anymore, and maybe it's causing more harm than good."

"You know what?" You stood up, grabbing your bag. "I've sat here and been your best fucking friend for twenty years, and now you're just taking the easy way out like you always do." You slung it over your shoulder. "I'll leave. Don't worry, I'll leave."

You wanted him to chase you down. He didn't. He didn't say bye or that he was sorry. One big fight during twenty years of friendship, and it would seemingly be your last.

The tournament was going on for another 3 days. After 2 nights of barely sleeping and going through the motions, of leaving the court whenever a mens' match was on, there was a knock on your door. You let him in; of course you did.

"I wasn't telling you I didn't want to be friends anymore." He whispered. Your back was against the door.

"Okay."

His finger trailed from the dip of your collarbones to your chin. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

You swallowed, loudly, looking up at him inquisitively, waiting for him to finish his thought.

He fucked you with your legs over his shoulders, while your roommate was at lunch with the rest of the team. Patrick muffled your moans by spilling his own into your mouth. Sweat dribbled off his chest and your nails raked down his back as he thrust into you, over and over and over again. Twenty years of reserved angst and repressed feelings manifested in desperate whimpers and the sound of skin on skin echoing off the chipped taupe walls.

No words, at that moment, needed to be said. He was yin and you were yang. Your friendship began and ended where your bodies met. And it would never be the same.

He told you he loved you after he came, and you reciprocated those feelings. Something was so thrilling about the secret, though. Of people gossiping and speculating about the two of you. Of you both feigning disgust at the idea of fucking your best friend, only to ride him in the back of his car until the windows fogged up, and his chest was red and raw from your desperate scratches.

You loved the thrill. One whole year of sneaking around and nobody had a clue.

One year of pretending to get sick at parties, so Patrick would follow you into the bathroom and eat you out on the bathroom sink until your legs shook, raw from his stubble.

One year of Patrick tugging on the collar of his shirt during a match to signal he wanted you waiting in his car for him afterward. If he won, he made love to you slowly, rocking his hips, so his cock went deep, deep inside. When he lost, he spat on you, and left bruises on your ass that stung the next week as you sat on the metal bleachers.

It was hard to fit twenty years of love and pining into that one year without it bubbling over. At graduation, you and your friends threw your caps into the air and Patrick kissed you. Hands on your waist, tongue in your mouth.

The team gasped. They hadn't known your secret for the past year. But they did know it was only a matter of time.

[yeyinde]

lavender skies | Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x GN!Reader

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him.  (And that, maybe, you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

tags: friends to lovers (but the type of friends who are basically already dating and everyone knows except them - until suddenly they do), mutual pining. Slight Kent bashing, oops. Golden Girls as a coping mechanism. warnings: none. very tame, considering who I am as a person. Heavy make-out sess, though. word count: 6,6k notes: This has been sitting in my requests forever (I lost the original, but the gist was: Gaz + pining + idiots in love). You can blame a lot of this on summer rain and 80s city pop. Been going to the pier and listening to it while I wrote this. Not my best, sure, but it was fun.

The Tinder date he warned you not to go on (and seriously, mate, who uses Tinder anymore?) ends like this:

Your date, the biggest gentleman in Kent, as proclaimed in his bio (a red flag in hindsight—there's no such thing as a gentleman from Kent), sneaks his number to the waitress, and then leaves you behind in downtown Manchester to go bar hopping with a group he just met. 

It's not a great loss. All things considered, it's not even the worst date you've ever been on. It was just a spur-of-the-moment whim—equal parts anxiety and megrim: the sudden fear of being single forever (and no, despite what Kyle might say, it has nothing to do with the wedding invitation you'd gotten on Facebook, or the three others that came before it)—and therefore, there isn't much to be upset about. Not really. 

But the world doesn't work on half-hearted lies and shaky truths, and on a dank little corner in Manchester, abandoned by your ride home, your abysmal date who barely looked at you, you can't deny that it hurts. That it's a little bit of a hit to your self-esteem in a way that makes you angrier than you were before, because, honestly—he wasn't even a catch to begin with. 

Stupid. 

You should have listened to Kyle, to his immaculate wisdom and emotional maturity far beyond his years, but you hadn't because—

Well. Sometimes the world should work on little lies. If only to the ones you tell yourself. Ones like:

It's completely fine—really it is—if your friend of nearly eight years is moving on with his life. And it's totally, absolutely okay if your best friend meets some flighty barista in Amsterdam and won't stop talking about her for the meagre three weeks he's been back from his impromptu trip to the Netherlands, then to Mexico. It's fine. It's all fine. 

Because maybe you are, too. 

And maybe that's the reason you went out with David from Kent. 

From Kent? He texted, only hours before your date. (Hours because he'd been busy with this thing for his job—his boss is corrupt and the world is, too, but at least Amsterdam Barista is doing fine). You can do so much better than that, birdy.

You wanted to say, what? Like someone from Amsterdam instead? but you're doing this new thing where you try not to sound as mad as you think you are. Zen, maybe. Internal peace and happiness. So, instead, you say:

He's nice. I like him. 

Words that, of course, have come back to bite you. 

He isn't nice. He wouldn't stop staring at the waitress, and talking over you, or just generally ignoring your existence. He left you downtown, stranded without a way home. You don't like him. You really don't even think you were that interested in him. 

But it makes sense.

Kyle is moving on. Your friends are getting married. 

And where does that leave you? 

Well—

It leaves you stuck downtown with shoes that were intended to be used for aesthetics, the kind that means standing entirely still and immobile, and not walking the fifteen kilometres to your flat because you'd spent all your money on this super flattering outfit and these unfunctional shoes, and can't afford a cab or an Uber. 

Sometimes, you pretend you're a functional adult—one who knows how to navigate everything with ease, and you live in the present, the real world, where time is fluid and unchangeable, and things make sense (maths and geometry and physics) unless they don't (black holes and the vastitude of space and fate)—but moments like these remind you that you don't. That you live, instead, somewhere in the parentheses of both. 

The indigo sky, murky black and void of any stars, seems to grumble along with you as you turn toward the street, readying yourself for the long walk home. Except the groan sounds less commiserating and more ominous. A noise that seems to reverberate through the crowded street, and right into your bones.

Some have the wherewithal to find shelter. A smart move because almost a moment later, the heavens split, and a summer deluge drenches the street. It's unrelenting in its downpour, soaking everything in its path in a shrill roar. 

Caught in the middle of St Peter's Square, there are not many places to duck under for sanctuary, but you find an alcove beside a store, and dart toward it. The non-functional boots are pretty to look at, but with each step, you feel the hard synthetic rubber grind against your heel. Blisters form, break. The burn makes you inhale sharply against the pain, hobbling now on tender feet. 

The wall is slick with condensation, but you lean against it to keep your feet from taking the brunt of your weight. 

It reminds you, quite suddenly, of that night in Cardiff with Kyle. When you'd drank three-dollar margaritas at some downtrodden bar with your friends and ate rather limp-looking fish tacos (a mistake, of course, and Kyle still can't look at corn tortillas the same way), and laughed until your belly hurt at something he'd said—the words lost to alcohol and faded with time—and then leaned over, promptly throwing up in a bush. 

You still can't drink tequila without giggling (and gagging) at nothing, a phantom memory, and the thought presses against a tender spot in your chest in all the wrong ways. 

Time is fluid. An unavoidable truism that you can't escape. 

There are people you've known since you were a child whose faces you can barely remember. Ones you promised the world to, to always be together, who you hardly think of anymore. 

Moving on. Moving forward. 

You think, then, of Kyle. Of the distance that lingers between you both, widening each day. It's nothing you've done, nor he; it's just—

Life. Concurrent. Everpresent. 

It hurts to lose a friend, you'd always think. A small moment of grief, of loss. But not like this. Never like this. 

Stuck in a downpour in the middle of Manchester, you realise you miss him. Have been missing him. 

Huddling under an awning, you fish your phone from your soaked pocket, and pull up the only person you want to be around right now, in this moment of vulnerability. Loneliness. 

You send him a quick text, date was a bust. Stuck downtown. Are you busy?

Kyle's reply comes three breaths later. For you? Never. Send me your location. 

You send him your pin. 

Another message pops up: stay put. I'm on my way. 

You met Kyle Garrick at university. 

It's one of those things in life that just sometimes happens. A happy accident. An eventuality that makes the world feel a little less daunting. A lock and key sliding into place. Sunsets in pretty ochre. 

Someone you knew and someone he knew (two people who are now best man and groom in the upcoming wedding) decided to invite all of their friends out for a night, and it was then, slightly tipsy on cheap ale when you realised the boy in the back—a head taller than everyone else and more befitting inside the glossy pages of a magazine—was different, somehow, from anyone else you'd ever met. 

It started when some stupid kids decided to pick on another. A smaller boy with a blue cap. 

Kyle was the only one who noticed. The only one who seemed to care. 

It was his anger that drew you to him in the first place. Moth to a flame. It's quick—the sizzling flame of a lit match: suddenly burning the wick and nearly uncontrollable. But it's short. A flickering star, burning bright, burning hot, and then being tempered and swallowed down until it's smouldering. Still hot, still dangerous, but—

Managed. 

It was a snap. He was laughing, jovial. Telling jokes, and having fun, but still maintaining that enviable enigmatic persona: reserved but kind. Funny, but mature. And then it crumpled in an instant, folded away into anger. Bright and blistering. He walked to them, eyes blazing, and didn't wait for any excuses when the kids noticed him, just quickly decimated their foundations, and crushed their feeble lies between his teeth. 

"Bullyin'? That's a pretty foul thing to do, innit, mate?" 

And that was that. 

He handed the kid back his hat—the one the others knocked off into the gutter—and told him, clipped, that he was better than them. 

Just keep your chin up, yeah? Fuckin' losers, that lot. Don't go messing about with them anymore. Fucking pricks. That's a nice hat, too. Where'd you get it? Really? Oh, that's mint—

It was that moment when, unprompted and unnoticed, he easily slipped away from the group to help some kid he didn't even know that you realised you were very keen to get to know him. 

"Fancy a kebab, hero?" You asked, smirking up at him. 

A grin broke across his face. Sharp, feral. "I could always go to a lamb kebab."

The rest, really, just came quite naturally. Your best friend. The person you go to for anything—even terrible dates that leave you stranded in the rain. 

You just wish you knew when it all began to change, to fall apart. 

Kyle meets you near St Peter's Square. 

You spot him first from your hiding spot beneath the awning, catching sight of his form moving through the (now) empty streets, hands shoved in the pockets of his denim trousers, the bottoms tucked, sensibly, into his fawn-coloured boots. 

Even with the hood of his windbreaker pulled low over his brow, you can pick him out of a crowd with an ease that is as warming as it is jarring. 

You wave him over when he stops on the mouth of Mount Street, looking in toward the Starbucks on the corner. 

He finds you just as easily. And oh, his expression makes your toes curl in your misshapen boots. 

Anger pinches the corner of his mouth, and hangs off the furrow of his brow, the divot between his eyes. 

"Unbelievable," he huffs when he reaches you in the middle of the street, and sucks his teeth when you open your mouth to protest. 

"It is what it is," you offer, playing the peacekeeper. You fall into step with him, trying not to wince. "I'm over it." 

"Yeah?" The shadows across his brow deepen. "Are you sure? 'Cause… I'll fuck him up for you." 

Setting your friend on a man from Kent feels entirely too vindictive, despite how much of a rush you get at the thought of seeing the man cowed a little bit. You shake your head, playing the part of a reasonable adult. 

"It's okay. I'm just—I'm just, over this, yeah? Can we—"

Kyle stops you with his hand against your shoulder. "You alright?"

"My feet hurt," your smile is strained. "Terrible shoes." 

"Take 'em off."

"Are you crazy—?"

"I brought slides for you. Figured you'd wear something stupid." 

"Okay, fair. But—ouch? We can't all be crazy good-looking Armani models. Some of us have to work for it." 

Kyle snorts. "Just take your shoes off, yeah? Throw 'em in my bag."

You can't deny it feels blissful when you lean against the slick wall outside of a shop, toeing off your tight boots. Aching feet freed from their prison. The sigh you let out makes him glance up at you from the pavement, bent over the rucksack he brought. 

There's disapproval in his gaze—maybe at your choice. Choices. The date he warned you about. The boots. The socks he spots are stained with blood on the knob of your foot. 

He tuts. A soft admonishment that cuts through the silence of the empty square. But it's all he says. He swallows the rest and drops the shoes he grabbed on the pavement in front of you, slowly pushing them forward with the tip of his toe.

You try not to grin when you see them.

Crocs. The ugliest ones you could find in Schuh. You'd bullied him into getting a matching pair with you. Neon yellow adorned with little clips. 

You slip them on as Kyle reaches down to grab your boots. He pauses with them in his hand, eying them with something that taints the air with his disdain. 

"When did you buy these?"

"On Friday." When he was sleeping off his impromptu trip to Chicago. He brought you home deep-dish pizza, frozen, and promised that it tasted much better fresh. "For the date."

"Why?" Is all he asks. 

You shrug. "They're cute…?"

His eyes stray to your shoulders. The wet fabric of your shirt. His chin lowers slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on your flesh, on the goosebumps that bubble to the surface, spreading over your exposed skin. Eyes flicker, catching a droplet of water you can feel running down from behind your ear, falling over the slope of your neck. It breaks against your collarbone. He watches it all. 

There's tension in the air. Static. The pressure builds and reeks of ozone when it presses into you, knuckles digging into the hollow of your throat. It renders you unable to speak—locked in a paradigm where the world beyond the honeycomb of his eyes ceases to matter, to exist almost. Thick honey ensnares you. Molasses. It clots against reason, logic, and makes you feel weightless. Floating, unmoored, in this unfamiliar abyss that closes in around you. 

Except—

It isn’t. 

There’s something aberrant about it, anomalous, that you can’t ignore; but beneath it sits a preternatural sense of familiarity that bends the paradox into knowns. Into tangibles. Concretes. 

This is the same tension that has been simmering—festering, almost—since before he joined the miliary. In Cardiff when he leaned against you in the taxi, boney shoulder digging into your arm, and said, ‘dunno what I'd do without you, y’know? 

It was the hazy smear of neon from the shops perched on the street. An ethereal gold hue streamed in from the window, cutting across the tenebrous in an asymmetrical chiaroscuro. The light was soaked up by him. Warm honey, the perfect compliment to his eyes, to the soft pink of his lips. 

How could you possibly describe the feeling that spumes in the pit of your stomach outside of undiluted comfort? 

Home.

It feels like like in shades; muted. A soft undercurrent that lingers inside something else, something deeper—

Moments in the foyer when he was heading back home for the evening. When he’d linger in the doorway, shoulder balanced against the frame, arms folded over his chest, and warned you not to watch Taskmaster without him. 

He’d know, he said. 

When you asked how, he just said:

“Because I know you.”

It feels like that. Like that and something more. Everything, all of it, coalesces into this. Into this moment where you can’t stop staring into the flecks of mahogany and charred birchwood in his eyes, and he can’t seem to decide where to keep his, vacillating between the slope of your neck and matching your stare. A lurch, a flash of something in your chest when your gazes meet. The deep sfumato of a bare forest in the middle of winter—rich browns, raw topaz, honey and amber in a sea of white. A sleepy hinterland. Solemnent and peaceful. Dreamy. Hypnogogic. 

The world always seems to shudder into a deep slumber whenever he’s around. 

He dips closer, swaying into you. Gravity, maybe. Tidally locked satellites on the same rung. Something bubbles in your chest. Unwinds from its dormant perch between the gaps in your ribs, and climbs up your esophagus. Ready, you think, to be free—

In the distance, tyres squeal against the pavement. 

—and all at once, the moment burst, breaks. Shatters into a million pieces, cosmic dust, and you watch them fall around you, blinking rapidly, as though you’ve just woken. 

It feels like slowly coming down to earth when you quietly gather your things, words now stuck in your throat. In their prison. 

Kyle tears his gaze away from your bare skin, clearing his throat. 

"Hardly." He murmurs after a moment and slips his jacket off his shoulders before wrapping it around yours. It smells of rainwater, wet rubber. Beneath the polymer, you can smell Kyle—vetiver, cypress, jasmine; sweet and heady—and you bury your nose in the hood when he turns back to the empty street. “Well, uh—”

You can’t speak. Not yet. 

He seems to understand. 

"Yeah," he nods, and reaches out, tugging on the end of the drawstring. "Let's get out of here." 

The rain lightens into a muted drizzle, soft droplets that fall, almost rhythmless, on the wet pavement. The town sleeps, the streets bare. Empty. The only sounds come from your slick footfalls, a horn in the distance. 

It’s an easy silence that lapses between you—not at all unlike the lulls before, when things were easy and featherlight and endless; when you could talk to him about everything, anything, and all of the worries in your life were saved for something else. Never him. Never, ever him. 

But it tugs at something in your chest. The same pressure blooms at the edges, lingering in the periphery. You think of the spell you fell under—quiet yearning—and shake your head, desperate now to break it. 

It’s just as easy to slip into familiarity. To tease, and taunt. And so, you do. 

"I'm surprised you haven't said I told you so by now. That's so impressive self-restraint."

His gaze slides over to you. "Well, you know, it's implied."

"Oh, is it, now?"

"Yeah, like when you messaged me and told me about it and I said—"

"Who even uses Tinder?"

"—that he's knobhead, and you're gonna get hurt."

You scoff. "He's from Kent, so."

"Even worse," he makes a face, derision contrasted by the jaundiced lamp spilling over the pavement. "A Tinder date with a guy from Kent? What's next? Moving to Bristol?"

"It's a nice area." 

He rolls his eyes. "Sure. As nice as Essex, maybe." 

"The two are not even comparable—"

"'Dunno why you're rushing into anything, anyway,” he angles his chin toward you. “If this is about Carver's wedding, I said I'd go with you, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but…"

"But what?"

"That's sort of—like, you just have your own thing going on. I don't want to get in the way."

"I've always had my own thing going on. So have you. But that's never stopped us before, has it? What's changed."

"What about—" you swallow down something thick, bitter that wells in the back of your throat. "You know. Amsterdam. The Barista, or whatever."

His brow knots together. "And what about David from Kent?"

You sweep your hands out, motioning morosely toward your Crocs, your damp outfit. "This is what happened with David from Kent. Not exactly the fairytale meet cute you have with Amsterdam—" he makes a noise, like he means to interrupt. You cut him off. Bury it. "And besides, you should take her. I'll just—" 

"I want to go with you."

"Why?"

Kyle falls to a stop near the Kebab shop you usually go to whenever he comes back from his missions, when he's craving good, hearty food that will rot his insides and clog his arteries. A small comfort from before, when everything he has now was just a dream, and you were struggling students in university who could barely afford a meal each and would split a lamb dinner over ale and terrible movies from the noughties back at your flat. 

The suddenness of it all makes you blink beside him, slowly angling your chin up at him. A questioning noise wells in the back of your throat, but when you finally turn your gaze to him, it does out. A snuffed flame. 

He brings his hand up, finger scratching at the soft patch of skin on the bridge of his nose where it starts to arch up. The look on his face, hidden, slightly, by the night blanketing overhead, but just illuminated enough by smears of neon and flushed street lamps for you to see it clove into something slightly flustered, hesitant. Sheepish, almost, like he hadn't meant to say what he did, and now doesn't know how to proceed forward. Cards tucked tight to his chest. Does he play his hand or fold? 

You blink. Then blink again. Struggling, almost, to take in the suddenness of his flustered state. 

Because the thing is:

Kyle doesn't get embarrassed or sheepish. 

A running gag in your mutual friend group is that Kyle is twenty-eight going on sixty-five. An old man crammed inside the body of a young adult. He runs hot—passionate about his beliefs, quick to temper when he thinks an injustice is being doled out; a disciple of loose stoicism, but of a new age variety that is half parts stereotypical stoner chillness and ripe maturity—but he rarely is ever caught unawares enough to become embarrassed by something. He just has a perfect gauge of himself and those around him, able to quickly make friends with anybody he meets, and self-aware enough to know when he's in the wrong, when he needs to dial it back. 

Being his friend for so long, you know the nuance of these expressions. His mien is ingrained in your head: known and catalogued. Nothing about Kyle is a mystery to you except the things you're barred from knowing (his second life away from home, you often joke: wholly confidential, entirety draped in secrecy). 

But the look on his face is entirely alien to you. An expression you hadn't thought him capable of making. 

It's jarring. It bludgeons into you with a ferocity that takes your breath away. 

You know the man standing beside you, but this, everything else, is so unearthly. So foreign. 

"Kyle," you hedge, taking a small step closer to him. You're not sure why. Maybe to reacquaint yourself with the man standing before you. Maybe to find something of familiarity within him to comfort the sudden crescendo of your pounding heart because even just the heady scent of his cologne—vetiver, amber—quells the sudden bloom of anxiety in the pit of your stomach. "Are you—?"

"No," he mumbles, then huffs out a soft laugh. It sounds mean, in a self-deprecating way, and your heart lurches for him. "Yeah, no. I'm alright. I just—shit, you know? 'Course I'd wanna go with you. Should be kinda obvious, no?"

Sure, you want to say. Sure, no, totally. Very obvious. And maybe had he not stopped, not made this peculiar expression on his face—like he isn't sure what to do when he always knows what he wants, what he's meant to do—you might have said them. Might let them tumble from your lips, equally self-deprecating and a touch forlorn despite never really knowing why, but that would be a lie, now. 

Because you do. 

The look on his face is upsetting—not because Kyle never makes that expression, or because he's never uncertain about anything, ever, but because you don't know it. It's not something you've ever seen before. And it hurts. 

It's stupid. This whole thing. It shouldn't make you feel some sense of loss when he does something you don't expect. He always does. It's his brand, now—jettisoning across the world to catch bad guys and slap the trite American sense of justice and liberty for all across the faces of anyone who tries to oppose it—and you're very much acclimated to this side of him, the one he hides away from you, giving nothing at all about where he's going, what he's doing, what he's done, until he's back in England, safe and sound, and texting you at six in the morning for an English spread because he missed home. And maybe, maybe he missed you, too. 

Those quiet moments are tucked into a cosm where it's only you and him, and greasy food, and reruns of Golden Girls together with your feet in his lap as you sit on the chaise and pick favourites (his is, of course, Rose) until the sun goes down, and he heads home because he has a debriefing in the morning in Hereford, and you have work. It's bereft of unease, of tension. Time slips through your fingers fluidly, and you hardly notice it's been hours since he first arrived. Comfortable, wholly, in his presence and in your skin. 

Soulmates, everyone used to joke. You just get each other. Near finish each other's sentences. 

Except for lately, where there has been this undeniable tension simmering between the two of you—a sense of fragility that you can't comprehend.

Growing apart, you thought. And then: guess it's time to do the same. 

It made sense to make the first move. To download Tinder—much to his chagrin—and start looking for your—

Your Barista from Amsterdam. 

And oh. 

Oh. 

Maybe it's the way the street light frames the angles and plains of his face, or the shadows that run deep lines of tenebrous across the valleys in his eyes, the sharp slope of his lips, the soft pout. The inscrutable expression that rents a jagged divot between his brow, and an unsure twist of his mouth. Maybe it's everything. Nothing. 

But the only thing you know right now is that you know him. Have known him. Deeply. Intimately. In a way that goes beyond the boundaries of bodies, of flesh and blood. Bones and marrow. You know his soul. His essence. The foundations of who he is cobbled together in a lonely kebab shop over cheap ale, commiserating on an endless stream of papers and assignments; the eventuality of ever after when you hand in the final one. Over beans and toast in the afternoon, a whole day spent lounging in your flat watching reruns of Golden Girls, and petty arguments over Taskmaster that always seem to go a little bit too far, and never far enough. Fights that end two days later when he shows up with Greggs and a complete box set of that show you said you wanted to watch but never had the time for. Bargain shopping in Tottenham on an early Saturday morning because there's this chair, you see, one that you saw on their Instagram page and you simply must have it. 

Soft moments in between, brackets where life doesn't seem to wrap its cold hands around your throat. Time spent in each other's company just for the sake of it. 

Climbing onto your roof—a thatched mess of moss and straw and broken asphalt shingles that will one day give under your weight—and watching the stars, always searching for one that rockets across the sky while he murmurs beside you, quiet in this stillness that falls like snow in the dead of night around you. A hushed whisper as he relays the places he's been—all stars, he rasps, hand brushing wide strokes across the raspberry sky, dusted with light pollution: I'll take you there one day to see. Best fucking beer I'd ever had, too, just don't tell my cousin because he thinks the shitty lager he makes for his bar is good—and you try to picture it amongst the grey clouds. A life on the opposite side of the world. Just the two of you. Always. 

And that's what it's always been, hasn't it? Just you. Just him. 

It's sometime past midnight on a street corner in Manchester. Your feet hurt from walking all night, and your clothes are damp from the rain that caught you off-guard. A summer downpour. It clings to your skin in a way that's both freeing and wholly uncomfortable, but you're not thinking about that. You're not thinking about anything at all, not now. Not really. There's a silence in your head as the world falls into pieces, breaking like the jaundiced light that cuts crevasses and canyons in the tenebrous that colours sharp valleys of his face. He turns, then, a gentle list of his head as he takes you in, breathes your silence and questions the wideness of your eyes, the soft parting of your lips. The movement makes the light spill over the arch of his nose, the slope of his brow. The dawning of a new day. A new world. The untouchable of the moon where no light shines now burning hot under the sun. 

Then suddenly, and all at once, there's a loudness in your head: a hundred whispers echoing in time to the same off-beat rhythm, full of memories and moments shared between you, threads woven throughout the years all buoying to the surface as you realise you're a little bit in love with him. 

(And maybe you've been a little bit in love with him the whole time.)

So, you say it. You whisper all the words that bubble up, impatiently waiting between your teeth, effervescent and burning white-hot as they throw themselves over bone and flesh to be free. 

Confessing goes like this: 

Molten agony in your guts as the secrets you barely understand yourself dissolve into the atmosphere, spoken aloud and born on cobblestone and petrichor. Wide-eyed shock, uncertainty, as a new quiet falls over your shoulders, louder than anything you'd ever heard. Guncotton in your nose. A million detonations in your ears. 

You've never much liked the silence. You break it, then, with your bare hands. 

"...and that's basically it." 

It isn't much. It isn't poetry. You're not even sure the words were real. A figment of your imagination, broken free because of baristas in Amsterdam and losers from Kent, abysmal dates and the unending fear of being wholly alone in a world you're not prepared for, all without the person who makes you feel a little bit better about the nothingness that permeates around you. 

And sure. Sure. You don't need him. If Kyle decided never to speak to you again, you'd cry and you'd hurt, but you wouldn't be less of a person because of his absence. He doesn't complete you in the same way you've read about in thick books with strong-willed protagonists and an abundance of petty misunderstandings, but he compliments you. Elevates the good and stifles the bad. You want to experience things with him—not because there's some grand force at play, red strings knotted around your fingers that lead you back to him—but because you like his company. His thoughts. His mind. His presence. His essence fills you with joy in the same strokes it makes you want to pull your hair out sometimes. Good and bad. You want it all. 

You want it. Want him. 

And he—

He's taking you home a little past midnight where you'll make yourself beans and toast and maybe try and sleep, or turn on the television to watch four women you're intricately connected to eat cheesecake and solve each other's problems. He could be at his own flat right now, playing that video game he said he wanted to try when he got back, or watching that movie he was supposed to with his flatmates, his friends. He could be talking to some barista in Amsterdam. 

But he isn't. 

He's here with you. Still. Still. 

"I just—," you say, or try to. 

But the rest is a muffled gasp against soft lips when he presses his against yours, stealing the words out of your mouth. 

You can feel your heart beating through your lips. Taste him on your tongue when he draws you closer, hands reaching, grasping. Pulling you into him, into his body. You fit against him, tucked safe between the parentheses of his arms. He tastes of cardamom and cornflower. Lavender notes between his molars. Hints of milk on his tongue. You drink him down and know, then, that this is what they mean they talk about love being a feast because you chase this taste for the rest of your life and never be satiated. 

He loops his arm around the small of your back, dragging you closer still. As if any atom between your bodies is an affront. There’s no hesitation in the action, in the way he burrows into your skin. No trepidation. 

And maybe it would be silly for there to be any. You know him—every iota, every inch; secrets whispered at midnight in a shallow breath and dreams uttered at noon. To be known, to know, is a powerful thing. You feel it ghost across your flesh, featherlight, and reach for it with your bare hands. Seeking, searching. You don’t stop until the tips of your fingers meet his warm skin, curling around him. Anchoring yourself to him. Stuck, now, in permanence. 

You find spots that were untouched before. Behind his ears, the dip of his brow, the curve of his nose, and the slope of his jaw. Cupping it in the palm of your hand, a plinth for him to rest his chin. 

Your canvassing makes him groan, makes him tilt down into you as he begins his own exploration, chasing you in a mad pursuit. Sliding over your valleys, your plains. Running over the rugged mountains and the steep cliffs. He scours your topography with eager, nimble fingers. It’s slow, languid. There’s no rush with this, a consensus you both seem to come to rather quickly when he pries open your mouth and tangles his tongue with yours. It’s sweet, soft. His hands mimic his chase, sliding along your body as if he means to commit the entirety of you to memory, searing it in his brain. 

It’s only when he comes to a crossroads at your navel, pushed flush against his body, does he stop. You moan in despair at it, wanting more and more, not ready to give up this taste that curls over your tongue—saccharine sweet, salty—and Kyle echoes the noise with a groan, a quiet plea for air that both of you desperately need but can’t quite make yourself take. 

“Fuck—” he groans again, breath stuttering out in sharp, deep gasps. “Can’t bloody tell you how long I wanted to do this for, fuck—”

His words seem to peel back the dreamy gossamer of a slowly burning sensuality. It ignites in a blaze, not at all unlike the swiftness of his anger. The sharp, sudden strike of a match. The crackle and hiss of flames renting the air. 

The blaze starts at the point where your upper lip touches his, and almost immediately, it consumes you. 

It's frenzied when he kisses you again—feral and wild: all teeth and tongue and nips against your bottom lip but the moment you sink into the fervour, Kyle changes it. Slows down. Chaste pecks to your sore lips amid a sensual onslaught. A languid roll of his tongue, soothing the burn his teeth left behind. 

The way he kisses you feels like a paradox. 

It's organised chaos. Refined madness. A cluttered mess of finesse and deliberate suckles; an artist's masterstroke. 

You can't keep up. His rhythm is fierce and uncatchable. 

Each step seems to stutter. An avartan you can’t keep pace with. Elongated taals, dips. A crescendo of harmony that is matchless, unreproducible. You struggle along with his swift current, his unerring tide that sweeps you away; unmoored, adrift. The tentative exploration ends. He knows you, now. All of you. And this is his summit. His scramble to the top. It’s biting passion; roaring flames. 

You cling to him, holding tight to the liferaft he offers in a slow huff, a gust of mirth across your lips and into your lungs, slowing down to accommodate you. Malleable, now, he lets you lead, lets you take over, and move seamlessly with him. In tandem, parallel. Equilibrium brings you to heel, and you sigh into his mouth—a deep exhale of everything that has been building and building, tipping the scales around you until it was unbalanced and precarious. Teetering on the edge a precipice unknown. 

His hand roams across your known geography—hills and streams, rivers and canyons—until he reaches your hand still bracketed around his cheeks, slowly peeling it away from his flesh to slide his fingers between yours, holding tight, and—

Kissing is immaculate. Bending at an altar, and making an offering to something bigger than yourself. It’s the spark of lightning flashing overhead, static in the air. Magnets drawing closer and closer until they snap together in the middle.

But holding his hand?

It feels like coming home. 

The world tipping back into place. Amber warmth in your veins; the softness of a jasmine petal. You suck in a deep breath at the shock of it all. 

You think of missing puzzles and loose sea ice drifting alone in the vastitude of the ocean. You think of a life where he isn’t in it and find yourself shuddering at the wrongness that emanates from it. 

You want him. Want him—

It’s Kyle who pulls away first, resting his forehead against yours. You blink slowly, eyes catching dark amber, honeycomb. It draws a smile from you, full and deep. Giddy on the taste of him, of this. 

The only thought in your head is finally, finally.

You see his lips curl in response, eyes lidded and heavy. Blooming with want, affection. Adoration. 

"What, ah—," he laughs a little, then, breathless and happy, and the noise anchors itself to your breastbone, pressing into the hollow of your ribs. A place you'll keep it forever. "What now?"

He hands you the starless sky, and places it into the cup of your palm. Breathes laughter in the air, paints the moon with his joy. You think about the places he wants to take you, and the ones he swears you'll never go. You think about aeons from now when the world is gone and the stars all die out, when there's just the hazy lavender of endless abyss you can't make sense of. You think of him, and you think of you, and you wonder when it started to just make sense for there to always be two. 

Maybe that night in Cardiff when he held your shoes and gave you his coat. When he draped his arm around your shoulders, laughing at something stupid you'd said. A year before he joined this task force he makes cheeky remarks about but never goes too deeply into detail. When it was just endless summers spent working and drinking and eating good food. 

He'd asked the same thing, then, half slumped over in the taxi, and three sheets to the wind. It made his eyes darken, endless pits. Black holes. The expanse of the sky is framed by brown lashes, and drooping lids.

And you'd said—

"Beans and toast?" It feels right. It feels good. "We can—"

He huffed, too, just like he does now, and squeezes your hand once, tugging you along. 

"We're not watching Golden Girls."

You watch Golden Girls. Kyle wraps his arm around your neck, keeps you tucked in close to his side. He steals kisses from you when Sophia says something that makes you laugh until you're breathless and trembling. 

When David from Kent texts you, he grins wide, and whispers in your ear, think I've always been a little bit in love with you, you know? 

Yeah, you say, and kiss back until the taste of him is etched into the space between your teeth. Since Cardiff. For you?

"Since Uni for sure." He smiles again, sheepish and a touch flustered. It glitters on his brow and nips the apples of his cheeks. "You stole my heart when you devoured four lamb kebabs and then ate my tabbouleh. Said to myself, yeah, that's the one for me, innit?"

"On second thought, what's that Barista's number? Might try my luck instead."

"Nah, you're smitten," he presses his lips into the hollow of your throat, nips his teeth against your pulse point. "And you're all mine. No take backs."

"Ah, for fuck's sake—"

Ahhhhhhhh. Sappy romcoms are my kryptonite and it shows.

COD MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

[nhlclover]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 | 𝐆𝐀𝐁𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓

word count: 1.17k

summary: after six months broken up, gabe realizes he can't move on from you decides he has to win you back.

warnings: like one instance of cursing, not proof read

notes: based on 'how you get the girl’ by taylor swift. literally in love with my sherbrooke boy so i had to write for him

The rain slapped against the window, a loud patter sound echoing through the home you shared with 3 of your friends. It was the beginning of spring in Boston and the end of the school year was right around the corner.

It was slightly weird for you to be at home on a Friday night. At the beginning of last semester, you would’ve found yourself at Conte Forum, cheering on Gabe from the stands. However, that hasn’t been your reality for nearly 6 months. 

At the beginning of last semester, you and Gabe had split up. Gabe, having had an all-time year with being drafted, starting at Boston College, as well as the upcoming World Juniors had left an unbearable weight on his shoulders that he couldn’t quite seem to shake. Feeling overwhelmed and lost, it began to take a toll on their relationship. Ultimately, the decision to break up had been painful but mutual. Gabe, unsure of what he wanted in the midst of all the chaos, needed space to navigate everything. Although heartbroken, you recognized that, allowing Gabe to have said space. So you went your separate ways, trying to move on from each other.

However, there was now a void in your heart, brought on by the absence of Gabe. The ache of missing him never faded, and the realization that you two truly belonged together deepened. What you didn’t know was that Gabe, too, had been feeling the ache. He missed the girl that was his first love. 

In the meantime, the regular season had come and gone, the mens hockey team now on the verge of heading to the Frozen Four. Gabe, despite the recent success in hockey, was finding that nothing was making him completely happy. The memories of you still hung in the back of his mind and the guilt from having hurt you was still weighing on him.

Hollers and shouts filled his ears as he came off the ice and into the locker room. Gabe and the rest of the team were fresh off of a win that was set to send them to the Frozen Four. Like the rest of his teammates, Gabe should’ve been celebrating, relishing in the victory. However, Gabe couldn’t help but feel like something was missing.

 It was you. You were what was missing. Gabe felt he couldn’t relish in his success unless he had someone to share it with. Unless he could share it with you.

Gabe peeled his equipment off, tossing it in his stall. Will approached his friend, watching as he frantically changed. 

“Hey Gabo, whatcha doing?” He asked

“I’m going to y/n’s.” He said, tossing the jersey into the bin at the center of the room.

“You’re what?” Will asked.

“I’m going to see y/n.” Gabe said. “I need to get her back man, I’m miserable without her.”

Will could attest to that, having dealt with a heartbroken Gabe for 6 months now. He was no longer his usual self. However, Will didn’t know if you still had room in your heart for Gabe. 

“Is she gonna take you back?” Will asked.

“I don’t know man.” Gabe shrugged, pulling on his gameday suit. “But I gotta give it a shot.”

Gabe shoved his belongings in his bag, shoving the bag in Will’s hands. “Take this back to our dorm for me?” Gabe asked will.

Will furrowed his brows. “You’re going right now? It’s fucking pouring out man.” Will told him. It had been pouring all day and hadn’t let up. Gabe nodded, pulling on his BC hockey jacket.

“Dude let me give you a ride at least!” Will tried to shout to Gabe, but he was already out the door, heading to your place.

A knock at your front door pulled you from your show. It had you confused as to who could possibly be at your door in the middle of a thunderstorm. Curious none the less, you got up and walked to the door, your slippers shuffling against the hardwood. 

You opened the door to a drenched Gabe wearing a Boston College hockey jacket. His usual curls were flattened to his head, the rain taking away the volume. His eyes shone of determination, cutting through his rain-soaked image. 

“Gabe?” You asked, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “What are you doing here? Did you walk here? Are you insane?”

Your questions flowed out without giving Gabe a chance to answer them. Gabe, however, didn’t respond to them when you stopped. “It’s been a long 6 months without you.” He says. “I miss you so much, and I was so stupid earlier. I was just too afraid to tell you what I wanted.”

You go to speak but Gabe continues. “I want you for worse or for better,” Gabe began, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity. “I know I broke your heart, but I promise you I will put it back together. I know I messed up but please give me the chance to fix it. If you’re not ready, I get that. I’ll wait for you. I would wait forever and ever.”

You couldn’t find the words but your brain was going a million miles a minute. 6 months you and Gabe had been separated. 6 months it had taken him to come to this realization. But the look in his eyes. The vulnerability in his eyes and in his words moved you. Finally having Gabe in front of you, physically seeing his face and not through a screen as you would go through your photos of him, you’re reminded of the love you’d once known. Your shared joy and smiles rushing back to your memory.

You think to the framed photo of you and Gabe that still sits on your desk, the only testament to a love that once was. The ornate frame that was a gift from Gabe contained a photo of the two of you from the summer. In it, you’re stood in front of Gabe, his arms snaked around your torso and his lips pressed to your cheek. The pair of you significantly more tan than you are now, Gabes faint freckles appearing from sun exposure. Your favourite moment was frozen in time in that photo.

Gabe's words, coupled with the visual reminder of your love melted away any skepticism that you were harbouring. You still had yet to find the proper words, but you opened the door and stepped aside allowing Gabe to step inside. He was dripping all over your floors but you didn’t quite mind. He shrugged off the drenched jacket, it landing on the floor with a slap. Your arms snaked around his neck, his wrapping around your body. His wet hair dripped onto your face, his body shivering slightly. Having him back in your arms felt right. As you embraced one another, it felt as if the flame was rekindled, although it had never truly extinguished.

You pull back slightly, placing a delicate hand to Gabe’s cheek. “I missed you.” Gabe says softly.

“I missed us.” You reply.

[steddie-island]

Mutually Beneficial

After seeing this art by @2jihiir0, inspiration struck and I wrote a thing. This isn't what I usually write, I hope I did your art justice and that you like it as much as Steve likes Eddie being a little mean. 😅 Words: 1,237 | Rating: E | Tags: Age gap (Older Eddie Munson, Younger Steve Harrington), Mean dom Eddie, Choking, Possessive Eddie Munson, Top Eddie Munson, Bottom Steve Harrington See ao3 for full list of tags

“Oh my god –”

It had started innocently enough, with Steve getting kicked out as soon as he’d graduated and with Eddie Munson, town outcast, advertising a room for rent and a kid who needed a sitter. Moving in would be mutually beneficial. 

"Eddie, please–”

The trailer was different from what Steve was used to. The water heater was always on the fritz, it leaked when it rained, and sometimes it smelled like weed and whiskey, but the rent was cheap, his bed was comfortable, and Eddie’s kid was an angel. The sweetest little girl with big brown eyes and a head full of curls that matched her daddy’s. Steve loved her, loved watching Eddie with her and seeing how his whole demeanor changed when she was awake. He was a Doberman and she was the person he would cut the world down at the knees for. He looked at her so fucking tenderly. 

Sometimes Steve caught Eddie looking at him like that, all soft and tender. When he was feeding Rhiannon, or when Eddie would come back from a business deal (Steve wasn’t stupid, he had his suspicions about what went on but he wouldn’t ask. He just knew Eddie left with an empty wallet and returned with a big wad of cash) to find the two of them reading on the couch together. 

Eddie’s eyes didn’t stay soft like that when it was just the two of them. When they were alone his gaze would go almost sharklike as he sat back against the couch and watched every move Steve made.

Steve would catch him, would flush hot from head to toe. And maybe someone else would’ve seen it as a red flag, as a caution sign, but Steve had never been very good at listening to the warning labels.

It came to a head one night while Steve was cleaning up the kitchen after Rhiannon had been put to bed. He didn’t have to catch Eddie to know those dark eyes were on him, he could feel it like a physical pressure between his shoulder blades. And then it wasn’t just those eyes he could feel. It was big hands on his slim hips, Eddie’s chest against his back.

“You’re a pretty thing when you get all pink and shy,” Eddie had murmured. He smelled like the whiskey he’d been sipping since before dinner. “I keep wondering how far down your blush goes…” 

Steve’s knees had nearly given out as Eddie’s fingers slipped under his t-shirt, then down beneath the waistband of his pajama bottoms. “I got a feeling it goes all… the way… down.” His hand, so rough and big and hot , wrapped around Steve’s dick, made him whimper with how tight his grip was.

A kiss was pressed to his throat while Eddie’s thumbnail caught at his slit, making his hips jerk. 

“Pretty thing, why don’t you let me find out for myself, hmm? You take care of me… and I’ll take care of you.” As if to prove his point, Eddie had hit his knees. He’d bent Steve over the counter, had licked him long and deep and made him come twice with his mouth and his fingers, all before Eddie’s dick was ever inside of him.

Really, how was Steve supposed to argue with that?

“Use your words, sweet boy,” Eddie murmured. He was sitting with his arms spread across the back of the couch. His pants were open, his tanktop rucked up to show off the tattoos over his stomach.

And Steve was fucking himself down onto that thick cock. 

“Please– oh god, please –”

“You said that already. Please what, baby?” Eddie threaded his fingers into Steve’s hair, tugged in a way that made Steve whimper and his dick twitch against his belly. “I told you we have to make it quick. Can’t make it quick if you don’t use your words and ask for what you need, huh?”

Steve bit down another sound as he tried to lean forward, to get his mouth on Eddie’s. “Touch me,” he begged. Just having Eddie inside of him wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough and Eddie knew that. “Don’t be mean–” “Angel, we both know you like it when I’m a little mean.” Eddie’s hand slipped down to Steve’s shoulder blade, to one of the deep bruises he’d left as he’d pounded Steve into the mattress the night before. “Don’t you?” “Ed–” Steve gasped as Eddie’s hand dropped down from his back and between his asscheeks. He was loose, open, had already taken Eddie twice that morning, too, and had the mess left in his underwear as proof. It was so easy for Eddie to shift just a little and have a finger sliding in right alongside his cock. “That what you wanted, pretty thing?” Eddie snapped his hips up once and Steve had to catch himself against Eddie’s chest. “God, look at you. So fucking greedy. So desperate for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes–” Steve was sobbing. He felt rattled, exposed, stretched so fucking wide in a way that only Eddie had ever done to him. “Please– more–” Eddie’s other hand was on his throat then, squeezing until Steve could barely get a sound out, until his eyes were rolling into the back of his head from how goddamn overwhelming this was. “I told you to be quiet, didn’t I?” Teeth dragged over Steve’s jaw, down below his ear. “It’s like you want the whole world to hear what I’m doin’ to you, like you want them to know how much you like being a slut for me, huh? How much you like being mine ?” Steve could only nod and rock that much harder. Too much, too fucking much and yet not enough to push him over the edge– Eddie slipped a second finger inside and drove up hard again, again, steady thrusts that hit his prostate and had sparks going off in Steve’s brain. He could only sit there and take it, take everything this beautiful monster of a man wanted to give him and then some.

“Are you gonna be quiet if I let go?” Eddie asked. “Are you gonna be my good boy?” Steve nodded. Eddie’s fingers loosened. And with a stifled, broken cry, Steve arched his back as his orgasm rushed through him so hard it almost fucking hurt. Eddie’s fingers were out of his body, a hand was in his hair to guide his face into Eddie’s neck. He smelled like sweat and whiskey, and being pressed there muffled the noises Steve made as Eddie fucked into him roughly again. 

Eddie barely made a sound as he spilled into Steve’s body for the third time. 

They sat there, letting sweat and tears and come dry on their skin, until Steve had stopped shaking and could formulate a full sentence. Eddie would kiss him, tell him how sweet he was before he found Steve’s underwear and track shorts where they’d been thrown aside. When Steve’s legs regained feeling he would get his clothes on. 

Eddie would tuck his cock away. 

And before Steve was allowed to settle back down with his legs in Eddie’s lap, two more tally marks would have to be added to their ongoing count. One, in pencil, to the wallpaper behind the couch. And one in permanent marker to the inside of Steve’s thigh.

A brand for the two of them– for Eddie – to see. 

[hoeforhao]

🌙 Fated Under The Rain ☆ Wonwoo Oneshot ☆

↝ pairing: ex boyfriend! wonwoo × fem! reader

↝ genre: explicit language, smut with little plot, minors dni!!!!!! mutual pining but mainly from wonwoo, fluff, slight humor, overall nothing heavy just a small sensual drabble.

↝ warnings: unprotected sex(wrap it up kids), creampie, breast play, fingering, marking. Tell me if I missed any!

↝ summary: will offering lift to the man who left you in pieces amidst heavy rain lead to something your heart has been craving for months?

↝ word count: 2k(am sorry😭)

↝ author's note: was driving back home yesterday while it was literally pouring down outside, my favorite song playing on spotify and all i could think of instead focusing on the road was this plot!

Lemme know if you enjoyed the drabble! Feedbacks always make me feel warm♡

Permanent taglist : @feat-sun @joonsytip

Amidst the rain seeping it's path down the glass panels, the heaven clan's haze shielding your view from the mundane maneuver of the blurred out world, your glistening beads have found their long craved spot onto the tall, broad shouldered man standing by the signal, hair and shirt completely soaked up from the pouring skies, while his eyes were desperately searching for a way back - was it to his brick stoned house or his lost home?

"Going back home?" thrusting on the clutch and then the brake to bring your car to a halt at the blinking bloody lights, you roll down the passenger side's window as a way to offer some sort of help to the seemingly distressed man on top of the pavement.

A familiar voices grazes wonwoo's ears as his eyes shoot up in anticipation,looking for the owner of the claimed voice, only to land them on you. Did rain cloud his vision? Cuz there's no way that you were now parked beside him, asking whether he's struggling to get back home or not.

"Y-yes" the older nervously scratches the back of his head, not sure of what to say to the person he has pained so deep.

"I can drop you off, if you don't mind obviously" only you knew how hard it was for you to maintain an indifferent composure before the one man you've cared for and treasured so dearly, being fully aware of the fact that he's highly sensitive to rainwater; 'typical cat behavior' you laugh at yourself!

"No its fine. I'll find a cab soon" wonwoo tries to be as polite as possible, even though every vein of his body wants to jump into the car right now.

"I've been watching you clawing onto your scalp in frustration for the past 30 minutes and you think i'll still believe in your 'will find a cab soon'?" you genuinely didn't realise when the old habits took over the new persona and you started acting as the protective girlfriend you were, visualizing that one time he fell severely ill for days after getting poured onto on his way to the office; a memory you never wanna revisit ever again.

"Hop on quick if you don't wanna end up amongst the white walls for the second time!! Only 10 seconds are left to go" eyes quickly deviating towards the beeping timer of the signal, while you shift up the gear and slowly start bringing up your feet off the floor, ready to drive out as soon as the light turns green.

All of wonwoo's self control leave his body seeing the same old care flash by on his lost lover's face, as he swiftly pulls onto the door's latch, positioning his nearly drenched body onto the leather seats.

The defeaning silence between the two past kins were filled by wonwoo's occasional glances at the strong independent lady sitting beside him and the radio playing your favorite songs, those which you constantly looped onto spotify throughout the entire spell of your heart longing for wonwoo.

Looks like even the gods are against you today as a warm wet hand lands on yours that were stationed onto the gear beside. As much as you wanted to engulf those palms into yours instantly and never let them go, you knew quite well that he was now not yours, not your to claim, not your to hold onto. Thus the only thing you could do was keep your eyes fixed onto the slippery road infront and drive him home safe.

But the heavens knew better. Your plans were currently going for a battle with you as wonwoo kept on grazing his soft gentle digits onto the back of your hand, everytime you shifted them to change the gear, drawing small circles on them occasionally.

The sensation now reaching the threshold of your body, making your skin call for the touch of his lips and your insides craving the warmth of his body, it was time for you to slow down your car by a deserted road and park the black shiny carrier under the moonlight.

"What do you want wonwoo?" a stern yet begging pair of eyes turns towards the passenger seat, where the big man was resting his wet body on.

"I miss you y/n. I've always missed you" wonwoo now completely engulfs your palms into his, squeezing them hard from the anticipation of what's about to come his way. "Can...can i feel you for one last time, pls?"

You see the desperation behind those black boba balls, the way those droplets of tears are being held captive in the backroom; besides it was gradually getting hard to ignore the pained screams of your body to feel him beneath you. Abandoning all the huff,anger, hurt that made their home in you for so long, you fleetly jumped out from the driver's seat while pushing back wonwoo's to make enough space for you on his lap.

Startled by the sudden presence of your wet clothed cunt over the tent in his tight jeans, wonwoo's body jolts up in the heat flowing through him, dulling his morals and senses as he only wants to fuck the life out of you right now ; and he shows no delay in his endeavor as he clings his mouth onto your neck like a beast deprived of his meal for months, loitering the supple skin beneath with his marks.

"I missed you so fuckin much y/n" he whispers into your nape, hands roaming up your waist, under your satin shirt, caressing the soft pillowy tummy he has always preferred laying on, pawing onto your boobs over the black lacey bra you wore to work, for lord knows what reasons; while his lips now clutched themselves to your plumpy vanilla lips.

"May I, please?" there's literally not a single person on the earth who can say no to those pleasing kitty eyes. So you just hummed against the kiss - not a passionate one but a longing one; wonwoo's lips were moving on yours in such insatiable hunger that it seemed like he wanted to imprint the taste onto his mouth forever, who knows if he'll ever get to feel them again....as if his lips have finally found their twin flame they've been craving for months now!

One single go signal from you and wonwoo wasted no time in tugging onto the buttons of your flowy shirt, ripping them open in just a matter of seconds. His eyes lit up like an excited puppy upon seeing your bare skin, glowing under the moonlit rainy sky....oh how he has missed this sight of yours so much, you whimpering on him, all vulnerable and begging for his touch against your heated core.

"Fuck you're still so sweet my love" he moans into your jiggly soft boobs, mouth fixed onto one of your hardened nipples, while he pawed at the other one.

The words 'my love' from the mouth of the one your heart still belongs to, still craves for and still wants to be claimed by, does no good in controlling the dripping from your already soaked pussy, as you start roughly grinding against his clothed length.

"Hmmm so impatient for my cock, aren't you pretty baby" a wide smirk creeping it's way onto wonwoo's face as he notices you getting impatient to feel him inside you. Finding it exciting and a prideful moment for him, the hand that was kneading onto your doughy mounds now trails down to your panties under the very convenient skirt your were harboring ; drawing his cold fingers over your sensitive clothed clit sending your head thrown against the windshield of your car.

"Pls..pls stop teasing and fuck me already wonu" you were yourself amazed at how desperate you seemed for his cock in your throbbing pussy.

"But I don't have a condom sweetheart" wonwoo knew absolutely well that you didn't give a damn about having unprotected sex with him as he smirked onto the skin around your nipples, teasing your wet sticky fold with his free fingers ; pulling out a string of slick from your pussy infront of you, he proudly shows you how much of a slut you're for his touch.

"You..ahh...you think...I....shit...fuckin care about having a condom right now? Just go in raw please....haven't felt your cock in me....for so long....fuck" lord if anyone ever got near to the black beauty parked on the roadside and heard the lewd sounds escaping your lips, they would surely be traumatized for days, but that was the least of your concerns now.

"As my princess wishes" and with that wonwoo quickly moves his limbs towards his pants, shoving down the chain of his trousers in the flick of an eye, while he finally releases his strained hard cock from its restraints, precum leaking down its tip as he tries to slightly palm down the pain before sheathing them into your walls.

"Just as tight as I left it" he growls onto your neck as his cock now thrusts into your slick walls at a inhumane pace, as if he slowly down, he'll forever lose the warmth of this pussy. "Fitting me so well into the mould u created only for me to fill"

The rain outside and the haze of all the juices leaking from the two bodies inside the car, creates a mystical world bounded within the tinted glasses of the vehicle, while wonwoo keeps on fucking you dumb onto his lap.

"I...I'm near wonw-- ah fuck" you lose control over your core muscles at the sensation of wonwoo's tip hitting your womb, as your core's glistening cream paints his black jeans white ; not to mention you were now embarrassed at the fact that he has to go home with such stained pants....or maybe not-

"My pretty little whore, so glowy after ruining my new jeans huh" you can feel wonwoo's pace slowing down a bit, knowing quite well what's about to follow. "Lemme return the favor and ruin your insides, ruin your pussy so that no one can get to bury themselves in you, except me.....only my hole to fuck"

Wonwoo's body falls limp onto the headrest of the seat as he shoots his entire load into you, cock still moving amongst your walls, fucking his seeds deep inside you.

"Can i have another chance, please?" wonwoo finally looks you into your pleasure coated eyes while shifting you on his lap to wrap your arms around his neck, resting his sweat forehead onto yours.

"At what? Fucking me?" you were seemingly confused at his words as you didn't think he would be wanting anything else other than sex, after how he let go off your hand in the middle of you two's promised path, 8 months ago.

"No...no...at l-loving you, pls" his voice suddenly portrays a cast of regret and pain, "I know I fucked up, I hurt the one I've loved with all my might all this time. I...I could never get you out of my head y/n, my eyes and my heart kept looking for you at every corner of my messed up life. Pls, will you give your catto one last chance?" something unexpected rolled down wonwoo's cheeks and it was none other than tear drops. Was...was he really crying for you, begging you back into his arms again?

"This time if you leave, I'll make sure to castrate you, so that you can't ever get a girl around you after me" you laugh onto his skin while placing a gentle kiss on his forehead, your fingers wiping off the dried out tears on his cheeks.

"I'll happily place my dick under your guillotine, my highness" wonwoo hasn't felt this happy since months, heart fluttering at the thought of walking beside you again, fingers locked into one another's.

Your heart swells looking at the misty scene outside, remembering how the first time you two decided to date, it was raining cats and dogs as you were pulling him under a tree to sheath yourselves from the rain...and now when the skies decided to grant you another chance at healing your soul with the one you loved, it's raining heavily - again!!!

"Eh but what about your pants wonu, how will you go home with these...ummm...stains" a genuine question you've been dying to ask him, as you surely don't have a change for men's jeans in your car.

"Who said we are going home baby"

[whipped-for-kpop-fics]

Forever in the rain with you - L.SM

🌧Who; Lee Seokmin (Seventeen) x reader 🌧What; I know it starts like it's gonna be angst but it's really not. Reader is just being dramatic. Fluff. Established relationship. 🌧Wordcount; 1.7k 🌧Warnings; Profanity. I don't think there's anything else.

Summary; It's raining again and all you want is Seokmin back.

-2024 Masterlist-

A/N- I was supposed to be planning a superhero crack(ish) series and looked over at the window and saw the rain so this happened. It was supposed to be all dramatic and serious but apparently I was still in humour brain from the hero idea so it didn't turn into the angst I wanted lol. And then it was supposed to be a quick humourous piece and turned into this gathering of fluff. Seokmin's just so sweet and cute, I couldn't help myself. Thank you to @hannieween for supplying me with wet Seokmin pics for the header! 💖

It's raining again.

You can't help but think of him when it rains. How it rained so heavily on your first date that you were both soaked by the time he had walked you home afterwards, yet he had looked so happy as he smiled at you at the door. How whenever the rain caught you unaware when out, he'd without fail remind you of your first day with a bright, smitten smile on his face. How the more days spent in the rain together made a mutual love and appreciation for the weather over your time as a couple. How the first time he had said /I love you/ was only a few weeks into officially being a couple when he had insisted on pulling over on a drive back from a date to slow dance with you in the rain. Because he saw it in a movie and always wanted to do it. You could never say no to him. How he had lit up like you had given him the keys to the universe, not just your heart when you didn't hesitate to return the sentiment that same day, and then kissed him silly, of course. How something about the slip of the rain against his lips on your own always made it feel more special somehow. Like even though the world was right there reminding you that it existed around you, the pair of you still only had eyes for each other.

A longing sigh leaves your chest as you follow the trail of a slow raindrop as it makes its journey down the windowpane, joining its fellow droplets to gather at the bottom until they are strong enough to overflow and fall from the sill down to the wet ground. Reunited with their fellow fallen until the sun rises and lifts them to start the cycle all over again. "Oh, how I miss you." It's dramatic but true. You miss him, you always do and always will. The moment he left there was already a heavy weight settling in your chest and it has only grown heavier ever since. From the moment he stepped out of the door, all you've wanted is for him to return right to your arms where he belongs.

The moment you hear the lock of the front door disengaging, you turn with big eyes, hands balled up in the hem of your t-shirt in anticipation.

And then he steps into your home, bag of takeout in one hand and utterly dripping with rain. He looks absolutely soaked. And so so so fucking beautiful. You can never get over how gorgeous this man is. This Lee Seokmin. The epitome of all of your wildest and wettest dreams rolled up into one devastatingly sweet and loving man. You can never wrap your head around it, why of all the people in the world, he chose you. But the love you hold bright in your eyes whenever you look at him has always shone just as strongly in his own eyes when they land on you. And today is no different, he looks up from putting the bag on the side table near the door without stepping off the entrance mat, and his face lights up at the sight of you standing there.

"I missed you." You inform simply and shuffle over.

"I only went to meet the deliveryman." He laughs, reaching out to take your dry hand into his wet one. You hold on tight and step closer to press a kiss to his lips. "I missed you too, my dramatic love."

"You make me this way."

"I'm pretty sure you were dramatic from the moment I met you. Definitely. We met in theatre club, sweetheart."

"I love that club."

"You hated it." He recalls with a giggle. "You said the teacher was incompetent and the other members annoying."

"He was and they were. But I never would've met you if it wasn't for that club."

"Ah," Seokmin smiles adoringly at you and cups your cheek. "You're so sweet, all for me, huh?"

"All for you."

"Until when?"

"Until you no longer want me."

"Then forever?"

"Forever." You agree with a firm nod. For a second, an unusual look crosses his face, he looks relieved to hear that but it passes almost immediately. It's a strange look, you think, considering you've been together for over a year and you never fail to let each other know how in love you are on a daily basis.

"Let's go to the roof." He suggests, reaching back to open the door behind him.

"Okay," You chirp happily and swap your slippers for some shoes you don't mind getting wet before you leave the apartment hand in hand and quickly make your way up to the roof of the building.

It isn't the first time you've done this; rushed up to the rooftop just to dance in the rain together, and you hope it will never be the last. That even years down the line when you're older, you'll still do this together. Like it's the first time all over again, it always feels that way.

When Seokmin pulls you close with a gentle touch and tilts forward to rest his forehead on yours while starting to sing softly the same song he always sings for you in these private loving moments, your heart races as if it's the first time. You hope that feeling never goes away.

As Seokmin sings in his melodic voice, romantic words he quotes to you in moments where his own words aren't quite right, the rain soaks you through down to your skin and splats up your feet and ankles as you both glide smoothly around the rooftop.

Nothing could be better.

Except if it lasted for longer than just a few minutes. As the last notes pass Seokmin's lips, you both naturally come to a stop and know you will have to return home in a moment to dry off and get into fresh clothes, even if you would both happily remain blissfully pressed together sweetly in the rain while the world kept revolving around you. So long as you have him and so long as he has you, nothing else matters.

"Do you mean it?" He asks softly as he straightens up and peers down at you.

"Mean what?"

"Forever."

There isn't a single hint of hesitation in your response. "Yes."

Seokmin bites his bottom lip gently for a second, a nervous habit before he nods and slides his arms away from you and takes a step back. You assume that he's getting ready to go inside so you start to take a step, though you fall still when he reaches into his pocket and then lowers down to his knee once his hand is back out. It does not take a genius to understand what is happening here, especially not when he looks up at you and opens the little box to reveal the ring within. "I-" He starts but you're already throwing yourself at him, all but tackling him to the floor. He yelps and quickly snaps the box shut as he tumbles onto his backside, his free arm wrapping around your waist to steady you both. "Sweetheart-"

"I love you, so fucking much, Seokmin." You declare, looking at him so intently, lips trembling a little even with your smile. Seokmin is pretty sure that some of the wetness on your cheeks can be attributed to tears.

"I love you too," He replies automatically, both of you unable to hear those words without returning the sentiment and meaning it wholeheartedly. "I guess this is a yes?" He chuckles, pulling the box between your bodies to open it back up. "I know that we don't need this to know that we're in love and mean it. I've said I want to be by your side forever and mean it, but I would be really happy to be your husband, sweetheart."

"Yes, of course. I would love that so much, Seokie." You sniffle and nod rapidly. So Seokmin plucks the ring from the box to slide it onto your finger. "I'll buy you one too."

"Mm, yeah?" He beams up at you when you both look up from the new jewellery on your finger. You're pretty sure his cheeks are wet for all the same reasons as your own; rain and tears of joy blended into one shine on your skin.

"Yeah, we're both engaged, we both should have a ring." You declare. "It's fair."

"It is. I want a big diamond." He jests. "Bigger than yours."

You laugh softly and gently take his face into your hold to kiss him with all the adoration in you. However, when you lean back and take in the loving expression your brand-new fiancee has on his face, the adoration returns to full capacity. "Whatever you want, it's yours, my love."

"What if I want to stay right here in the rain?" He suggests with a cheeky grin, clearly joking.

"I'd spend forever in the rain with you if that's what you want."

Seokmin's expression softens out before he kisses you once more. "You really are the perfect person for me. My other half. My soulmate."

"The love of my life."

"For all eternity."

"Amen." He laughs at your response.

"We're not religious but okay, amen." He agrees then taps your thighs a few times in a silent sign he wants you up. You sigh, not wanting to remove yourself from him, yet still reluctantly get up and help him to his feet. "Come on, dinner's waiting." He speaks, lacing your fingers together to try and lead you back inside but you remain in place and pull him back gently. "Baby?"

"One more dance?" You request. Seokmin can't resist you, can never say no to you. Not that he wants to.

"One more dance."

It's the same song, the same dance you've been doing for over a year now; but you truly, with everything in you, hope that it never changes.

Forever is a long time, but forever in the rain with Seokmin sounds like the perfect way to live your life to you. Just you, Seokmin and the rain. Forever.

A/N- That proposal really snuck up on me. It was not part of the plan at all and just happened. Please don't be shy to let me know what you think! I know I don't really write little pieces like this but if people like them, I'll try to do more little scenes in the future instead of longer stories. And please reblog if you liked the lil story!

[queenimmadolla]

𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈

(Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader)

summary: You cancel on your plans to hang out with your crush, Eddie, and your friends when you realize your competition for his affections will also be there. So, naturally, Eddie comes to you.

warnings: misunderstandings, little bit of hurt, little bit of angst, a lot of fluff and a lot of comforting,

a/n: little companion piece to In My Dreams. inspired by Hozier’s song Would That I, my re-watching of grey’s anatomy, my love for Lexie Grey who heavily inspires Reader’s personality in this, and that confession. for creative purposes we’re gonna pretend Halloween 5 came out before 1986, Eddie got held back like twice maximum, and everyone is alive/lives in Hawkins because this is an ideal world. probably won’t be able to post much in the coming weeks so enjoy and let me know what you think (don’t be a jerk)! mistakes will be fixed later.

You open the sliding door of the shower with a sigh, arm curling around your body at the slight temperature change as you yank the towel off the bathroom counter where you had set it and wrap it around your body, quickly drying off your limbs. Once you’re dry enough, you step out of the shower, towel now wrapped around your body as you grab a clean t-shirt to wrap around your drenched hair.

You swipe the condensation from the steam off the mirror, staring at your bare, disappointed face before the steam fogs it up again.

Your body heaves out another sigh as you prepare to go through your routine in a failed attempt to not think about all the fun your friends are having without you at that very moment.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t invited you, because they had. Heather had come bounding up to you during break on Tuesday to tell you about the group’s plans to hang out on Friday night, go to the mall, head to the movies then grab a bite to eat and probably hang out at someone’s house. You’d agreed immediately, loving nothing more than spending time with your friends. But then you had found out two things that had certainly rained on your parade before it even started:

1.) Roxy Campbell was going. Heather knew how much you two didn’t get along (a dislike that had been mutual since elementary school but had only spiked in animosity in recent years) and had hurriedly explained that it hadn’t been her that extended the invitation to Roxy, which lead you to reason number two.

2.) Chrissy Cunningham would be there. There wasn’t any bad blood between you and Chrissy, far from actually. You didn’t interact with her too much, she was more Heather’s friend than yours (and you sometimes wondered about that, they often cuddled up during big sleepovers, and disappeared at gatherings) but the common factor between Roxy, Chrissy and you was the real problem.

See, you wouldn’t have a problem being in the same place as Roxy on her own, and same goes for Chrissy, but together, they would just be too much for your insecurity, because Eddie was going.

You’d had a crush on Eddie since the fourth grade (he’d been a couple of grades ahead of you at the time, but now he was attainable, or you had thought he was) but it was when Heather had sucked you into their rag tag group consisting of a bunch of social misfits (Steve, Jonathan, Nancy, Argyle, Barb, Robin, Eden, Eddie and a partridge in a pear tree) during junior year that you actually fell in love with him.

He’d been the one you had bonded with the most, you had almost nothing in common—but it didn’t seem to matter because he made you feel like you mattered. He made you feel seen when you thought you were invisible, made you feel heard when you thought no one was listening, and you just. . .you really loved the way he made you feel.

And you were stupid enough to love him. Stupid enough to love his long curls, his smile (the crazed one was a favorite of yours, but it was topped by the shy one he’d always exchange with you when it was just the two of you in your own world—regardless of your friends surrounding you, or when you were in class and you’d turn in your seat to look back at Eddie and he’d already be watching you, he’d give you that same, beautiful smile), the way he’d doodle silly little things all over his hands (and you could go super into depth about your admiration for those hands), how he resembled a Gremlin when he ate, how he couldn’t seem to sit like a normal person in most public settings unless he was mentally exhausted, his dramatics and the stupid faces he’d make, the way he’d bark at Tommy H. when the jerk dared to try and approach Steve or if he was simply annoying Eddie, how much time and effort he put into campaigns, how he never seemed to get mad during the rare campaigns in which the Hellfire Club managed to breeze right through his monsters, mazes, and obstacles. You could go on forever and that was the problem.

Roxy started liking Eddie right around the time you fell in love with him—because she always has to have whatever you want—and Chrissy was the last girl you were aware he’d had a crush on. A crush he’d had since the seventh grade. Given the current strength of your feelings for a crush you’d had for far longer, you didn’t have any hopes that he’d moved on, since you—ya know hadn’t. Roxy didn’t really intimidate you, but if you were sandwiched between the two girls—or worse, if Eddie was, you’d be forced to watch either another girl flirt with him or watch him flirt with another girl. Both of those options sounded terrible to you and you were positive you’d just end up with a stomach ache that had you nearly bedridden like you always did when it came to heartbreak.

After three days of debating, you’d called Heather before you were all supposed to meet up at the mall and had used your mom not letting you go out because you had chores to do as an excuse. Your mom wouldn’t have appreciated being made the villain but they had all seen you looking perfectly fine at school only a couple of hours earlier, meaning you couldn’t play sick, so she’d just have to take one for the team.

Heather had sounded disappointed but understood and told you she’d let the rest of the group know.

Then you proceeded to have a breakdown, you’d cried and cried, crawled into your shower, cried so much and let the reality of not ever being able to love Eddie and be loved by him crash down on you, your chances of being the reason he smiles and feels loved circle the drain before washing away as your body shook with your sobs. At one point you had thought you might suffocate with it all, but you hadn’t. Once the hot water had begun to lower in temperature, you forced yourself to get up and get yourself together. Eddie should be able to be happy with whoever he wanted and if you were really his friend, you would have to be happy for him and stop feeling sorry for yourself.

So, here you were. All alone on a Friday night while the rest of the teenagers in Hawkins got to be, well, teenagers.

You try cheering yourself up by doing a full body shave since you have the time, moisturizing heavily with sweet smelling lotion, shaping your eyebrows, doing a ton of face masks—you may be feeling pathetic but your skin sure wasn’t—and painting your nails and toes. You’d gone with a metallic green this time in an effort to be daring. You even put your earrings back in, just to feel a little less naked.

Once the polish is dry and you have done all the self-care you can think of, you’re left with nothing to do and no one to keep you company. Even your mind is quiet and your thoughts are whispers, if anything. They’re not nice whispers, so you decide to watch a movie. You throw on one of your comfy sweaters and a pair of boy shorts before running downstairs to sort through the rentals your family still has. Normally, you wouldn’t go running out in your underwear regardless of how similar to shorts they appear, but even your parents had plans tonight, Fridays were date night. They’d come home sometime after 2 am, giggling and so in love as they tiptoed—incredibly loudly, somehow—past your room to try and not wake you up while you listened to them trip and stumble down the hall because you couldn’t help but like to listen and imagine it being you and Eddie one day; drunk, in love and without a care in the world because you’d have each other and maybe a slightly sleep deprived teenage daughter.

The movie selections aren’t too vast, most of yours had been returned on Wednesday—WAIT, SCORE!

You admire the VHS cover of The Last Unicorn with a smile before tucking it under your arm and disconnecting the VCR from the TV in the living room. You carry the bulky thing and its wires up to your room, quickly setting it up to your smaller tv and popping the tape in. While the previews play, you pull the soaked t-shirt off your head, your hair is still damp but as you look at yourself in your bedroom mirror, you can’t help but smile. Your face is glowing, you smell amazing, you hair—while still somewhat wet—looks promising to dry and set satisfactory. Hell, the damp look is working for you on its own. With a smile on your face, you feel and look beautiful.

The t-shirt is tossed into your hamper and you dig out a couple of your favorite snacks from your hoarding place under your bed before you settle on top of it, belly down and your comfiest pillow under your chin as the movie begins.

The movie is comforting and provides you a sense of nostalgia, though it hadn’t come out too long ago. You chalk it up to its dated terms and the general setting of it.

You’re completely invested in it, mind filled with nothing but commentary. You’re wondering why the animators made Celaeno the Harpy’s three titties so big and bouncy when the sound of knuckles rapping on your window surprises you. You push yourself up on your arms, craning your head to look even though you have an inkling who it is, the only person to regularly visit you via window pane.

Sure enough, Eddie is grinning at you from the other side, gesturing down to your window locks. You hadn’t been expecting him so you’d left it secured. It was only a little past 8 pm and hang outs nearly went on to 1 am, why wasn’t he with everyone else?

You move your snacks aside and abandon your pillow in favor of climbing off your bed to pause the movie before you make your way over, unlocking and opening the window for him.

“FINALLY!” Eddie grunts out as he tumbles in, rolling a little ways away before he jumps up and stretches his arms out so high he’s almost touching your ceiling. You roll your eyes, a small laugh slipping past your lips as your fondness for the silly boy quickly rises to the surface.

“Oh, quit it, you faker. You weren’t out there that long.”

Eddie scowls at you, eyes narrowed playfully. He won’t bother telling you that he’d been there for ten minutes (after he’d struggled to get on the roof for the same amount of time, Jesus H. Christ, it never got easier scaling your home, but he’d be damned if he stopped doing it, it was romantic and he was in the middle of wooing) watching you in a non-creepy manner, you’d looked so beautiful and peaceful; he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of you or even consider making you aware of his presence until the overwhelming urge to hold you had taken over. He didn’t know if he’d finally be able to work up the courage to do so but the distance between you, and the physical separation started to give him anxiety so he’d knocked.

“You still took your sweet time getting off your butt to let me in,” Eddie teases as he makes himself comfortable, kicking off his shoes and shrugging off his jacket to hang on your desk chair. He even takes the chain off of his jeans, tucking it into one of the jacket pockets.

“I wasn’t expecting you!” You throw your hands up in defeat after you shut the window again.

Eddie’s grin turns sly, “Did I surprise you, kid?”

Now it’s your turn to narrow your eyes at him, because you know he doesn’t have the audacity to bring this up again. “Do. Not. Start.”

“It’s just pretty interesting for a guy whom you referred to as predictable today, at 10:06 in Mr. Bellow’s class, to surprise you in a manner that is evidently not so predictable.” He’s smug, so very smug as he crosses his arms and smirks.

You groan, though there’s no annoyance to it, in fact—you’re fighting off a smile. If you smile, he wins and that’s what he wants. You can’t give him that, it's the little teasing game you have going on. You will not break.

“You accuse me of holding onto grudges─”

“Because you do.”

“—yet here you are, bringing up something from the past!”

“It happened today!”

“Yeah, earlier today, as in not right now, meaning the past. Besides, I wasn't wrong. You always climb up to my window and you always try to be unexpected, so really, this was very much so an Eddie thing to do and I am—in fact—correct about you being predictable.” You state as you make your way back to your bed, climbing back on top and folding your legs criss cross style.

Eddie stares at you from where he’s standing, amusement clear in those big beautiful, Bambi eyes of his. The smirk is still there, but it’s not so sly or smug anymore, more gentle and you can tell he’s trying to not let it break into a grin but he’s smiling, nonetheless, so you win. And he knows it.

He shakes his head, turning to look at your poster and art covered walls so you can’t see just how big his grin is. When he finally composes himself, his body is relaxed, arms dropping to dangle by his sides as he stalks towards your bed.

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I wrong, though?” You beam up at him and he can’t say no to you, ever.

With a heavy sigh, he drops his weight onto your bed, falling onto his back. Your poor snacks go tumbling but you don’t care, leaning an elbow on your knee as you rest your chin in the palm of your hand while you peer down at him.

“No. What are we watching?”

“You didn’t answer my earlier question.”

“You didn’t ask a question.” You know he knows what you’re referring to.

“I could smother you right now.”

“Mm, but you won’t.”

You drop your hand from your chin to dart forward and tickle his side. Eddie yelps, letting out a loud laugh as he tries to wrangle your hand in his, securing your wrist in his grasp.

“Okay! Okay! Fine, what’s your question?”

“Why aren’t you with everyone else?” You exclaim, in your rush of adrenaline, rather than ask.

Eddie answers like it’s the most simple question in the world, blinking up at you as though the answer should have been obvious to you, “Because you’re not there.”

Your brows furrow, a confused smile crossing your lips and Eddie wants to lean up and kiss the spot between your eyebrows to ease them. You smell so good, too. He just wants to bury his face in your neck, your hair, suffocate himself with you ‘til his lungs refuse oxygen in favor of needing you to breathe.

“I’m hardly the life of the party, Eddie.”

Not when Roxy and Chrissy are around, you think to yourself. If you’re being honest, Chrissy seems more fun than Roxy, and so are you. Anyone is better than Roxy. You can’t help but briefly wonder how Roxy can be friends, acquaintances, whatever, with Chrissy—not that there’s anything wrong with the sweet blonde—but if it was obvious to you that Eddie liked Chrissy, it should have been obvious to Roxy. Roxy loathed you even more than she had before for being friends with Eddie, you figured she’d hate Chrissy since she was the object of his affections.

“You’re spacing’ out on me, kid.” You’re literally shaken from your thoughts when Eddie puts his giant freaking hand on the top of your damp head, giving it a gentle shake. He laughs at your expression when you swat his hand away.

“Sorry, was just thinking about something. Did you say something?”

“I said you’re the life of my party,” Eddie repeats, trying to maintain his cool, despite how fast his heart was racing. He’d do that a lot, drop little hints to see if you picked up on them with hopes you would. Then, he’d have the perfect opportunity to finally tell you how he feels; like how his heart had just about dropped out of his ass when Heather had come on her own and told them you wouldn’t be joining them. He’d been sullen and mostly quiet as they walked through the mall. Steve and Argyle had tried to cheer him up, but it was useless. Chrissy had even tried to strike up a conversation but he couldn’t think about anything but you, so that had dropped pretty fast and he was sure he’d come off as rude, only he couldn’t care right then but he’d apologize next week at school.

Eddie couldn’t even recall what movie they had ended up watching. Even if he had been trying to pay attention, Roxy was constantly trying to talk to him during the movie so he wouldn’t have been able to hear it anyways. The entire time he was trying to think of why you hadn’t shown up. Heather had mentioned something about your mom, but Eddie knew your parents had date nights on Fridays so you were pretty much free to do whatever you wanted. Were you sick? On your period? Suffering? And here he was, albeit not having an even decent time, hanging out with his friends when he could have been comforting you or just with you. He left before the movie hit the halfway point.

“Coolest person I know, kid.”

You smile, sinking back into your shoulders shyly, you may not have been the apple of his eye, but you were still cool in his, “Thanks, Eddie. You’re the coolest person I know, too. Maybe even the best person I know, in general. Don’t tell Robin or Eden I said that.”

Eddie chuckles, still hyper aware of your wrist in his hand, if he plays this right he could just slide it up ‘til he’s palm to palm with you and intertwine your fing─

“The Last Unicorn,” You announce, finally answering his question as you sit up only to lean back into your pillows, pulling your wrist out of his hold just as Eddie had been about to trail his hand higher. You pat the spot next to you as you pull your knees to your chest. “We lost the remote so you’ll have to go press ‘play’.”

“Oh, I’ll have to go press ‘play’, huh?” His amusement is back as he shifts onto his side to face you.

“Mhm,” You nod innocently, placing your finger on the tip of your nose. “Nose goes.”

He stares at you, incredulous, before he reluctantly pushes himself up even though you both know he would have done it regardless.

“That stupid game doesn’t even make sense, if it’s gonna be called ‘Nose Goes’ shouldn’t the first person that touches their nose fucking go?” He grumbles as he presses the button on the VCR before climbing onto the bed, making himself comfy next to you as the movie resumes.

You shush him, eyes fixated on the screen again, on Celaeno, “Look at her boobies.”

Eddie does as you say, guffawing once he notices. He’s more amused with your thought process than he is with the harpy, for obvious reasons. One being that he’s in love with you and how cute you are and the other being that the harpy is far from appealing to look at.

“Wait, does she have three tits?”

“Yeah.”

“Why, though?”

“Because Harpies have three titties, I don’t know, Eddie, I didn’t make the movie.”

“Well, like—does she need the extra one?” He never noticed it before.

“I don’t know, I’m more concerned about how human they look. I get that harpies are kinda supposed to look a little human, but she’s really fugly and not at all human in appearance. They really gave her three human boobs and called it a day. Could have at least given her a human head or some hair but no.”

Eddie’s focused on you, watching you from the corners of his eyes as you rant. One of the things that had broken the awkwardness when you first met was your love of fantasy. You weren’t as obvious about it as he was with his, but he’d seen you reading your copy of The Sword in the Stone after you’d finished a test early, in the English class he shared with you, right before the end of your sophomore year. He’d spent the whole summer wondering about you and he’d been grateful when Heather had been inducted in the group, bringing you with her in the fall. When he failed, he’d been bummed but knowing he got to spend more time with you, learn more about you eased the ache. Falling in love with you had just about healed it completely, and with your encouragement, he was on track to graduate alongside you this year.

When Eddie doesn’t respond, you turn your head to him, raising your brows when you notice his gaze is fixed on you, “You okay, Eddie?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, kid.”

He really is, he’s thinking about all the things he loves about you. How animated you get when you’re excited about something, the way you get all shy when you realize just how excited you’d been, how optimistic you were even when you were having the worst of days—you never lashed out at anyone because of it, how you always put others first (you always claimed to be selfish but the moment you realized you could help someone instead of yourself, you did it), how forgiving you were (Steve had been somewhat of a jerk to you when he was still King Steve but the moment you realized he was genuine in his redemption, you never brought it up and always made sure to mention how he’s grown as a person when someone else brings it up and yeah, Eddie was a little jealous about that). How unapologetically yourself you were, silliness and all (like how you’d gone as Jamie Lloyd in her clown costume with the red nose and mask, from the Halloween movie while everyone else was dressed as provocative as possible for Zoe’s halloween party—and then you’d gone to Tina’s party as an angel with very little covering you up, because you could do both, and Eddie had to spend the entire night hiding an erection). Or how you made the wall flower kids, that Steve and the others sometimes couldn’t see needed attention, feel seen; Lucas, Will and Jane loved it when you came around. They always referred to you and Jonathan as their play parents and yes, Eddie got incredibly jealous with that, too.

And then there was the way you made Eddie feel. Despite his growing friendships, he had still felt a sense of loneliness, still needed his alone time because they overwhelmed him a bit. But not you. You snuck up on him, came into his life so quietly you hadn’t disturbed any of the foundation he’d built around himself to keep the world away, yet still somehow ended up on the same side of the wall with him. When his head got loud, you were there to hush all the thoughts, bringing him a sense of peace. He hardly had to even defend himself to verbal lashings anymore because you were putting whoever it was in their place without even being mean about it, which made him feel like people really were just messing with him to be jerks, like he wasn’t actually a freak. You made him feel like they were the problem, not him. When you looked at him, he felt like you were actually seeing him. Not Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson, not the frontman to a band everyone thought was going nowhere, not some high school repeat, not some drug dealer, not trailer trash, just Eddie.

God, and the way you said his name! You’d beam, sit up straighter while you flashed him that beautiful smile and Eddie felt like he somehow lit up the room for you, despite you already being the brightest thing in any room.

He’d had crushes before, on Chrissy Cunningham, on Ally Citronni, Tammy Thompson—she talked to him, okay? He was lucky if a girl didn’t walk away giggling with her friends and not in the ‘I just talked to a cute boy’ way and she was a nice girl—even the fucking counselor and yeah, he’d had one on you, had expected it to go away like it had with the others, but it hadn’t. Instead, it blossomed into something so intense he couldn’t eat, he couldn’t fucking sleep, he couldn’t think about anything that wasn’t related to you.

Love on the fucking brain.

He’d even been forced to talk to Wayne about you when Tommy H. had asked you out in an attempt to make Carol jealous during one of their break ups. Even though you’d flat out said no, it had been a reality check for Eddie. Someone could easily just steal you away.  Eddie hadn’t been able to sleep right for a week, and he hadn’t even touched his guitars, prompting an Uncle Wayne intervention, that conversation led him here. And all of the other times he’d tried—failed—to tell you how he felt.

You went back to watching the movie, but not Eddie. He was ready for this, fuck the hints.

“I’m glad I’m not in this movie cause I would have started sprinting, then she’d kil─”

Eddie had placed a finger on the side of your chin, directing your face to his instead of the TV while you had been talking and you hadn’t been able to drag your eyes away from the action on screen but that didn’t stop him from kissing you, lips pressing firmly against yours.

That caught your attention.

Your eyes widen as you realize what’s happening and when it becomes clear Eddie won’t be pulling away, you melt into him, eyelids fluttering shut while you return the kiss with the same amount of fervor. The rest of his hand comes to cradle your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he licks at your lips. They part for him almost instantly and he moans at the first taste of you, tongue swiping against yours.

Eddie dominates the kiss and you’re helpless to do anything but respond as he explores your mouth, licking any chance of coherency right off your tongue. His other hand slips around your waist, pulling you flush against him, onto his lap and you can’t quite believe that he’s cradling you like this, as though you were something important to him. You can’t even believe he’s kissing you, let alone this thoroughly!

When Eddie finally—and very reluctantly—pulls away, there’s a string of spittle connecting your lips. You lick it up and Eddie nearly creams his pants right there.

You stare up at him, eyes wide and vulnerable as Eddie leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, thumb still stroking your cheek.

“I love you, kid. I’m in love with you. Messed me up the moment Heather dragged you over to the lunch table and you wouldn’t let go of the seat you’d been sitting on at your old table. Had a feeling it’d be you, I hoped it would.” He confesses, voice gentle and nearly a whisper into the charged air between the two of you.

You want to cry the happiest of tears as you finally confess during a moment you genuinely thought wouldn’t come, not after the circumstances of how the night had started for you, “I love you so much, Eddie. You’re all I think about; I can’t sleep, I-I can’t eat and when I didn’t think you could love me I couldn’t breathe. I love you, I love you so much and I wanted to tell you, I did but I was so scared you wouldn’t love me and I’d ruin it all but I do! I love you.”

Eddie’s on you in an instant, lips insistent against yours and you can’t help the few tears that slip out but Eddie’s quick to wipe them away, trying to convey just how much he loves you with his kisses. When he pulls away again, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ve tried to tell you so many times, baby. I just—I fucking suck. That’s it,” the way Eddie says it makes you laugh and he smiles at the sound, leaning forward to press another kiss to your lips. “I fucking suck. I have loved you for so long, and I should have told you a long ass time ago, a fucking year ago. You really are the life of my party—love of my life, actually. You’re it for me, like—fuck.”

He’s quiet for a few moments, but you can be patient now, you’re willing to wait for him forever.

When he speaks again, the playful edge is gone, “I want to marry you.”

Your breath hitches along with your heartbeat and Eddie continues, “Not yet, not while we’re in school, but I’m positive I want to marry you. Hell, if I didn’t think I’d distract the shit out of you, I’d carry you to the courthouse right now—don’t be a smart ass, I know what you’re gonna say and I’m very aware they’re not open right now—but I’d sit there and wait. That’s how sure I am. So when we’re ready, when you’re ready, if you’ll have me, I’m gonna marry you. But for now, would you—I don’t know, wanna be my girlfriend?”

You yank him down for another kiss, multiple before you’re pressing them all over his face and you’re sure he’s smiling, can feel his cheeks pull up when your lips pass over them.

“Yes, yes I want to marry you someday and yes, I want to be your girlfriend. I want you, Eddie, and I’ll take you anyway I can have you.”

Eddie pulls you even further to him, something you didn’t think was possible, as he hugs you, the hand on your cheek traveling up to cradle the back of your head.

You can’t see his face in this position, your face is pretty much pressed into the crook of his neck, but you’re sure he’s crying, can feel the wetness on the side of your forehead.

Your arms wrap around his middle, inching the fabric of his shirt up so your fingers can press into his back. Despite the seriousness of your conversation, Eddie lurches forward into the bed and you squeal as you go with him, back meeting your blankets.

“Eddie!” You’re pinned underneath him, and Eddie has no plans on moving.

“Hm?”

“Get off!”

“You just told me you’ll have me any way you want me and now you want me off of you? I am all for the chase, baby, but you really gotta make up your mind.”

“Ugh,” you groan, admitting defeat as your arms wrap around him once more to hold him and he lets out a content sigh, nose nudging your head. You turn your head in the direction and he presses another sweet kiss to your lips before nuzzling his nose against yours.

“I’m gonna run down the halls on monday and tell everyone you’re my girlfriend.”

“How predictable of you.”

“Kid, I swear to God.”

You and Eddie will have to save The Last Unicorn and the harpy with three boobs for another time, too swept up in each other to pay it any mind.

[ruiniel]

This storm

I. Even for you

Fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen | Rating: 🔞| Geto Suguru x fem!Reader | Count: 3.5K | Summary: A night after a difficult mission... | On AO3 | Tags & Warnings: my first fic for JJK, fem!reader, Second Person POV, Geto didn't defect AU, But still has it rough, Set four years after Hidden Inventory, Friends with some benefits, It’s complicated, Light angst, Feels, Needy!Geto, Dom energy!Geto, Smut, Vaginal sex, Oral sex (f receiving)

The clock startles you, eyes drawn from your reading towards the brief robotic sound. The numbers flicker red against black, heralding midnight. 

With a sigh you close the book and rise, walking to the window instead. The downpour has been ongoing for hours now, and water flows down the glass like tears. 

Cold. The city is cold and dark, a flood of souls and living blood. Neon lights flash in jittery repetition like an irregular pulse, reflected by a veiny system of wet roads: red, blue, red, blue. 

Worry binds your heart, and thoughts roil like wind. Where is he? You had a day off (a luxury rarely afforded in the world you both share) but your friend’s work is out there in the frontlines. Always gone, always alone lately. Sometimes, you land a mission together where you do your part as an auxiliary manager, but those are few and far between. 

You won't call, it’s a given. Any disruptions could lead to injury or worse, and even the thought of him being harmed brings anxiety like a weight forcing your airways shut. He’s your friend, more so the first person who helped guide you when you first reached Tokyo, so patient, laid back and generous with his time. The affinity was instant and mutual, and a couple of years later here you are, sharing a rent. You learned many things about Suguru Geto since then, some wonderful, some worrying—such as his tendency to drive himself into the ground for his vocation. But in the end, he is only human, isn't he? 

Your thoughts are cut by the familiar, metallic click and turn of a key. The door to the apartment opens, and the newcomer eases inside. 

“Suguru…” you turn, watching his tall figure for anything amiss. His movements are sluggish, his gaze unfocused. It’s been one of those missions, then. 

Suguru raises his head at your voice, the blank expression losing to a fickle smile. “Hey.” He’s drenched by the rain: his hair, his uniform, his skin. “How was your day off?” he asks, propping a hand against the wall and kicking off his shoes. 

“It was... it was fine.” 

It must’ve been a difficult exorcism, you think, as he goes and slumps into a kitchen chair. 

You sit across from him, leaning forward with your elbows resting on the table between you. He looks exhausted, his complexion sickly, as though he’s had poison and is living through the worst of it. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, nor will it be the last. 

The rain patters against the windows, filling the silence. Suguru hangs his head, rubs at his right eye, and carelessly undoes the uniform button at his chest before shrugging the entire thing off and hanging it on the back of the chair. 

“I suppose I shouldn’t ask…” you try, watching him roll up the sleeves of his shirt. You want to know what kind of special grade he dealt with, but you can't get yourself to do it: it’s on his face, the bags under his eyes, the tension in his body. He looks like he’s about to be nauseous. No, talking about it won't help, not now.

Suguru shakes his head. Silently he reaches for a pack of cigarettes and stands. You follow him out on the small balcony, both leaning against the rail. The rain stopped for a reprieve, and the sounds of wheels turning on wet asphalt reach you from the streets below. 

Suguru lights a cigarette, staring ahead. On the first exhale of smoke it looks as though he wants to spit his lungs out. You know how it goes by now: his cursed spirit manipulation technique leaves him with an aftermath few could bear or live with for long, but still, he does it. If there's anything Suguru has, it's strong principles and an immutable conviction as far as his role in this world goes. 

His silence, in any other context, would feel comfortable. But now his jaw is tight, and he’s crossed his arms at his chest as if straining to keep all the curses he’s absorbed from breaking free. 

All you can do is reach out, fingers smoothing his dark hair away from his face; a stunted motion, but one you couldn’t resist. 

Suguru sketches no reaction to your touch at first. He takes another drag of his cigarette and looks over, holding your gaze. Your stomach flips, a meld of relief and care rushing through you and coiling around your ribs like wildflowers. You wonder at this renewed sense of hope as your touch glides down his cheek, wiping away a droplet of gore.  

“It feels as if it’s all too much these days…” you murmur, “even for you.”

Suguru smiles again, once a confident grin—now a heartbreaking display when contrasting with his state. Sometimes, in recent months, you’d see an odd light in his stare, like a spark ready to ignite a sea of flames; but it only lingers for a moment before it dies, and he’s back to the one you know. 

“It is. But… you’re here.” His eyes close as he leans into your palm, nuzzling against it, the brush of his skin like warm silk.

You swallow. Sometimes he makes these small gestures that hide a greater meaning, it’s who he is. You like to think you’re used to it by now. “Suguru, are you all righ—”

“Help me.” His words are a warm, rushed whisper against your hand. You know what it means, you know it helps him on a physical level to recuperate. You’re friends, both very aware of the other in many ways: qualities, needs, and sometimes, sometimes… you oblige each other.

And you did miss him, the anticipation pooling to your core an irrefutable proof. 

Suguru draws back, catlike eyes opening. His lips part as he puts out the unfinished cigarette, a tremble to his fingers. “I need a shower.” 

You can’t but smile and chew on your lip as he passes you, his hand grazing the small of your back. “Wait for me?”

“Where would I go?” you tease, your voice only a little choked. 

Selfish? Yes, you most certainly are. Suguru is kind, and possibly the most courteous person you’ve met among your peers, and he’d do anything for the people he cares about. When you first spoke of what developed from your friendship, you agreed to keep things open, not least because your occupations didn’t allow for much more.

Distance means safety. Distance means less pressure. But, there’s a flip side to everything and deep inside you wonder—would anyone else, apart from Satoru maybe, be able to remain by his side for as long as you both have?

The answer doesn't matter, does it? 

You stare ahead at the city, not slowing for a moment despite the hour. Wetness splashes your face, and faraway thunder signals a renewed pour. Rain falls, slower this time, reluctant little drops that induce a near catatonic state of mind, and you barely feel arms wrapping around your middle from behind.

“Hi again,” you murmur as Suguru buries his face against your neck; the softness of lips on your skin follows. 

“Hi,” he says, hugging you tighter and pressing a kiss to your jaw. His hands feel heavy on your body, one sliding down your thigh while the other reaches up to your ribs, ghosting the side of a breast.

You have to admit, whatever lies you tell yourself, your body will always deny it through the swift, unruly reactions to his closeness. You missed him, and now… now you want him in ways that make your head spin. Base. Primal. 

The hand on your thigh drifts inward and up, up, up. His chest heaves against your back, and his grip on you is tighter when he reaches the warmth between your legs. “May I?” he asks into your skin. 

You nod. You feel his smile against your neck as his hand grips you, massaging the hot center through your nightgown.  

You huff a short breath; he sighs. “You’re so… warm…” he squeezes gently, his long hand arched and slowly moving back and forth between your legs. You grasp his other arm, your knees already useless. 

The rain is cold, his mouth is warm. His hair is loose and still wet from the shower, dripping down your collarbone as he tilts your chin to the side, and presses his lips to yours. 

Suguru tastes good. He’s always tasted better than anyone you recall, deepening the kiss faster than you can react, the hand between your legs drawing your hips against his. 

“… you're so…” his fingers never stopped teasing your slit through your clothes, and he’s hardening against your ass as he speaks, “...delicious,” he says, sucking harshly on your lower lip before melding his mouth to yours. 

You can barely get an intake of breath, and as good as this feels, you're both getting pelted by the rain now.

Not that he cares: one hand holding you by the jaw and the other weakening you, he feels overwhelming, so much so that it hurts a little as you break the kiss. “Suguru, the rain…”

“Yes, you’re right,” he mumbles, still nipping and licking at your lips, “Of course, of course, you’re right…” and with that he all but drags you after him as you are, never releasing you. 

You reach the one room with a double bed—usually yours to sleep in—where he throws you down, following and dragging you under him, pausing for a moment to stare at you. He’s wearing nothing but loose dark pants, and your eyes are drawn to the ragged cross of scars lining his chest. Unable to resist, you trace one with your finger, then rise and kiss along it as he holds the back of your head. 

“You… I’m so… glad you’re here, I’m…” he doesn't continue, instead pushing you down by the shoulders and hastily sliding your nightgown up your thighs with both hands. There’s an urgency to each movement, to each kiss down your sensitive inner thigh, his head dipping lower and lower, his breath hot and eyes half-lidded as he looks up at you briefly while gently pulling aside your panties. 

Your lower body shivers with need, the sight alone throwing you in a daze—he’s good at this, you know he is, and he—

All following thoughts disperse and your mind empties when he runs his tongue along your slit in a slow, hot, languid stripe. 

“Oh god…” he says against your cunt, his hands on your inner thighs keeping them spread as he licks you again.

You clutch at the sheet, your fingers finding purchase in his hair when he sucks on your clit with the softest insistence. His eyes are closed, a furrow to his brow that you’d mistake for concentration if it weren't for the needy sounds slipping from his lips as he takes you slowly, again and again, like he’d been thirsty for this all his days. 

You're at a breaking point, thighs trembling beneath the pressure of his soothing hands, your mouth watering in pleasure at the sight and sensation of his pink tongue circling your clit, and all you can articulate is his name.

“Mm?” He doesn't even look up, still eating you out with maddening compulsion, sucking on your pussy lips before licking between them, up your clit and down to your hole, slipping his hardened tongue inside and urging your hips to move against his mouth. 

“I-I’m going to…” A stutter of muscles, then another, and he won't stop but keeps eating you out like he's in his own dream, urging you on with his eyes closed. 

“Please, come on… for me, will you…? You taste so good, so-so-good, did I ever tell you that? If not I’m… an idiot-your scent-your—...”

You can't hear the rest over the waves of a sudden high, nerves suffused with pleasure and the deepest relief you’ve ever felt. He breathes against your quivering cunt as your fingers lazily card through his hair. When he looks up at you again, his eyes are feverish, his lips aglow with your shine. He crawls up to you like a stalking feline pulling down his pants and reaching for a bedside drawer at the same time. “Where… did you have those…”

“It’s fine,” you urge him back down. “On the pill for a while now.”

He watches you for a moment, then leans in for a slow, open-mouthed kiss. His erection is pressed against your pussy, his forearms on either side of your head, his hands caressing your temples. 

He’s heavy against you but it’s that pleasant heaviness that goes with a craving to be consumed and just as you think this Suguru severs the kiss, rising to his knees. “Off. Take it off,” he says, his voice low and breathy as he slides his pants down his hips.

You don't even get to comply before he’s yanking your garments off himself, unveiling your body with jerked, impatient movements. “Much better…” he says, and for a moment you see it—that light in his eyes, the spark that both scares and thrills. But you’re easily distracted by the sight and sound of him pumping his cock as he stares at you so hungrily, as he drags you by the hip towards him and grabs you by one ankle, resting your leg over his shoulder. 

It strikes you how attractive the sight of him is, and you make sure to capture the memory: the slight crease between his eyebrows and the deepened flush across his cheekbones, his disheveled inky hair, the parted lips as he rubs the wet tip of his thick erection against your slit. The way the muscles in his abdomen tense and soft, barely audible moans leave him with each stroke. “Ready?” he asks but doesn't wait for an answer and you grit your teeth, watching the head of his cock disappear inside your body. “Good girl… just a little more, you can take me…”

“Suguru wait, it’s—” you cry out at the sudden thrust, your back arching off the bed.

He clamps a hand over your mouth, pressing down with his weight as you cry out against his palm. “… all in, it’s fine. I told you, like last time…”  

But last time it wasn't quite like this. Last time was a slow, tender affair full of exploration. This feels like an impending storm and he feels different too, but, at the same time, you find that you enjoy it. You wonder if it shows on your face despite your words.

He sank inside you to the hilt but now doesn't move, locking eyes with you. He’s biting down on his lip and his cock twitches inside your cunt, once, twice, a delicious feeling that makes you involuntarily tilt your hips upward. He’s aware enough to see it in your eyes, in the way your tongue peeks out to lick at the inside of his palm. 

Suguru smiles—there it is, that fox-like grin, a little tired but reminiscent of better, brighter days. Affection melts into the urgent need for him as he removes his hand from your mouth and slinks out of you slowly, torturously slow, until the thick head barely grazes your soaked pussy. 

Your vision sways when the sudden thrust slams right back into you. “God...”

“I know…” he gasps, his fingers digging into your hip bone, his other hand grasping the leg still propped against his shoulder. 

Another thrust leaves you dizzy, the angling of his hips changing as he leans forward, pressing more of his body weight onto you, and then—

He knows rhythm, he’s always had an innate understanding and empathy toward others, down to every level of their being. And now that sense of his must be at work because his pace is a lascivious crescendo, the long drags of his cock inside you harder and faster and just how you like them, his chest rising and falling shaken by his labored breathing. His eyes catch your stare, clouded with pleasure from the incessant, decadent ebb and flow. 

He fucks into you faster, until his skin is sleek with sheen and you're moaning helplessly from this sweet, merciless intrusion. In truth, you never have time, never enough energy to invest in someone else. It just comes with the territory, with the way of life most people would never understand. “Suguru,” you coo, and at the silent question in his eyes you add: “Harder…”

A huff of laughter escapes him and he wastes no time pulling out—you feel the loss immediately, a whimper your protest, but it’s short-lived as he turns you over. “On your knees.” 

You comply, rising to all fours in a breath. A slap to your ass nearly has you tumbling forward on the bed but the firm grasp on your hips won't allow it. He pulls you right back onto his cock, moaning softly as you involuntarily clench and squeeze, telling you how tight you are, how fine and slick you feel, all the while placing warm, shallow kisses along your spine. 

And then the world tilts sideways. You can hear nothing but the slap of his hips, feel nothing but the building rush inside as he pumps into you with vicious strength, pushing into you at a pace that has you quivering and crying out.

“Harder? Is that what you said?...” he asks, but there’s no trace of teasing or humor in his tone as he fucks you deeper, and the more you struggle the more bruising his hold on you becomes. 

You barely avoid biting on your tongue as your body shakes from his pitiless moves until you can’t take it anymore: your arms give way, and you fall over. 

“S-Suguru...” 

He keeps going, ramming you into the bed, sucking on your ear as you lie there and take it and take it and take it. For how long? 

“SUGURU—”

All you feel is the cleaving pleasure of an exquisite orgasm, a coil unwinding where your bodies are joined to spread like heavenly vines through your body. 

He flips you over at the same time, entering you and going completely still; his arms wind around you in a hot embrace. “I love… I love it when you do that…” he whispers against your neck, enjoying the uncontrollable spasming of your cunt around him. 

As you come down he picks up the pace again; your legs cross around his torso, your heels touching the small of his back. 

“That’s right…” you sigh as he groans into your neck, “Use me… use me…” 

“What?... Say that again... please.” His voice is pleading now, in direct opposition to the ruthless treatment from moments before. 

“I want you… to use me, Suguru,” you repeat, and oh how you mean it. He feels even deeper now, raising his head, your lips barely touching as he moves. “Use me! Use me-use me-god-fuck…” because he’s doing just that, moaning against your mouth as your hands come fisted in his hair and you pull. His movement is erratic, rhythm and all failing before successive, incessant, desperate pounding, so deep it hurts and—

His hips stutter once, twice, and he clutches at you fiercely when warmth floods your cunt, hot cum spurting as he keeps you trapped beneath him until you’re full of it. 

You lie there, chest to chest, breathing each other’s air. Your fingers ease the grip on his hair. When he tries to move, your hands press down onto the hard muscle of his ass. “Stay inside me for a while longer?...”

His amber eyes soften; you can feel his heart beating against your chest as though it wants to burst free of its own cage. Suguru doesn’t answer but tilts you both to the side, an arm wound around your middle, the other on the thigh draped over his hip, keeping you entangled. 

You’re spent, all the life force drained from your body, while he looks as though he’s run a marathon without pause: face flushed, muscles gleaming, tense and warm against your softness. His honeyed irises are brighter.

“Did it help?...” you ask, tucking yourself against his chest. The distant roll of thunder returns outside.

“Help?… Oh, yes, absolutely yes, of course. But…” he pauses, like the times he does when mulling over the right words. A trace returns of the Suguru you know most of the time: the gentle, responsible one. He’s usually so selfless and kind, that one would be hard-pressed to believe he’s caused the bruises currently forming on your hips.  

“But?” you ask, barely able to stay awake now; he’s so, so warm, and so close, and your mind can barely process coherent thoughts.

“I…”

You never hear the rest, drifting away, light and content as a leaf wayworn by the wind. Tomorrow… all else can wait until tomorrow.

II >

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: A well deserved hunt with Charles, met with an unexpected surprise back at camp...

Ao3  Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.6 Ch.7 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 5 - My Heart Beats On As Warmly Now

“What began as a journey had become a retreat into the unknown. We were backing into the abyss; so worried our sins would follow us we didn’t bother watching where we walked. And behind us was a cliff.” ~ Elsa Dutton 1883

Arthur’s anger dissolved with the storm, replaced by a heavy sense of regret as he trudged back to camp that evening. All he wanted was to drown his shame in a few bottles of liquor, away from prying eyes, away from the disappointment he felt in himself. He hadn’t intended for Kate to see that side of him, not yet at least. And certainly not against a sickly innocent man. He let his anger and frustrations get the better of him. Like he switched on auto-pilot and let the outlaw in him take control. He worried now that Kate might actually leave, and he blamed himself for that.

Swiftly, he made his way to the crate of beer bottles behind the chuck wagon, grabbing a few before retreating to his tent. He craved solitude, a respite from the demands of camp life, from the weight of his own mistakes.

Seated on his cot, a beer wedged between his legs, Arthur opened his journal, the one constant in his life since Dutch and Hosea taught him to read and write. It was his confidant, his sanctuary in a world of chaos. John always gave him shit for it growing up, calling him a pansy and constantly trying to snoop in his personal entries. 

Despite being in a gang for most of his life, he still felt incredibly lonely. There weren't many people he would truly open up to. So his journal became that person. It was the one thing that did not judge him, ever. But even as he poured his thoughts onto the page, he longed for a human connection, someone to truly understand him.  

Hosea and Dutch had been like parents to him, raising him from a young age in the ways of the outlaw. They had their flaws, but they had also shown him kindness and guidance when he needed it most. He always saw Hosea as his father, he would consider Dutch his father too, although he was more like an older brother at times. Hosea was probably the only person who truly knew Arthur, and saw the things he wished not to speak about. Neither parent was perfect by any means, and Arthur could recognize that. But even as an adult, there is still a child inside that longs for the comfort of a father. 

It was that fatherly instinct that drove Hosea to Arthurs tent that night.

“Evening Arthur,” he greeted, holding open the tent flap, “may I come in?” 

He put down his journal and nodded. Gesturing for Hosea to join him on his cot. 

“I noticed Kate didn’t ride back with you, is she okay out in this storm?” He inquired.

Arthur smiled with a slight shake of his head, that's Hosea for you. Always worried about others, here he was checking on his son but was more concerned about the lady he left behind. 

“I’m sure she’s fine, saw her heading into Valentine,” he answered, taking a sip of his beer. He handed one of the full bottles to Hosea as the older gentleman sat down.

“I take it things didn't go well then,” he said with a hint of sympathy.

Arthur sighed, “when do they ever.” 

As they sat together in the dim light, the rain drumming softly on the canvas roof, Arthur felt a sense of comfort in Hosea’s presence. He didn’t need to explain himself, didn’t need to justify his actions. Hosea simply listened, offering silent support.

“I don’t know why I do it,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “The man was sick and weak, I should've just given him a warning.” Arthur concluded with a shake of his head. 

Hosea sighed knowingly. “I think you can blame your fathers for that son,” taking a sip to clear his throat, “Dutch and I did what we thought was best at the time and well, you were quite impressionable when you were young. We used that to our advantage to turn you into a grade A outlaw.” He said gently with honesty. 

Arthur chuckled at the memories of his youth, before John came along he was the golden child. He used to love it when Dutch would teach him how to pick locks, or when Hosea taught him a whole book of curse words. Had he not been the son of outlaws, his life would’ve looked very differently. 

“We’ll always be thieves,” he mused with a hint of nostalgia, “only difference now is that the world don't want us no more.” 

Hosea nodded, silently agreeing, “We're doomed just like every other creature on this rock Arthur,” he remarked with a wry smile. “I just wish I had acquired that wisdom at less of a price.” 

After a moment of contemplative silence, Arthur spoke, his voice heavy with regret. "I just wish I’d done things differently," he admitted, his gaze fixed on the floor. His remorse mixed with his actions at the Downes ranch, and for every mistake he’s made in the past that led him here. 

Hosea laid a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder, a silent gesture of understanding. "We can't change the past, son," he said gently. "All we can do is learn from it and strive to do better in the future."

Arthur nodded, the weight of Hosea's words settling over him like a blanket of reassurance. "I don't want to be the kind of man who hurts others for no good reason," he confessed, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I want to be better, for Kate, for everyone."

Hosea squeezed Arthur's shoulder affectionately before rising to his feet. “She’ll come around, son.” He offered a parting reminder, “underneath it all, you have a good heart.”

Before he disappeared into the night, Hosea turned back with a final piece of news. “By the way, your brother wants to speak with you about using that oil cart you found to rob the train tomorrow night.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “He ain’t my brother,” he muttered disdainfully.

Hosea chuckled. “Well, you two sure argue like brothers. G’night, Arthur.”

He tipped his head to the old man as he left, “night Pa.” 

Arthur laid back on his cot, tucking his journal into his satchel when something small and round fell out and made a soft pitter on the ground. When he looked down he saw the peach pit, the one Kate gave him on her first night. He reached to pick up the small seed. His thumb ran over its hard wrinkles. 

He held it tight to his chest, and silently promised he would make things right with Kate. If he ever saw her again. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate took in a deep breath of the crisp morning air, reveling in the freshness that lingered after the storm had passed in the night. The scent of newly sprouted grass and moist earth filled her senses, while dew-kissed leaves sparkled under the gentle caress of the rising sun. A light breeze danced around her, carrying the promise of spring on its wings. It felt like the start of something new as if the world itself was awakening alongside her. It was the perfect day for a ride.

She met Charles in the early morning, exactly where he said he’d be. Waiting for her to begin their journey into the wild lands in hopes of finding a fresh hunt. They were a few hours into their journey now, heading north into Ambarino to hunt cow elk. Just one 200 pound elk is enough to feed the entire camp for a month. Maybe more. It was a day's ride there and back, short enough to keep the meat fresh in time. 

With a satisfied sigh, Kate exhaled the tension from her shoulders, “this is exactly what I needed Charles, thank you.”

Charles smiled warmly, guiding his horse closer to hers. "Thanks for joining me, Kate," he replied, his own gratitude evident in his tone.

With her face tilted to the sun, she savored the moment. Allowing Lorena to guide her. A silent trust shared between them, that her mare will take her where she needs to go. “You know, I always thought you preferred hunting alone. I never see anyone go with you.” Kate remarked, eyes still closed in bliss. 

Charles nodded thoughtfully. "Arthur and I have gone together a few times, but other than that, I don't seek much company from the others," he admitted, his words tinged with honesty. It was clear that while he valued his fellow gang members, solitude was his preferred companion in the wild.

“That why you’re always so quiet?” She inquired, innocently. 

Charles chuckled softly. "If the choice is folks thinking I'm dumb but not knowing for sure, and folks knowing I'm dumb because I sound like them, I think I'd rather keep them wondering," he explained with a grin. The confidence in his voice a testament to his strength. 

Kate chuckled, her eyes reflecting understanding. "I get that. Sometimes it's better to keep people guessing," she replied. Under her breath she added, “I know some of those men can be pretty dumb,” loud enough for Charles to hear.

Charles exclaimed in frustration, “tell me about it! All this death and for what? Just so we can have enough money to be able to run from what we've done?” 

Kate pondered for a moment, she still didn't know what happened all those weeks ago that drove the gang of outlaws here. It was the one piece of information they didn’t talk about around her. Perhaps Charles would share the missing pieces. “What happened to everyone to cause you to run?” Her tone colored with genuine curiosity. 

As Charles recounted the events of that fateful day, Kate couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for what they must have been through. The gang did not like to talk about Blackwater, and the consequences must have been devastating.

"It was a fucking execution," he began, his voice tinged with regret. "We thought it would a simple job robbing a ferry, carrying payroll. But there were civilians too." Kate could already imagine where this led. $5000 for his head alone, the words echoed in her mind. 

“We raised a lot of hell that day, and things got out of control. Next thing we know, the Pinkertons are on us along with the law. And everyone just starts shooting. I don't know which one of us shot first but that's all it took. There were passengers caught in the crossfire.” He shook his head with disappointment. She couldn't imagine the terror those innocent people must have felt as they found themselves caught in the chaos. 

“Dutch he,” Charles hesitated, “he killed a young girl. Just to get the law off him. And no one batted an eye.” His voice heavy with emotion. Her stomach churned at the thought of such senseless violence. “We lost three good people, and John barely made it out alive.”

He turned, facing her, "I don't kill for fun Kate; I kill when I need to," he urged, his tone pleading. It was clear that he was grappling with the moral implications of their actions, and Kate couldn't help but admire his integrity in the face of such darkness. One so hauntingly familiar. 

“Arthur came out different after Blackwater,” he added with a sigh. 

“Being an outlaw can’t be easy,” Kate added, trying to lighten the mood. She understood the hardships and turmoil that came with senseless violence. 

Charles huffed and shook his head at the memory, “easy certainly wasn't in the job description.” 

As they rode on, the weight of their conversation hung heavy between them. She couldn't shake the feeling that they were all running from something far greater than the law. A feeling she was not immune to. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Their hunt had been successful, tracking and swiftly killing a massive elk. They settled in for a fire and camped near a lake for the night. Enjoying fresh fish for dinner. In the morning they tied their game to the back of Taima, and began their journey back to camp. Kate’s spirit felt lightened in a way, the two of them spent most of the night sharing stories. And she realized she and Charles had a lot in common. A gentle reminder that she is not entirely alone in her struggles. 

The ride home went by quickly, and with the sun tickling the horizon, they arrived at the great plains of New Hanover, and eventually, the familiar overlook. 

As they rode into camp, the air was thick with urgency, Miss Grimshaw's voice cutting through the chaos. "Alright girls, everything into the wagons, now!" she barked, her tone sharp. 

Charles swiftly brought their kill to the chuck wagon, while Kate hurriedly dismounted and rushed to join the flurry of activity. The girls worked frantically, packing crates with blankets and clothing, fear etched on their faces.

"What's happening?" Kate asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Mary-Beth paused in her task, her expression grim. "Arthur and John got into trouble with the law in Valentine," she explained, her hands moving quickly. "Dutch says we need to leave, fast."

A surge of panic swept over Kate at the thought of Arthur and John in danger. "Did they get caught?" she asked, her heart pounding.

Mary-Beth shook her head. "I don't know," she admitted, sympathy in her eyes. "But we have to go."

As Kate’s mind began to spiral with the worst outcomes imaginable, a voice rose above the commotion. Speaking of the man himself. 

Dutch's voice cut through the chaos. "Charles!" he called out, his tone urgent. "Find Arthur at Dewberry Creek, we need a new hideout." Charles turned on his heel with a nod, mounting Taima and taking off back down the trail they came in on only a moment ago. 

With his words she felt a sudden sense of relief, Arthur is okay. Their last conversation weighed heavy on her heart. And she would be damned if that was the last time they spoke. 

Dutch's voice commanded attention once more. "When they give us the all clear, we move out! Let's get to work, people!" he shouted.

Mary-Beth and Tilly went back to their work and left Kate alone with her thoughts. She returned to her belongings, packing quickly. But her moment of respite was short-lived as a sickeningly familiar voice cut through the air like a bullet.

“Well hello Kate,” Micah said with disdain and arrogance. 

“I don’t have time for your bullshit Micah,” Kate retorted, her patience wearing thin. 

Micah advanced, his eyes blazing with hostility. "Funny how you show up right when trouble finds us," he taunted.

Kate scoffed, the idea completely absurd, “you idiots robbed a fucking train, did you seriously expect a welcome home party?” She shot back, her voice filled with sarcasm.

Micah's gaze narrowed. "We were set up in Valentine, someone ratted us out," he growled, his words dripping with bitterness. 

“I was just hunting with Charles,” she explained, not bothering to hide the bite in her voice, she refused to play his game. 

Micah approached with malice, his fist twitched at his side, ready to pull his pistol any moment. "Well Charles ain't here now,” he gestured around the camp, “and we think it was you," he hissed, the accusation cutting through the chaos.

Realization dawned on her that he was setting her up, but the reason why was still unclear. “And when Charles comes back he can testify to that,” she spat, turning to continue her packing. 

He closed the distance between them with predatory grace. In one swift motion, he raised his pistol. Before Kate could react, the butt of the gun connected with her temple, sending a searing pain shooting through her skull. Stars exploded behind her eyelids as she stumbled backward, the world spinning dizzily around her. Darkness threatened to engulf her. 

As she struggled to regain her bearings, Micah loomed over her, a twisted smirk playing across his lips, “we’ll be long gone by the time they come back princess.” 

With a sickening thud, Kate's head hit the ground, the impact reverberating through her skull. As the world faded into blackness, she felt herself being pulled into an abyss of darkness. The last sound echoing in her ears was the distant whinny of Lorena, a mournful cry that seemed to fade into the void. 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The commotion of the camp kept her drifting in and out of consciousness for the next hour. She heard Abigail's voice call out to Kate in concern, and Micah snapped back warning her to keep her distance. She also realized her wrists had been bound along with her ankles, with Micah standing guard over her like a dog. Like she could run away in this state anyways. 

The darkness began to creep in again, and in a moment she awoke and Micah was gone. It was almost dark and she was in a different spot now, away from the center of camp and behind the tree line. That fucking bastard tried to leave me here. She thought with bitterness. 

In the midst of the chaos, a familiar voice pierced through the camp, but Kate's mind was still swimming in a fog of confusion. Wagons rattled as they hurriedly departed the overlook, leaving Kate struggling to make sense of the commotion. Summoning all her strength, she pushed herself up onto her knees, squinting through the haze.

Then, like a beacon in the night, Arthur's horse appeared, Belle’s white coat gleaming amidst the darkness. With a surge of relief, Kate locked eyes with Arthur, who rushed over to her side, his expression etched with concern.

Her consciousness flickered like a dim candle in the wind as she slowly regained awareness. The throbbing pain in her head was a harsh reminder of what had just transpired. Blinking away the haze, her vision blurry.

"Kate? Are you alright?" Arthur's voice cut through the fog, filled with concern as he took in the sight of her bound wrists and ankles. Swiftly dismounting Belle and pulling a knife from his belt to cut her free. 

Her head throbbed as she recounted what happened and she felt sick in the stomach. She couldn’t stay with them anymore, not after this. Micah was a real problem, and if what Charles told her about Blackwater is true, then Dutch is likely the same. 

“I’m okay,” she answered wearily, “Micah set me up,” a hint of fear mixed with rage creeped into her voice. Arthur helped her rise to her feet, just as the last wagons were leaving the overlook. Without missing a beat she turned to find her horse. 

Arthur was slightly taken aback, unsure if she was still upset with him from the nights before, all while trying to make sense as to why Micah had set her up. 

“I-I’m sorry Kate,” he pleaded, “I shoulda been here,” his voice was laced with remorse. His strides quickened as he closed the distance between them. Kate's heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice, but she knew she couldn't stay.

“It’s not your fault,” she reassured, “but I have to leave.” She decided in the moment, ripping the bandaid clean off. She longed to stay with Arthur and the gang, but she no longer wanted part in this trouble. “Goodbye Arthur,” she bid him a solemn farewell.

“Kate,” he called out, desperation filling the air. He wanted to stop her, to grab her and beg her to explain what happened with Micah. But the look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know, she had made up her mind. So all he could do was stand and watch as she rode off. 

She clutched at Lorena’s reins, taking off in the same direction as the wagons, intending to ride past them and make her way to Rhodes, hopefully putting enough distance between them so she could get her bearings and be on the move again. Her heart raced with adrenaline and disappointment. Things could not have taken a turn for the worst. 

She used the darkness to her advantage, slipping away from the wagons as they took a path down following the railroad tracks, while Kate veered off towards the twin stacks. As she climbed altitude she watched the wagons below, specifically watching Arthur take off behind them, his mare flying through the train of carts and horses like a butterfly dancing between flowers. 

She paused for a moment, letting herself consider that perhaps she wasn't just running away out of fear, but something else as well. She thought about the girls, and Charles, who had just become a dear friend after their hunting trip. She thought about Abigail, who must be clutching little Jack close to her heart at this moment, praying John will see his family out of this alive. Her last conversation with Arthur still ate at her heart, so many words went unspoken that she wished she had said that night. 

Memories of her past came back in waves along with the painful throb of where she had been hit with Micah’s gun. Her fear, mixed with her disappointment and anger. A reminder of her own weakness. 

Yet, she decided long ago that she would never live in that kind of world again, where the weak would rather guilt the strong than become strong themselves. This world doesn’t care what the weak want. This world eats the weak. Therefore, she became strong. 

The sudden sound of gun fire dragged her from her thoughts, she rode farther up the slope looking for the source of the noise. She saw in the distance the tiny images of wagons and horses, and a group of raiders descending to their location.. 

Gripping the reins with such ferocity, Lorena reared on her hind legs as Kate spun her around and took off back down the slope. She would not let death sink its venomous teeth into the belly of another. 

[thetourturedwritersclub]

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hello!!! I decided to write that jegulus au I posted abt and this is the first chapter!!! I'm so excited!!!

I'm an amateur writer so this may not be the most well written thing but I promise to try my best!! And English isn't my first language so I apologise for all possible grammatical errors.

I want to tag some of my incredible mutuals who inspired me to write this:

@raine-ray thank you for the amazing comments!!! You're such an inspiration to me!!!

@woooaaah-buddy u convinced me to write this so thank you!!!

@reddamselette You seemed interested in it, so I thought you would want to read it!! Thank you for being such an amazing mutual.

@krishka

--------------------------------------------------

Finis vitae sed non amoris-its the end of life but not of love

Chapter One : September

September 2nd 1976

Dear diary,

Yesterday was the first day of my fifth year in hogwarts. On the train ride I caught up with my friends Evan, Barty, Pandora and Dorcas. We all have had stable summers. Speaking of summer I hate the season. Hot, sticky and unreasonably disgusting. I prefer winter instead.

Fifth year is the year of the OWLS. So academic excellence is incredibly crucial. I forgot to mention, when misfortune struck and I had to see Sirius and his friends faces. Hatred and disgust filled my body in that moment. All the rage rushed back, when I remembered how abandoned I felt at that time.

Goodbye for now

R. A. B

September 9th 1976

Dear diary,

It has been an extremely tiring week. God, never have I expected to feel so exhausted. From Potions, to Transfiguration and Defence Against Dark Arts i just feel so drained.

Goodbye for now

R. A. B

September 15th 1976

Dear diary,

I had fun today. I visited the library and decided to pick up a new book. The picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde, whom is a muggle author. Muggle literature always fascinates me. Their ways of finding magic in a world which lacks it.

Goodbye for now

R. A. B

September 19th 1976

Dear diary,

Sometimes people baffle and confuse me. I never in my life thought that a person could be so smart and so stupid at the same time. Yes this is about Barty. He's one of the smartest people I know yet he's the one who makes some of the dumbest decisions. And he has no regard about his safety. I feel like a parent sometimes.

Goodbye for now

R. A. B

September 22nd 1976

Dear diary,

Oh god. Why did this have to happen to me? Guess who caught me writing here? None other than Potter himself. God. Now we're both stuck on a semi civil agreement. I tutor him and he keeps this secret for me. There is no way anything could go wrong.

Goodbye for now

R. A. B

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Well how is it? How did I do?

Side note this was so fun to write!!! Reg is such an incredible character and I want to write from his perspective more often. Also there is many references here to The mischief productions lol. I love their movies.

[ceph-the-ghost-writer]

Get To Know Your Moots Writeblr Interview

Tagged by @ink-flavored (here) to do this event created by @davycoquette (question template here)! Thanks to both of you.

To anyone seeing this, consider yourself tagged in addition to @sunset-a-story @touloserlautrec @sarahlizziewrites @k--havok @thatndginger @oliolioxenfreewrites @the-scaredy-crow @words-after-midnight @space-writes @vacantgodling @jezifster @ghostpoetics @lacependragon @xenascribbles @afoolandathief @drawnecromancy @the-ace-of-wrath

[ID: A thin border divider showing a sliver of a golden sky streaked by rain clouds above a dark blue sea.]

ON THE TUMBLR WRITING COMMUNITY

How long have you had your writing Tumblr/Writeblr?

Since, like, 2020? Somewhere thereabouts.

What led you to create it?

Wanting to connect with writers/readers outside of Ao3 (it's just not set up for conversations outside of comment threads). And wanting to raise my characters up like baby Simba at the start of The Lion King for more of the Internet to behold.

What’s your favorite thing about the Writeblr community?

It's about the connection. 🤌 Plenty of writing communities, both on and offline, focus on critique or getting something published. Which can be great, if it's what you're after. But I think having others who genuinely cheer you on and let you ramble is just as important to helping writers through the often messy process of creating.

What’s one thing you’d like your mutuals to know about you?

I can be a bit shy or slow to interact, but once I'm invited in I'll haunt follow your blog or writing even if I'm not constantly saying anything.

Is there anything you’d like to see more of on your dash?

People talking about what they love, in published work and with writeblr stuff. A lot of the time I read or watch something because of the way others talk about it. That includes your own writing!

What tips/advice do you have for someone who made a Writeblr today?

Be patient, manage your expectations, and focus on having some fun. There's no algorithm here and even less clout. Writers can and do build audiences on Tumblr, but it's uniquely suited to allow us to experiment and be weird too.

WIP IT GOOD

Which Works-in-Progress (WIPs) or writing projects are you noodling about, lately?

I'm rewriting Apophenia, a novel about a supernatural researcher enduring the worst assignment of his life. A lot of my other projects are set in the same world.

How long have you been working on them?

Over five years now, I think! I'm slow.

Do you remember what inspired them/what got you started?

The Chocolate Box event on Ao3! The prompt was for a human captured by a vampire, but I wound up creating an entire world and series. Oops.

How much time, in your best estimation, do you spend thinking about them?

If I'm not thinking about these characters it's only because I'm dead.

When someone asks the dreaded, “What do you write about,” question, what do you usually say?

Gay vampire trash.

What do you want to say (if it’s different from what you do say)?

I write about characters who struggle towards community, compassion, and being better people despite a) their flaws, and b) the world burning down around them. I hope that it gives me the courage to continue doing the same.

LET’S ROTATE BLORBOS

Name any characters you created.

I'll direct you to some mood boards/intros even: Isaac Soto Márquez, Renato Faria Dimas, Dorian St-Ange, Kinslayer, Elfy Bosques-Rodriguez, Ankaris the Memory Salesman, Fior the Master Transcriber, Vess the Collector. And here's a comic sans presentation for Apophenia.

Who’s the most unhinged?

Outwardly? Any of my necromancers. They come in a wide variety of styles, from Motley sewing patches of skin onto itself, to Acacius of Antioch who drapes his bejeweled and gilded bones in black veils. Each also has an, um, unique view of (un)life, the body, and ethics. Views which could come across as unhinged.

Who comes the most naturally for you to write?

At this point Isaac Soto, the protagonist of Apophenia. We do share a few similarities, but mostly I've just been writing him for years now.

Do you ever cringe at them?

At my characters or their antics? I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

How much control do you feel you have over your characters?

They do frequently just spring ideas and actions on me, but I have the ultimate say in what makes it onto the page. Same with having the power/responsibility of changing something I realize isn't working, is insensitive, etc.

Do you enjoy people asking questions about your characters?

Always and forever, yes. 💜 Send me asks, comment in the tags or on Ao3, shriek in reblogs, replies, or a dm. It doesn't matter how--I love whenever someone is curious or interested enough to ask something about my fictional creations.

ON WRITEBLR ENGAGEMENT

What makes you want to follow another Writeblr account?

Sometimes it's based on vibes, sometimes I really like the sound of their stories. I appreciate a sense of whimsy and/or humor especially. And someone who likes spooky as well as fantasy stuff.

What makes you decide against following?

Two things: A) Their intro already has, like, 80+ notes (though the vibe/story will override this), and B) lots of posts hating on things/trends/people. I don't mean venting or sometimes ranting, which is everyone's right. I mean someone's whole brand is ridicule or just immediately seeing the bad in everything. Which is still their right. It's also mine to avoid it, and I think this is mutually beneficial. Thankfully, though, this experience has been very rare for me on writeblr.

Do you interact with non-mutuals often?

I try to. I'll reblog, read, comment, take an open tag, whatever when I have the energy. I mean, how else do writers get readers? It takes people who might not know you personally talking about your work a lot of the time.

Do your mutuals’ characters occupy space in your noodle?

I am absorbing the essence of your blorbos as we speak, making them an eternal part of me.

[jokeroutsubs]

ENG translation: "When I'm on stage, I know that I have to be here and only here"

An interview with Bojan Cvjetićanin in Slovenian newspaper Delo, originally published 31.10.2021.

Original article is available here for Delo subscribers. Original article written by Beti Burger for Delo; photos by Blaž Samec; English translation by a member of Joker Out Subs, native proof reading by IG GBoleyn123.

If you repost quotes from the interview, please link back to this post! And if you repost the photos, do not crop out the photographer credit.

Bojan Cvjetićanin, frontman of Joker Out, says that the success happening to them is not the result of something that happened overnight.

When he's standing on stage, he doesn't know what's actually going on. Even though after the concert, he realises that he was on it, and remembers certain moments, he's actually in a zen-like state: his head is somewhere else, and his brain does what it wants to do. Young, reflective musician Bojan Cvjetićanin believes that he was born to write music and lyrics and sing them on stage. "What I enjoy the most at a concert is when we play a new song from start to finish with the band for the first time and we're 'vibing'."

And if some of the lines above did not have context yet when we talked the day before the first concert, and sort of 'hung in the air', in packed Cvetličarna it was crystal clear what he had wanted to say. They were 'vibing' not only when they played well-known hits - Omamljeno telo, Umazane misli, Vem da greš - but also to new songs from the album, when they felt the strong energy and heard the audience was singing the new songs with them... She'll find herself there, where no one knows her, where the road always carries the smell of fresh rain (...) where pearls are in seashells, not on necklaces (Barve oceana).

Bojan truly, as he said, seems a little distant on stage, as if he's in his own world, but also in contact with the audience at the same time. He is both confident and childishly playful at once, with a wide smile on his face, with the charisma of an experienced frontman. His friend and member of the band, bassist Martin Jurkovič, with whom they started their musical journey as young teenagers already, described him well in an interview as someone who "draws all the attention to himself and the band during a concert". When the band members look at each other during a gig, they recognise each other's exact thoughts, and a kind of perversion of pleasure happens. We witnessed this exact thing at the album presentation.

"On stage, I feel sexy, I feel free and accepted. I'm on autopilot and I'm never thinking about what my next move will be, it's when I'm 'free as a bird' because I am surrounded by friends who know me very well, so I don't have to be ashamed of anything. It's also a good feeling when you know that there is a crowd of people in the hall who came to our concert because they like something that we give them. This mutual accumulation of love and energy is very strong." Are there places where he doesn't feel accepted, I query his words. "I think that we all sometimes find ourselves in a situation when we feel like we don't belong there and we ask ourselves what we're even doing there. When I'm on stage, however, I know that I have to be here and only here."

Bojan Cvjetićanin Born in 1999. Frontman of currently the most in-demand young Slovenian band Joker Out which, with their shagadelic rock'n'roll, a genre they actually invented themselves, sold out Cvetličarna twice last week with their just-released album Umazane misli. Even off-stage, he's the 'joker' in a group, optimistic and talkative and an occasionally childishly playful young man. His lyrics (and music) are mature, sensitive and empathetic. The Ljubljana resident, otherwise a sociology student, has been making music for almost half of his life. Last but not least, a listener can quickly recognise that he actually grew up exactly where he feels the best: on stage.

Tired and sleep deprived, just a few days before the concert in Cvetličarna, which had been postponed (more than once) due to Covid-19 and which seemed like it would never happen, he had a nightmare. He dreamed "that there was one song that we just could not start and we tried again and again". He really had a lot of stage fright before the first concert this year. At the end of April and beginning of May, it still looked like there wouldn't be concerts in the summer, and then everything started to open up. They've never had as many concerts as this summer. "Those concerts hit us like a train, because we were neither mentally nor physically prepared for this many performances. We'd got used to rehearsing all day long and being completely self-sufficient. It was pretty hard before the first sold-out concert in Čin čin in Ljubljana, because the audience's expectations, as well as our own, were high. We performed with a new drummer for the first time, so the tension was even greater. When we stepped on stage, however, an enormous wave of energy that reflected from the audience washed over us, you could feel and see that people had been locked up at home, that they needed to relax, needed concerts."

"In these times, when the internet and media constantly bombard us with so much information, that defines us pretty strongly. So it seems like any kind of thinking for yourself, about anything, is already a dirty thought."

The epidemic was also a time when changes happened in the group, as during the creative process, they realised that not all members of the band have the same creative drive, so in the end, they switched their drummer. Since then, they have significantly changed the way they work. They have created, even if not completely intentionally, a spirit of band co-production, they've become more dependant on each other. They've realised that music demands that they help each other. It's also important that, when they start to grow wings from all the congratulations and praises, they pull each other back to solid ground. In interviews and articles, he is described as "the most recognisable voice of the new generation of Slovenian rock" or as "a rising star" and he feels honoured by those compliments, but in truth, those titles don't really tell him a lot. Hearing that from the people who listen to their music is what means the most to him. He says that it's not the sea of congratulations that caresses your ego, but rather certain moments and situations when you actually feel strong and in your own skin. "In the moment when the light shines on you on the stage, the feelings are indescribable, you feel like a god. That's the 'awesome' thing, not when someone tells you that you're a god." He adds that he thinks he's still the same Bojan he was years ago, when all those congratulations and titles didn't exist yet.

"The bassist Martin and I have been making music for almost half of our lives and I think that with time, we've managed to work through everything that happens during the evolution of a band. Our current success didn't come overnight, it is the result of a long period of work." The pivotal year for Joker Out was 2017, when it first started looking like this band could truly become 'something'. "From the start, you want it to be something more, but it's usually just a distant wish, like Cvetličarna used to be." Back then, however, after the single Omamljeno telo, all the positive response gave them the feeling that everything was being taken to a higher level. And there were several of those levels, they have jumped over many of them. "If I look at the situation objectively, it seems crazy to me that we sold out Cvetka (Cvetličarna, a.n.) twice with three singles." As he says, however, nothing that they do in the band is left up to chance. "Very early on, we put our heads together and had an in-depth discussion, first of all about our relationships with one another, and then about our duties, and we promised each other that we would never be afraid to tell each other what we wanted. When we determined our wishes, we turned them into goals, which we are now achieving." In his words, something that definitely contributes to their success is that they're surrounded by people who love what they do. "Now we work as a team, and if a team works well, it can't miss." In the future they want to release another album, and they're also drawn beyond the borders of Slovenia, to the Balkans.

As a band, they want to give people the things that drive them as artists - currently the prevailing theme in their lyrics is love, but also self-reflection and musings. These are very general, many songs talk about how young people sometimes feel constricted or lost and are looking for their place in the world. "We're currently not interested in politics and we don't plan to define ourselves politically one way or another, although our songs do feature some messages about society. We think that our job is to spread love and that people can, based also on our lyrics, come up with their own political opinion, without our imposition," he says.

And when I challenged him to use one of their songs to describe his current feeling before the concert (adrenaline, fear, uncertainty, expectations), he said that "there's a butterfly in my head that's just swimming through a weird universe. It feels like people around me are buzzing and not actually talking." Metulji ('Butterflies') is actually his favourite song. He wrote it at the same time as Omamljeno telo and it already meant a lot to him back then. He wanted to hear a recording of it, but today he says that he's happy that they recorded it later, because back then it wouldn't have been anything like it is today. "Now, the song is exactly as we imagined it back then, but didn't know how to embody it."

As the singer, Bojan Cvjetićanin is also the most recognisable and exposed member of the band. On the Slovenian scene, his role models are (were), among others, Tomi Meglič from Siddharta and Gregor Skočir, the singer of the band Big Foot Mama - "today I can already call them friends, they feel respect for us, as we do for them and for both bands. They come to our concerts, we hang out in private. Even though some people say that you shouldn't meet your idols, because then everything falls apart, now that I know Tomi and know who the person who made all that music is, I like listening to it even more." Among foreign frontmen, his favourite is Liam Gallagher, who became famous with the band Oasis. He was actually his inspiration for keeping his hands crossed behind his back while singing on stage. "I had a period of that 'Liam pose'... I didn't know what to do with my hands on stage, and when I put them behind my back once, it seemed like a good trick. Today, I grab the guitar more and more on stage, so I don't have an issue with what to do with my hands anymore. (smile)." What, then, are the key characteristics of a good frontman? "He has to be honest, genuine. There are many types of lead singers, Mick Jagger, for example, gives himself away completely, goes crazy and dances, while some others stand still constantly, but they both completely enchant you." He doesn't think about this too much, he simply exists on stage.

While some musicians, actors, or other performers are completely different, introverted, in their private lives and in the backstage, Bojan is generally very talkative and smiley. "Even as a little kid, as others have told me, I talked all the time, I wanted to socialise, with older people too, so it seems like I really never had issues with making connections. Now it's actually the same, there are just more people in front of the stage." At Poljane High School, which, as he has stressed many times, shaped him a lot as a person, he performed in a theatre group, so he already experienced the stage in the role of an actor, later he was on TV in the role of a host. These days, he still often says, half-laughing, that - if music won't be what he earns a living with - he'd like to be a sociology professor at Poljane. "But I heard they just got a new one, so I don't know how realistic the chances are."

But for now, he doesn't have to do anything other than make music. Bojan Cvjetićanin is also the author of the lyrics of most of the songs, in which, as he said, he's a kind of medium who conveys others' pain. While he did say not long ago that as a songwriter, he sometimes lacks unhappy emotions and that he doesn't know the pain of a broken heart, it's different now. "I got my dose of inspiration for quite some time..." He says that when making songs, it's almost always the music that comes first, and then the lyrics. "Most often, I take the guitar, lately I also sit at the piano, and I try to find the chords that sound interesting to me in that moment, and then I also sing along. Usually, associations form in my head and it feels like it suddenly becomes clear to me what the lyrics will be, sometimes I "accidentally" sing some lines that end up staying in the song and define what I will talk about." The lyrics are mostly, as mentioned, about love and self-reflection, but there are also a few slightly different ones among them. Aleppo, the duet with Omar Naber, who has been by his side from the beginning and helped him record demos, was created differently. The song, which talks about the city Aleppo in Syria, which is ravaged by war, was created when, in a TV report about what was happening there, he saw a young girl that inspired him. Then, he immediately started writing.

As someone who is sensitive to feeling other people's pain, does he ever fear that he could lose this empathy in the rather apathetic world we live in? "Just last year, there was a moment when I thought that I was completely alienated from myself, and I felt like I was never going to fall in love again. For a while, nothing excited me, I thought I had gone numb, but then something suddenly changed, I just waited for that natural 'click'." When songs become evergreen, hits that everyone sings and that connect generations, is it also important how much empathy the lyricists have?

"Absolutely. You have to have enough empathy to be honest with yourself. If you're honest, some people will connect very strongly with your lyrics. Nowadays, so many songs in the musical world are written just to be written. Not because they carry a real story within. And you can really feel that. It's that easy."

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[thetoaddaddy]

thinkin about an au i was building but didn’t want to bore people with a really detailed au that they would have to read in order to understand it just for smut for my fic series that was mostly short one shots so let me drop it here

a longish explanation underneath. Cut it so you don’t gotta scroll through a big post

it be a deity au. In which the sannin and other prominent figures were well deities. Heavy influence was from japanese folklore and some games. You know how the god and goddess lists are pretty huge so it’s not totally out of reason to kinda make ur own sort of tree using the same kind of logic? Sorta like that.

But the basic rules of the universe was that gods were actual beings. And the more prayer, followers, renown, and general admiration the stronger they were. They can do what their intended tasks are. Like rain or good luck. They can roam beyond their shrine(to which they’re bound to almost like that was their real body. So if it falls into ruin so do they)

And my idea with this was basically both oro and tsuna had devout followers. And thus were pretty powerful and free roaming. Oro had more sinister vibes, a god of war and trickery. Tsuna was a goddess of healing, wisdom and prosperity. And thus they also had a lot of prayers to answer. So it was more of a mutual expectation of gods to their followers. If that makes sense. Like a balance of devotion so long as the prayers were answered. Almost like genshin? But not as complicated lmao. (And i thought of this before i played the funny anime game so dont @ me)

But in this instance jir was more of a forgotten god. Bound to his shrine up on a lonely mountain, his memory and consciousness barely in tact. With no one to feed him with basically attention and belief he’s sorta stuck in a limbo. Basically circling the drain. He doesn’t even remember what his role is like oro or tsuna do(not that it’s hard to guess lol). The only thing really keeping him from fully dying are some rather cute kitsune (sunshine boi and his parents) who at this point make sure he doesn’t accidentally fall off a cliff.

idk. I know it could be a little indulgent. Especially if all he gets is one or two people who just sorta stumble upon him. Which means he slowly remembers who he is and if ya nasty fall in love.

I like thinking outside the box when it comes to aus for our muses. And this is a bit of a mashup of various lores from various sources and our own mentally ill mind.

But I’ve always wanted to do something with it. Especially with muses who tap into the japanese folklore. Its one of those worlds where it’s not just the gods its demons too. Onis, ghosts, weird sentient hair combs with a vendetta, goblins, ghouls. All that cool interesting stuff that makes japanese folklore so cool. I see it as the classic setting, more feudal fantasy than anything modern.