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allaboutnayeli · 1 month

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FALLING DEEP | e.de almeida x reader

summary: all elisa wants after a bad game is you.

author notes: this is a special fic for my bestie @moonystoes 🩷 since this dumb bitch be dying for elisa fics. i changed the whole plot from what she originally wanted, but hey beggers can't be choosers 🤷🏾‍♀️ the rest of yall enjoy too!

contains: elisa de almeida x reader, elisa is lowkey a little insecure about her football skills, fluff/comfort, based after brazil's quarterfinal win at the olympics (might not be accurate so just chill), lesbians being lesbians

playing break from toronto by partynextdoor 🎵

elisa hates losing. she wouldn't even call herself a competitive person, but it's just something about losing that irritates her. especially when it comes to something she wants so badly, like getting far in the olympics.

after the regular ninety minutes, then nearly nineteen minutes of stoppage time, france just couldn't get a goal into the back of the net. getting a draw then going into penalties would feel way better than just not having a goal at all. at least france would have something to show for themselves, but no, the whistle is blown, and the game is officially over, and elisa's heart feels like it's breaking apart. trying not to cry is a challenge within itself. it's a home crowd, and still france couldn't pull through; it feels a bit embarrassing to elisa. especially as a defender, the french player strongly believes that if her team can't score, then she should be able to stop most goals coming near the net but that's not what happened.

france was messy this match, that can't be denied. the exhaustion of playing games with only a day of rest had gotten to them, and this is the outcome.

time feels like a blur as elisa goes from the bench to the locker room. the tiredness from the tournament is starting to really set in. not just the physical exhaustion but mentally as well. elisa definitely needs a twenty four hour nap when she gets back home.

when everyone is in the locker room, that's when the words of comfort are spoken. elisa can't focus on that much when her brain feels like it's turning to mush, so she just blocks everything out and waits for the talking to stop. her mind drifts off to the only thing (well, person) that could bring her a sense of comfort right now: you.

that soothing voice of yours flows into her mind, distracting her from anything else. you couldn't make it to the match due to work, which elisa isn't even annoyed about anymore. she would be embarrassed out of her mind if you saw that performance of hers in person. even though she knows you will watch the match eventually, that's still better than elisa looking into the crowd and seeing your shining eyes look at her.

fianlly wendie stops talking, elisa gets up to go shower right away. a few others go to the showers as well. the french player takes a shower longer than usual until the water runs cold. when she steps out of the shower, picaud is stepping out of her shower as well.

"are you feeling alright?" the taller woman says. elisa lets out a hum at the question. she doesn't answer for a moment, changing into a nike tech set. when she's changed, finally she says, "i feel.. okay. it is what it is, you know."

"yeah.. you played good though, don't beat yourself up about it," picaud says.

good.. suree elisa thinks to herself before turning to see picaud is fully dressed as well. the defender shrugs, "you played good too. everyone did, we were just not connecting."

"don't be so hard on yourself. i know how you get," picaud pats elisa's shoulder before leaving out of the showers. elisa doesn't answer but follows after the goalkeeper. the only two left in the locker room beside picaud and elisa is katoto and sakina.

sakina looks up from her phone when the two walk into the locker room, "finally. everybody else is on the bus, so we can go back to the hotel." katoto grabs her bag then picaud and her leave out of the locker room first, leaving sakina and elisa.

the moccoran looks at elisa as the defender puts some of her things into her bag. sakina can clearly see the down mood elisa is in, anyone would be able to just by looking into the defender's eyes. when elisa finishes packing, then makes her way to the door, sakina follows. when the two of them step out of the locker room, sakina speaks, "don't beat yourself up about the match, eli. we all played like shit."

the bluntness of sakina's words makes elisa laugh. sakina laughs, too. the mood lightens a bit as they reach the bus. with them being the last ones to get on the bus, they have to sit next to each other, obviously. the bus is mostly quiet, which is expected after being knocked out of a major tournament at home.

elisa's mood drops again as she closes her eyes. the movement of the bus should be calming her like it usually does, but not this time as all she sees when she closes her eyes is brazil's goal followed her performance in the match before she was benched off. then her mind drifts off to you, and elisa realizes she hasn't texted you since the match ended. the french player wasn't thinking about her phone at all after the match. she especially wasn't thinking about social media, already knowing the team is being tore apart for their performance. good thing she deleted twitter before the match.

anyways, back to you, elisa pulls her phone out of her pocket of her pants. she immediately sees the notifications of the messages you sent to her. seeing that even when you're busy, you still find a way to support her makes elisa feel all warm inside.

y/n 💕

play well my love ❤️❤️

sorry i sent the message late 😓 it's busy over here!!

are the first messages elisa sees. they were obviously sent early on the match. she usually would have seen them at half time, but with the team not playing the best, half time was focused on trying to fix what's going on. she looks at the other messages you sent,

y/n 💕

i finally have some free time

i saw the score 💔 so sorry for you and everyone else baby

i haven't watched the game yet but i'm sure you played well

elisa smiles at the messages. even though they remind her of the entire reason her mood has been down since the last whistle was blown. still, they make her feel better anyways. she reads the rest of your messages that are mostly just checking up on her after noticing she didn't reply to your previous ones then asking her if you can come over to the hotel where france is staying.

y/n 💕

i can sneak into your room once i get off?

elisa 💛

you don't have to sneak but yes okay ❤️❤️

y/n 💕

okay baby ❤️

elisa slips her phone back into her pocket, then leans her head against sakina, who side eyes her but lets it slide. for the rest of the bus ride, elisa just looks at sakina's phone, which is playing some tv show she doesn't care to know.

the team reaches the hotel, and everybody gets off the bus. everyone make their way to their own hotel rooms (thankfully, france allowed everyone to have their own room) with elisa and sakina exchanging "goodnight"s before going into their hotel rooms.

elisa closes her door behind her, letting out a sigh at finally being able to truly rest. she drops her bag near the closet then slips off her shoes before heading to the bathroom to shower.

forty minutes later, and elisa comes out of the bathroom. she's wearing a robe while letting her hair air dry. elisa doesn't check the time because if she did, she would realize your shift at work ended ten minutes ago and that you're probably on your way over to the hotel.

she absentmindedly changes into some pajamas before going to sit on her bed. elisa only gets a few scrolls on her phone in before hearing a knock at the door. the french player internally groans, not really wanting to deal with anyone right now. still, she gets up and answers the door. her entire mood changes when she sees it's you.

"hi baby," you hug her the moment she opens the door. she hugs back, pulling you into the room. she shifts you two slightly so she can close the door.

after a few more minutes, you pull away from her. a soft smile on your lips as you say, "i didn't even have to sneak in."

"told you so," elisa chuckles, then pecks your forehead. you pucker your lips for an actual kiss, and she obliges, kissing you. the two of you pull away to breathe.

"missed you.." you say while moving away from elisa slightly to slip off your shoes. then you grab her hand and pull her towards the bed. you fall onto it first, then elisa falls right next to you onto the mattress. you giggle before pulling her close, letting her snuggle her face into your neck.

elisa murmurs into the skin there, "missed you more."

the two of you lay in silence after that, you gently playing with her hair. elisa just lets out soft hums as she closes her eyes and enjoys the warmth of your embrace. her mind feels so calm that she doesn't even think about the match or what everyone is saying online. all she has to think about is right now, being with you as your hands play with her hair and she listens to the beating of your heart.

you enjoy the comfortable silence, but you think about the match and its result. you already know how elisa gets after losses; in a mood of blaming herself for mishaps of the game. the french woman truly believes most weight lays on the shoulders of defenders, so when she fumbles it, she feels like shit. you debate in your head whether to say anything about it or not. in the end, you decide it's best to say at least some comforting words. elisa has a bad habit of keeping her emotions to herself and doesn't vent as much as she should.

"so about the match.." your words knock elisa out of the nearly sleep state she was in. she doesn't say anything, but you can feel her slightly grip on your waist.

you continue, "don't put all the blame on yourself, love. it's a team sport at the end of the day."

elisa doesn't reply right away, letting your words sink in. of course, you're the rational one between the two of you. still, she wants to cling to the feelings of self-doubt and regret that linger from a match that ended hours ago.

"i played like shit," is what she ends up saying. her bluntness doest surprise you. based on the score you knew she would feel this way. it makes sense truly. that doesn't mean you agree with the statement.

"you all played like shit obviously," you say, giggling when elisa moves her head from your neck to give you a look, "not in that way, dumbass. i meant that teams have bad days sometimes and sometimes they happen on the days of the most important matches. that's football."

you and elisa shift positions slightly so you two are facing eachother face to face. your noses are kissing and you're looking straight into her eyes. some slight regret lays in her eyes, but at the same time you see some acceptance.

acceptance of the match outcome or her performance? you don't know, but either way it's better than the emotions you knew she felt earlier.

elisa smiles, "you're right.. still it's so frustrating how messy we are when it matters most."

"hm.. rant to me about it?" your right hand goes to her hair, starting to play with it. elisa smiles again before moving slightly to peck your lips.

"okay."

elisa rants all her frustations out about the national team for nearly a hour. somehow she ends up with her head on your chest. after that, the two of you watch your favorite tv show until you both fall asleep.

author notes: first fic now that i'm back from my writing break 🫠 this is cute and simple and i hope you guys enjoyed it!

#elisa de almeida x reader #woso x reader #woso fluff #woso fanfics

113 notes · View notes

grapejuicestyless · 7 months

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Our Last Dance

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: Y/n is Harry’s childhood best friend and the only person he’s been able to hang onto as his popularity grew. Y/n wasn’t as successful in life, but she wants to be able to do something nice for Harry one last time.(inspired by Aftersun…Warning: there is a lot of detail about vomit in this if that bothers you and depression/suicide.)

“It’s not much, but it’s right by the beach so I thought it might be nice.” I’ve known Harry for over two decades. He’s been my best friend since I was seven, I know everything there is to know about him. I know who he is, yet I still can’t help but feel ashamed when we stumble into the dusty hotel room, one large king sized bed sat in the center of the room and a balcony overlooking the blue oceans of Italy and an old handy cam from nineteen ninety something dangling from my wrist.

“No, no. It’s great.” Placing his suitcase on the tile flooring of the small bathroom, he flashes me a genuine smile before he peels back the bedsheets and checks the corners thoroughly for anything that could raise red flags.

“I could have sworn I paid for two beds, I don’t know how they mixed that up.” Running a hand through my hair, it only now hit me that there was only one place to sleep in the room. Usually, it would be no big deal seeing as Harry and I often spend our time together glued at the hip in his large bed or cramped together in my mid sized one. But I paid extra money to have the extra mattress, and money was tighter than usual and I just wanted everything to be perfect.

Harry simply shrugged it off, laying back against the headboard while dialing the front desks number with his right hand and welcoming me into his arms with his left one.

“I don’t have cooties, you know.” Shooting him a glare, I lay my head against his chest and take the phone in my hand that wasn’t wrapped underneath his waist. I feel one of his hands play around with the band on my wrist to grab the camera from me while he waits. The phone rings for some time before the monotone voice of the teenager working the front desk cracked through the shitty phone speakers.

Harry didn’t listen to much of the conversation, choosing to run his fingers through my hair and hum quietly under his breath, playing around with any buttons he could find on the camera.

“So thats the best you can do?” I asked, feeling my chest tighten like an elastic band. I raised from my spot on Harry’s chest, sitting on my knees and slouching in defeat, “No, I don’t need that. If I could get my money back though, for the extra bed?” Looking at Harry, I shook my head in question, sighing without making a sound.

“Yeah, that would be great. Thank you so much.” Before I could continue my passive aggressive approach to the situation, the line beeped dead and Harry began to crack a smile.

“’s not funny!” I slurred my words, feeling the ache between my bones hit me at that very moment. I let my body fall into Harry’s chest once again, sighing at the vanilla scent from his cologne that fills my nose and the warmth from his body despite the sweltering heat from the Italian summer making our joints extra sticky with sweat. A soft thud on the bedside table on Harry’s side tells me he’s done playing around on the camera and has turned his full attention to me.

“I don’t mind being stuck with you, y’know.” He tries to downplay the situation, diffusing my rising anxiety about expenses he recognizes in my mannerisms and my attitude. Huffing in response, I roll off of him and sprawl out like a starfish. My eyes find a home in the ceiling and I feel Harry take my right hand in his, “Why don’t we go to the pool? Why waste such a nice night pouting, yeah?” He tilts his head towards our bags that are still in the bathroom, and when our eyes meet, we both know someway or another he’s going to drag me down there.

“Race you?” I regret my words when I feel him scramble off the bed beside me, letting me get tangled in the sheets while he strips into his bright yellow swim trunks and dad-like flip flops. I laugh about it not being fair while I clasp my top in the back and desperately try and kick my sandals on but he’s already out the door, leaving it wide open as he runs down the slippery stairs and all but dives into the deep end of the teal waters.

“Come on in, the waters just fine!” He laughs, urging me to join him and I’ve never felt more alive as I full sprint off the edge of the cement and fall into the pool with my best friend.

“I call it a tie!” Water falls from my hairline as I break the water’s surface.

“What? No way, I smoked your ass!” Harry splashes me, hopping back when he sees me approaching him with a mischievous grin.

“You had a false start, I was not ready. So, as the officiator of this match, I have decided to add on penalty time meaning we tied.” The water creates a wave like pattern on our bodies, illuminating our sun kissed skin a hue of bluish-green and hiding any fading sunburns from the beginning of summer.

“You little minx!” He rushes towards me and I can feel my heart beating through my chest.

When he wraps his arms around my torso and threatens to dunk me, I can’t help the ugly giggles that bubble out of my mouth and shake my whole body. I can’t help the way my hands claw at his skin to keep me afloat even though I know he would never dunk me if I didn’t want him to or the way his laughter only makes my ribs tougher and my stomach ache worse.

“If I go down, I’m taking you with me!” Wrapping my hands around his shoulders, I somehow manage to maneuver myself in a way that has us both flipping into the six foot deep end.

I imagine the people who are sleeping just beside the pool are thankful for the brief silence when we are submerged, and I swear someone screams at us to shut the hell up when we start coughing and screaming again at the sudden chill of pool water soaking our drying skin.

“Best vacation ever!” Harry yells it in my ear, watching how I flinch away and cover my ears with my fingers and grimace, bearing all my teeth when I groan through them but also smiling while I do it.

I jump up onto his back, holding him like a koala bear and try my best not to slip off of his wet body.

“I know!” Somehow, we end up in the water again, and I don’t mind the sting of water in my nose or how I cough a large amount of it out over the edge of the pool when we break the surface again because Harry’s patting my back while I do it, and I do the same for him.

It’s funny and delirious and stupid, but the pool is occupied by us until our skin is pruned until there’s no more wrinkles to create and our lips are more blue than the water we swim in. And I swear, it feels like flying.

“One long island on the rocks!” He held up one finger but quickly held up another and corrected himself, “No, wait, two! Two on the rocks please!” He slurred, slapping a twenty down on the bar and handing one of the orangey-red drinks to me.

The glasses clinked together, sloshing the liquid within them and knocking my lime to the ground with a splat. Still, neither of us cared much, choosing to smile and laugh while we make our way back to the sandy shores of the nearby beach.

“This tastes so good! He knew what he was doing!” Pointing at my glass, I nod my head enthusiastically, feeling my cheeks start to hurt with how big I was smiling.

“No, you’re just drunk! I would know, I am too!” Harry stumbles all the way to the sand, downing the glass and setting it on the top of a nearby trashcan along with my half finished one.

“Heyyy, I wasn’t done!” Taking my hands in his, Harry begins pulling me to the waves that crashed down onto the sand, laughing at how my feet struggle to keep up with his in our drunken states.

“Come on, I’m hot!” The water hit our skin like a ton of bricks, tiny icicles hitting up to our hips and before we could turn back, a large wave knocked us over and fully submerged our goosebump covered bodies.

“Holy shit! Holy shit!” It didn’t necessarily hurt, being in the water and splashing around in it’s freezing temperatures, but it was shocking, especially with the extra heat of alcohol roasting us underneath the warmth of the summer sun.

Neither of us speak for a moment, choosing to hold our arms away from our bodies and look down at ourselves like we are trying to air dry our limbs after the accidental ice bath.

A puff of air leaves Harry’s mouth, followed by another and another. I look up to see him, and he’s already looking at me with a smile plastered on his face and giggles falling from his drunken lips. I’m only acutely aware of the heavy feelings in my limbs, but my own giggles falling from my lips mask the weird sensation and I don’t really care for it.

“You have seaweed on your…” Pointing to the top of his head, I look at the very small piece of the plant tangled in his curly brown hair, it almost looks like it’s part of it.

Harry picks it out, dangling in front of his face and smiling at it for a second. Then, he throws it at me.

“Ew! No-Harry!” Flinching away, I splash more water onto the both of us and feel the shock of it too, but I can’t stop moving, even after it’s fallen into the water in front of me, only barely touching my arm. Harry doesn’t seem to mind the water anymore though, sitting back and watching my overdramatic reaction to his antics. It’s only after I stop flailing about that he leans his too half into the water, scooping up a larger chunk of the plant and staring at me like a man with a plan.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare!” Running through the water feels impossible, each stride I take being slowed by the movement of the shallow waves and the uneven surface of the rocks and the sand underneath my feet. I can hear his breathing just behind my ears, and the sloshing of his feet breaking through the water makes my heart pound faster.

I’m not sure where the chase disperses, when he gets tired of chasing me and decides to call a truce, but Harry stops chasing me after a good long while, metallic taste in our mouths rising from our throats and breathing so heavy, I think for a second I’ll have to go running to find Harry’s inhaler.

“Are you okay?” His voice fades in and out of my ears, I’m too focused on the taste in my throat and the steady restriction of my throat. I feel it bubbling up, and the saliva in my mouth seems to multiply. I’m on the brink of sobriety, or something close to it, so when he calls after me as I fight my way out of the ocean, I keep steady on my path to the one open trashcan just down the shore.

My hands grip the edge of the hot black plastic rim, bending myself forward and popping my foot up to better submerge myself into the opening. A gag followed by another and another shakes my entire body before everything spews out of me in an orangey-lime colored mess. I can still taste the alcohol on my breath, and I can feel the tears behind my eyes.

Harry came to rub my back and hold my hair, rubbing circles and looking away so I won’t feel embarrassed after.

Rising from the trashcan, I notice he also looks a bit paler than before, his eyes carry a baggage I never noticed and his lips are chapped.

“Fuck.” Wiping anything that could have gotten on my lips away, Harry laughs at me in the same drunken way he did in the water.

“What? What?!” I catch myself laughing, holding my stomach and feeling it turn underneath my palms. He directs his head towards the ocean, leaning against the trashcan now and somehow ignoring the smell.

“Real amateur move, just threw up in the great big ocean like any other person.” He jokes, and I feel my face contort with disgust. I would have laughed harder if I were still completely hammered, but after physically ridding myself of most of what I have consumed within the past few hours, I’m beginning to feel the effects washing off and leaving behind an intense pounding in my head.

“You’re disgusting.” Looking behind me, I make sure Harry is still following me. The day isn’t even close to being over yet, but with us pouring down shots at ten in the morning like it’s water, it feels more like midnight rather than midday.

Weaving between dirt paths made from excessive use on grassy areas and sidewalks that lead us to where we need to be, Harry and I are complaining about how heavy our feet feel and how tired we are getting. The drunk highs have already passed and all we can focus on is the plushy bed waiting for us at the hotel.

“Y/n!” Harry’s hand pulls me back, his chest hitting my spine with the force he uses against me. My foot that had stepped off of the sidewalk to cross the road to get to our hotel is yanked back onto the higher ground, a bus honking as it speeds by. I can feel his heartbeat pounding into my body and the sweat gathering on his palms. He mumbles something under his breath, the but ringing of the horn is still overwhelming my eardrums and drowning out everything else.

Truly, I don’t care that much about the incident, it wouldn’t mean much anyway if I had kept going. I probably would have made it, or worse case scenario, the wheel nicks my foot. But it has Harry all up in arms, checking the road on both sides multiple times before he decides it’s safe to cross. I’ll blame it on my drunkenness or my tiredness, and Harry will scold me, if we don’t fall asleep first. Which we do.

Or rather, he does.

The softness of the bed is nice, something that I was able to sink into the night before when I reached a point of absolute exhaustion, but now it feels too soft on my back that is used to my hard mattress at home. The pillows are flat, or at least mine are, and the blankets are scratchy.

The tiles in the bathroom are cold, a deep blue color that compliments the boring grey walls nicely. The toilet creaks as I shift all my weight down onto it, a bottle that resembles aloe vera to my left and a bucket of water to my right.

The cap pops open quietly, and the gel pours out of it with a fight. It’s been left behind somehow, and nobody has come to collect it. It’s gooey and it smells odd, sticking together in clumps between my fingers and pulling at my arm hair when I try to spread it.

My eyes are too heavy and my fingers are lazy, I can’t even try to fight against the thick mess rubbing into my skin.

Sighing, I give up on the gel, not liking the tug, even though the cold feels good on my skin. It’s when I close the cap again, holding the previously discarded bottle in my hands I realize I’ve read it wrong in my sleepy haze. It’s only so gooey because it’s not aloe vera, but rather a hair gel with aloe vera in it.

“What the fuck?” It goes straight into the trash, right next to the water bucket which is swiftly slid over to sit right in front of me, propped between my ankles.

It doesn’t pull off easy, taking some hair with it. My skin feels slimy for a little, but no longer sticky. I think it’s probably because in a way, I’ve just waxed my arms because I’m too damn lazy to thoroughly read a bottle. Other than the horrible feeling of it, I don’t mind the inconvenience of it. It wasn’t like I was going to sleep anytime soon, and it distracted from the pounding in my head. I wonder silently if Harry packed anything for pain? I hadn’t, I’d barely remembered to pack enough shirts and he always has those kind of things.

Treading lightly along the carpeted floors and looking over my shoulder, I see Harry passed out on his stomach, a little wet spot collecting under his cheek which is firmly pressed against the comforter. The zipper to his bag is much louder than mine, it’s also ten times more expensive than mine and newer. But he has the money to spend, and I would do the same if I were him. I just wish with how much money it cost that they would have opted for a quieter zipper. I think back to when we were still in school, taking calculus and cheating off of each other and stealing notes. Harry was always a very heavy sleeper in his teen years, but it feels like the more well known he becomes, the more jumpy he is in his sleep. Maybe it’s because of the constant pressure of pleasing his fans or the rigorous schedule his team put him on in his early twenties, but it eases the aching in my chest to think it’s just because he’s getting older.

A tiny pack of aspirin catches my attention in the first pocket I open along side some deodorant and toothpaste. An odd combination, but very Harry.

Opening it with a struggle because of the damn child lock caps, I see there are only three left. All that struggle only to be able to take one. After all, it’s not mine and Harry would surely need more than me after the current coma he was inducing, his groaning and complaining is something I can already hear. I swallow it dry and drift over to the balcony.

The sun is still so high in the sky, it’s only just past one now. Children play and cars pass, the breeze is blowing my shirt against my body and cooling the sweat that is collecting on my upper lip.

Harry is passed out in bed and my body is more awake than ever. It’s funny because it’s usually him calling my phone late at night telling me he’s on the way over and to get myself ready because we’re going out. I smile to myself, all of our best memories happen just before we get drunk it seems like. The wine spilling on his carpet after his first grammy win, or the deep conversations curled up in the corner of some bar while we nurse some strong beverages and laugh about all of our shitty lovers and toxic exes.

“Harry.” Calling out to him from the balcony, I find it’s much more comfortable out here in the breeze, where it feels like flying if you stick out your arms and close your eyes, rather than laying like a dead man in a stuffy hotel room.

He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t even shift. He still has the redness in his cheeks that tequila stains him with and the sweat collecting on his hairline. He looks completely at peace with himself, unbothered by the broken air conditioning and the overworked fan humming away in the corner.

I decide that just because he isn’t up for an adventure, I shouldn’t sit around and wait for him to find one. Theres a crinkled up receipt on the floor just by the foot of the bed, it’s got his name on the top and a long list of drinks down the length of it. I flip it over and flatten out. There’s no good pens, only a half dead one on the dresser that makes loud scratching sounds every time it passes over the paper.

Gone out, couldn’t sleep. Be back in an hour. Love you always and forever! Xoxo, your best friend.

It sits stuck with an edge trapped beneath the phone on the bedside table, the rest of it blows softly every time the fan rotates in that direction. Harry scrunches his nose slightly every time the breeze hits him, it feels nice in the summer heat and even better with the extra warmth in our veins. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, it makes a moment like this sweeter. A memory only I’ll remember and get to carry with me.

I hope no matter what happens my brain never fails me, so that when I die and go wherever I’m supposed to be in the afterlife, I can still have my memories to hold onto and I’ll be able to carry his smile with me as I roam the empty earth alone.

“These glasses are nice.” My fingers run over the rims, feeling the smoothness of the glossy finish over the tortoiseshell color. Harry has a very similar pair, only the temple tips of his have worn down and there are scratches on the lenses. He has plenty of sunglasses, but he those are his favorite. He insists on wearing them even when some of his have never been touched.

“How much are they?” Holding them up to my eyes, I move them back and forth to watch the darkened parts of the world shrink and expand within the round boarders.

“A hundred.” The man behind the counter smiles nicely at me, watching how delicately my hands hold the glasses between my fingers. I clear my throat and fold the temples in.

“Sorry, in pounds?” He lulls his head back, thinking and clicking his tongue while he counts.

“About eighty five pounds, one hundred seven US dollars.” I nod my head and place them on the counter. As soon as I do so, the man seems to be quick to swoop them up and clean away any marks left behind with a cloth. It almost makes me laugh.

“Uhm…” I dig through my wallet, looking at what I have left. I’ve emptied most of my account into my wallet for this extended weekend. My savings going into the tickets and the hotel room, which felt more like a motel, and some change going towards drinks and food. Still, I have nearly double what I need for it left in my wallet and motivation that makes me dig it out of the leathery pocket and hand it over to the man. “Eighty five, right there.” I smile up at him and he smiles back. He gives me the glasses back in a fancy case with a magnetic button that seals them away safely which is wrapped tightly in light blue wrapping paper. It crinkles in my hands, but I think it’s just lovely. Harry will love it.

“Thank you. Have a good day!” A bell chimes when I exit the store, and the stifling heat outside makes my already prominent eye bags feel ten times heavier than before. I feel the same sluggish feeling I did after the beach, only this time it’s accompanied by a real sense of tiredness only the overly soft bed can fix.

The sounds of the passing cars and the ticking of crosswalk signals all sort of blur into the distance the closer I get to the room. My key is stuffed in with the crinkled bills and old coupons that have expired long ago. I’m so focused on getting into the warm comforts of the room, I don’t hear the shuffling around inside of it or the angelic humming of my best friend just on the other side of the door.

“Y/n/n!” He looks like he’s been hit by a bus. A really beautiful, clean, expensive bus. Even hungover with dry drool on his cheek the man still manages to resemble one of those greek statues that proudly display their defined features and sharp jawlines.

He has the bottle of Advil in one hand and the handy cam presses in the palm of the other. He moves it close to my face until I swat it down, laughing at him like he wanted.

My thumb presses against his cheek, my palm cupping his chin. I wipe away the dry drool and make a mental note to wash my hands before I touch anything else.

“Have a nice sleep?” His tongue pokes out of his mouth to lick away my hand and for the second time today I grimace in disgust and back off, but not before wiping the wet patch down his arm.

“It was okay. Woke up a little after you left, I think. Thought you up and left me until I found the note.” He jokes.

“How’d you know I wasn’t just in the bathroom then if you didn’t see the note?” I see now that he’s moved it over to another table in the room and that the phone it was under is moved to the further side of the table.

“I didn’t hear snoring.” I hit his arm. “Ow!”

“Asshole!” He laughs at me and for a second I think about hitting him again, but this time over the top of his head.

“You love me.” I shake my head, walking to the bathroom to piss or vomit, I’m not really sure.

“Nope.” I pop the ‘p’, closing the door and locking it in his face.

“Yes you do, you liar! You wrote it right here! Love you always and forever, xoxo, your best friend! You put two different kinds of love in one note! You must really love me!” I open the door and throw a towel at him before slamming it shut again.

“Don’t love you enough to not debate tossing you over the balcony right now!” I hear him laugh at that and for a second, as we wind down from our fits of giggles it’s completely quiet.

“I do love you though.” I admit softly, hunched over the toilet and smiling.

“I knew it!” I can practically hear his gloating grin in his shouting and I wonder how no one has come knocking at our door to tell us to shut up yet.

I shush him aggressively, placing a finger to my lips even though he cant see it, “Quiet! Please, can’t a girl throw up in peace?” Harry groans, but his back doesn’t lift from the door and his shadow doesn’t move.

“Do you need me to hold your hair?” I don’t answer him, instead I unlock the door, holding back a gag as the familiar restrictive feeling comes back up my throat. I’m on my knees when he walks in and his hands are threading through my hair as gently as possible.

“Let it all out.” He tries to be comforting, finding that his hands are big enough to hold my hair and rub my back at the same time. I don’t find it aggravating, in fact I think it’s kind of sweet that he cares so much, that he doesn’t completely ignore me because it’s gross. But I can’t lie and say I didn’t roll my eyes a little bit when he says it, because it feels just a little condescending and my mouth tastes bitter.

“Oh my god, please stop talking.” My head is back in the toilet, gagging up a mix of medication, ocean water, alcohol and old water from Harry’s water bottle. Harry’s laughing and I can’t help but too, but it comes out more as a dry cough followed by a string of spit into the water which only makes us laugh harder.

After some time, I think I’ve gotten it all out. Instead of being hunched over the toilet, by back is pressed against the cool tiles of the bathroom floor and my arms are resting over Harry’s chest. The sound of our breathing fills the quiet room and we find that it’s very comfortable just sitting like this, in the company of the other.

“Harry,” He hums, turning his head to look at me even though mine is still facing the ceiling, “Did you turn off the camera?” He sits up quickly, huffing curses under his breath and looking to see how long he had been recording. My laughter echos throughout the room when he sees he’s captured the entire thing, shutting it off swiftly and storing it in an empty compartment in his bag.

He calls it stupid, a waste of space and useless, but I know he doesn’t think that. His sister gave it to me when she got her first phone and I’ve used it to record special trips ever since. He texted me to remind me to bring it, and I yell out to call him a dirty liar while he pouts around.

“Come on, we’ve been in bed all day. The weekend’s not passing any slower and we aren’t getting any younger!” He shook me vigorously, smiling that same toothy grin I remember from our childhood, and the same one that promised before he ever stepped foot onto a stage that he would never forget me, and would always be near. We’ve both changed, but it’s nice to know that some promises are forever.

I simply shrug Harry off, finding peace in the cocoon of our bedding that he had made for us in the middle of the night. Still, he’s persistent against my body, begging and pleading for me to just go with him and he hasn’t even said where he wants to go.

“We’ve only got two good nights left before we leave and this is one of them. Get up!” I don’t choose to listen to his whining, mumbling something about the cheep ass wine we found at the drug store around the block and the pounding in my head thats only gotten worse on this three day bender.

“You can’t still be hung over, get up. Come on, I planned something fun for us!” Again, he tries to take me with him. He knows that once I’m up, I’m up. I’ll easily follow him anywhere with anyone because with him, it’s just that simple.

“Harry.” I warn him, my voice airy and soft the first time and my eyes avoiding his playful expression. Still, he seems to find it all too entertaining that I’m so stubborn yet so easy to crack. He keeps pushing, literally, and begging and whining and talking.

“Harry, stop!” Sitting up from the blankets, for a second he thinks he’s won. I’m above the covers and facing him just like he wants but then he see’s the bags under my eyes and the haze hanging over my face. While I am up, no longer comforted by the security of the blankets, I am not able to leave the mattress. So, he backs away, scoffing under his breath and looking to the ceiling like I’ve just kicked him.

I can hear the faint sound of tapping by his side, the same sound I know to be of his thumb digging into his cuticles and picking away any fresh skin until he bleeds. Usually, I would at least tell him to stop, even if we were angry at each other, but today I find that I don’t really have the energy to do anything except slump into myself and hold my head in my hands.

“Jesus, Y/n.” He’s turned himself around so he’s looking out of the glass doors that lead to the small balcony. For a second it even looks like he’s tempted to slide them open and just be with the breeze, but he doesn’t do that. Instead, Harry has spun himself back around with the saddest look on his face and blotches of red produced from stress lining his neck.

“Harry, please. Maybe later, I just…I just don’t feel up to it right now.” I’m praying that he understands, he surely should. He better than anyone else would know the feeling of creeping aches in our joints and the heaviness of our mind.

“You’re never up to it.” Is what he says instead. He was never going to coddle me, that I understood. While he had in the past, we were never the over the top touchy people who survived solely off of the brush of a stray arm at a party or a compliment of a stranger at midnight.

His words have always been kind, but not this time it seems. Because they wobble a little when he says it and he doesn’t look very confident in how he’s standing. But I wouldn’t know because I can’t even look him in the eyes right now.

“We’ve spent the last couple days getting sick out of our minds in the bathroom, it smell’s like a bar in here and yet, you can’t even find it in you to push through for a few hours for your best friend?” He doesn’t really mean it that way, he’ll come back later tonight begging me to understand what he really meant, but just because Harry has always been kind does not mean he has always been smart. Sometimes, even the person who preaches kindness to everyone can be a foul man to the people he loves.

“You know that’s not what’s happening, stop being a jerk!” I scream but I don’t mean to. In fact, I don’t even know why I’m yelling because I’m not angry, or irritated or anything. It’s like I’ve been dragged through some slick mud, stuck in it with nothing to grab onto to pull me out, not even Harry. It keeps me here, in this bed, it’s paralysis through the brain. I can move but every cell in my body advises me to stay put.

Breathing heavily, Harry simply sticks his hands into his pockets, shoving his knuckles down so harshly that I can see the waist tug down just a little further on his stomach. His nose is flaring up and his lips moving with his tongue that swipes over his teeth.

“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, I really don’t, but you need to fix it.” It’s low coming from his mouth, almost like he wants me to hear it, but he doesn’t want to say it. My throat has gone dry now, eyes looking at his forehead rather than his eyes because now I can’t even stand the sight of him anymore. I’m so much more than tired and he doesn’t get it, my best friend doesn’t get it.

The door closes, the handle rattling with the force he shuts it with, and yet even though we’ve just blown up at each other all I can worry about is if he’d hung the do not disturb sign on the door or not. My best friend, my life has just walked out on me, blind with rage and all I can worry about is if someone will come knocking or not?

I’ve always known there was something wrong with me, the sunny Saturday’s not hitting quite the same and the good things always draining my body of the little life I had left to give. The other kids were never that way, going from party to party in high school and laughing like they had no tomorrow to worry about.

Theres something royally fucked up about me and I don’t know how to help it. I know that theres nothing wrong with what I have, but I can’t help but feel ashamed when I find the most interest in rotting away in some lumpy bed when the whole world is just at my fingertips and I can explore it all with a hell of a good man and best friend by my side.

A soft knock at the door pulls me from my self pity, and for a second I almost let myself believe that it could be Harry coming back. But the voice of an older woman knocking to see if anyone will answer and tell her to go away changes the image of Harry on the other side of the door into a woman hunched over with a cleaning cart and reality sets in.

“Sorry, I’m in here!” I call out, and when she doesn’t answer, I let myself become pulled from the bed, sitting up to answer it if I have to. The wheels of the cart move on to the rest of the hallway, a faint knock followed by the jingle of room keys tell me that she’s left, and so has Harry.

A trip I planned for him, one that I worked so hard to make possible just in case I were to never be put in a position where I could ever again, ruined because of myself. A selfish monster is crawling under my skin, over my bones and it just doesn’t feel right, why can’t I feel alright?

Hot tears are pouring down my cheeks, falling into my lap as I now sit in nothing more than a damp swimsuit and Harry’s old grey shirt I stole from him back in high school. It still smells like him, even after I’ve washed it over and over. I try not to because once it’s gone, and I fear that all leftover from our youth will become washed away and the cloudy haze of simplicity that comes with it.

“Oh, god!” The words heave out of me in a deep breath, cracking with each syllable. I try to rub my hands up and down against my thighs, but my hands are shaking and I can’t see all that well through my teary vision, I find myself clawing at the fat of my thighs, pressing deeper and deeper until the ache becomes so intense that my fingers stutter and break free.

I don’t think I could speak if I tried. It’s hard to scream when it’s hard to breathe, and my lungs are giving out right in front of me while I wail like a tall child, rocking slightly with each deep breath and the tremble of my joints.

Its dark, orange hues sinking into pitch black lit up by splintered streetlights and yellowed overhead lights shining through windows. The moon casts a streak of light through the glass doors, the same that lead out onto the balcony, and I can see the crescent shapes of my nails tattooed into my skin and red with blood.

Harry’s out getting drunk, probably bent over a pool table or people watching at the outdoor bar on the other side of the resort, and I imagine his velvet laugh hanging in the air and the gentle sound of his hushed dirty jokes whispered in my ears.

I hope he knows that I do love him, I only ever want him around forever, and if I could fix myself in every way to be more fit for you, I would. I just hope that someday he’ll forget all about this, and I could act happy.

“Are you still mad at me?” My arms are tucked over the sheets, hands clasped together and eyes glued to the ceiling, Harry does nothing more than breathe heavily out through his nose beside me in the same position I lay in.

“Harry?” I call again, the shuffle of my head rubbing against the pillow case filling the silence in the room.

It’s nearly the same time as the night before, our last day together spent avoiding speaking to each other, but our longing gazes speak for us, and we both recognize that we miss the company of the other.

“Harry, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to waste any of our time together, I just wasn’t feeling right.” I try to reason, and I don’t think it works until I see his head falling to the side to look at me, his hands unclasping so he can reach up and brush the flyaways out of my face.

“It’s okay.” He tells me with his palm pressed to my cheek, slowly moving to cradle my jawline with his pinky.

He wears a sad smile, one that tells me he’s still bothered. But, unfortunately for him, I’m a sick woman, not a nasty one.

“No, it’s not okay, it’s not and I’m sorry.” Shaking his shoulder with my hand, I find it in my sleep filled bones to pull the sheets off of both of us, slipping over his body to stand by the side of his bed where I start shaking him again.

“It’s not okay so let me make it up to you.” My hands find their way under his arms, trying my best to pull him from the mattress that has been dented with the shapes of our bodies.

He whines, closing his eyes and fighting a smile but doesn’t try to fight against my pull. He falls into my body with a grunt, eyelashes fluttering against my collar bone and the feeling of his lips curling into a secret smile against my shoulder, we both laugh silently, and my hands briefly rub at his back.

“Alright, come on idiot, get up because I’m taking you out. My treat!” Shoving him back into the bed, he bounces against the worn springs and settles back into place, hands folded over his stomach and a toothy grin on his face. I can see how his eyes shift, the same broken eyes from the night before mended into the same green ones I always knew, the same ones that were now subtly shifting around to observe my face, admiring my smile the way I do to him.

“We don’t have all night, come on!” And he’s up, feet padding behind mine with that same lopsided smile he’s worn since we started talking again and the same energy I’ve always known him to have.

We’re out the door within minutes, barely even put together when the door slams shut, just like before only now we’re both rushing down the steps, tripped over the gaps in the stairs and the weeds that grow within the cement.

“Come on, catch up!” I can’t stop laughing, no alcohol in my system and yet I’ve got the same rose colored haze covering my eyes and the same smile that bears all my teeth.

Harry is panting behind me, joking that without his trainer and daily routines he’s lost his touch, his feet slapping the ground with a loud thud every time they connect, breath heavy in my ears.

The moon hangs high in the sky, accompanied by millions of sparkling stars surrounding its welcoming glow and twinkling fairy lights hung from every nearby post to the next. You can yell and scream all you want and the music from the outdoor bar and the hum of the air conditioning will tune you out. It’s like free falling without the bone crush sprinting and weaving through these paths, it feels like living.

In the distance, from across the street just beyond the pools you can hear the music grow louder, my ears picking up on the strumming of a baseline and the tune of an old song that we used to sing not so long ago.

Freddie Mercury’s voice mixed with Bowie is something I believe to be heaven on earth, a mix that can never be over appreciated or overplayed. We’ve caught the beginning of the famous song and we both know it, and without a second glance, Harry smiles at me because he knows it better than anyone that I’ve set my heart on something tonight.

My palms are sweating in the humid summer night heat, but I grab onto Harry’s hand anyways and pull him along with me, only quickly checking both ways for cars as we sprint across the significantly newer cement and laugh. A car’s headlights appear just over the hill and a small blue car speeds past us once we’ve made it up the curb, but I don’t stop.

No, instead I’m turning my whole body to face him, only focused on the curly headed boy who’s held my heart in the palms of his hands since we were only kids running on the blacktop and through the muddy grass at school. I only hear his muffled laughter under the booming music and the crowd that takes up the makeshift dance floor at the bar.

His feet are planted on the floor and I can feel my hands slipping away from his, Freddie sings about the people on the streets, the snaps of the bridge quiet enough for my voice to begin reaching his ears.

“I don’t dance!” He shrugs his shoulders, letting his hands fall to his sides stubbornly as I back away towards the crowd even more, but I stick close by.

“Harry.” Tilting my head, I look at him knowingly. He does dance, within the tiling of my kitchen or the walls of his bedroom, on stage for his fans or at parties after a few too many shots. Harry does dance, he just wont.

“I never, ever dance.” He’s trying to convince me, trying to hide his smile that so desperately wants to break free.

Holding my arms out and moving my body back slowly, I smile at him fondly, “I’m dancing with or without you.” I’m getting farther away now, and he’s stuck in place, watching with his best poker face.

“I told you I love to dance!” Spinning around, I place my hands on my hips and do my worst dancing possible just to see the blush on his face rise into a peachy pink.

“Y/n/n, stop. This is embarrassing.” He tries to keep lying, but his words fade into a weak laugh at the end and his teeth show for just a second too long.

“This is embarrassing?” He knows I don’t believe him, I never did but still I find myself moving closer to the crowd, stepping to the beat and and swaying my hips and shoulders.

When I turn around, he’s looking at me in a way I’ve never seen before, like I’ve hung the sun and the stars all for him and spread them across the sky.

“What? Come on.” My arm slings around his shoulder, pulling him in and trapping him on the dance floor. He finds it funny, all this fight, but he’s breaking down and we both know it.

“Ready?” I tease, holding his biceps in my hands and trying to move in the same way I just was. He tries to tell me to stop, by I don’t pay him any attention as I tell him, “Let’s dance.”

“Stop!” He shoves me back playfully, but his smile is showing all his teeth and his laugh is filled with pure happiness, he doesn’t even try to fight when I pull him back onto the floor, dancing with him with no real rhythm or rules.

I feel his heartbeat against mine, our bodies pressed together tightly as he spins me in his arms like real friends do.

‘Cause loves such an old-fashioned word and love dares you to care for the people(people on the streets) on the edge of the night and love(people on the streets) dares you to change our way of caring about ourselves.

He spins me around and holds my head in his hands, I can smell the toothpaste on his lips and feel the scars from his guitar on his pointer and his thumb.

This is our last dance, this is our last dance

“Have I ever told you I love you?” I scream at him despite how close we are, and the smile he shows me is infectious.

“A few times, yeah!” He jokes, but the music is too good and the night is growing tired. I don’t want this night to end, I want to feel this way forever, I don’t want to have to always chase it.

“Well I mean it, and I’ve never felt this way about anyone else!” He spins for the thousandth time of the night, lifting my head above his just to hear my squeals.

“Consider myself lucky then, because I love you like I’ve loved no one else!” Harry says it, but he says it in a way that feels different than my confession. I hope I can hold onto him forever.

This is ourselves

The camera clicks to a stop, a collection of some stray videos from early high school and a storyline reflecting back on our final trip. The camera still has dents from her careless behavior when storing it away, and the quality of each video feels so much worse without her here to watch and laugh with me. It feels older, I am older.

A year since I’d last seen her, a year since we took separate planes home and promised to visit each other soon. A year since I got that damn letter in the mail taped to a small gift shaped in a crinkly mess from the blue wrapping paper just days after the news broke like some sort of sick joke.

I hate that I can only hear her voice through the salvaged videos, the wind covering the breathiness of her laugh and the calming sound of her voice. I hate the way I’ll never see the way her eyes sparkle under the night skies again, and most importantly I hate how I never saw it coming, even when she was showing me all of the signs.

I don’t think I’ll ever open that letter, not for a while at least, when the pain has settled. But how can it when I’ve just lost my whole life? The only person to ever make me feel alive in a way nobody else ever could, not even the screaming crowds of thousands of fans each night.

But I’ll reread the front of it like a prayer, her messy handwriting something I’ll miss forever, the little notes she’d pass or the drawings in sharpie that left stains behind on my coffee table.

The front of the letter, though crinkled from shipping and losing its stickiness reads, “To Harry, the love of my life, I love you always and forever. Love, y/n.” And just beside her name she leaves a little heart, something to try and lessen the blow of her absence.

And the glasses she sent along with the letter, the last thing she ever gave me. They still have a lingering smell of Italy, but more than that, I convince myself I can still smell her perfume on the plastic. Even when doing one last nice thing to me though, she leaves a little piece of paper taped to the lenses, “They were getting a little gross…try these.” And with snot running down my chin and red blotches of skin from my tears, I find myself laughing at her stupid little insult.

I know I’ll love these forever, and I’ll laugh whenever I put them on, because in my head I can see her taking them off of my head and trying them on, and we’ll both agree that they look better on her.

I hope they never loose her smell, and I hope that I never forget the sound of her voice or the colors in her eyes. She’ll never know about the plans I hoped we’d make, and she’ll never be back to try and embarrass me and dance with me in public.

But sometimes when I’m lucky I get to relive those moments in my sleep, and it’s almost like I can still feel her touch and see her smile even if it’s across some dark bar that never ends.

So I’ll live through her in pieces, telling all those willing to listen her story and how much I’ll always love her. And I’ll hang onto our last dance forever.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #yn x harry #yn x harrystyles #harry styles #harry styles angst #fine line harry styles #hslot harry #harry x reader #aftersun inspired #harrystyles

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steviewashere · 7 months

Text

Dream Come True

Rating: General CW: Minor internalized ableism on Steve's end Tags: Established Relationship, Married Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Future Fic, Adopting a Child, Parenthood, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Let Them Live a Quiet Life God Damn It, Mild Hurt/Comfort

For the @steddielovemonth prompt: "Love is about healing each other's wounds."

💕—————💕

They haven’t discussed children since the second month they were together. Was that probably a little too early in their relationship? Probably—Eddie will be brave enough to admit that right now. But, considering where they’re at now: Steve is forty-seven and Eddie’s forty-eight, their wedding bands are simple and gold (something easily spotted amongst the silver ones that Eddie still wears), the house they took a loan out for is painted yellow with white shutters installed (well, they paid Dustin and Will to do it. They were happy to help), they live in Massachusetts away from public eye, and though they don’t have a dog—not yet, the service dog process has been a long and weary one on Steve’s end—they have their little brown tabby cat. They’ve got a well furnished home. And years of love between them.

Nearly twenty-eight years in total. Nineteen years wedded. Six years of that are legally recognized. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is they stopped talking about the prospect of having kids.

Eddie’s initial answer at the beginning was, “Maybe. I think it would be neat. But, I’m gay, Steve. That isn’t really a possibility.” He chuckled a little bit. “I meant like adopting, but in a technical sense—Considering what’s in my pants, the possibility is still out the window.”

Steve’s was changed from what he told Nancy in that Winnebago. “I still want children. Or, just one. I want a quiet life. Even if you make it as some big rock star, I want a quiet private life.”

It was doable. What Steve had whispered on Eddie’s shoulder, that was doable. The question for years though was, When does he want that? And also, When will he leave to pursue that?

The answer was clear. Steve was never going to pursue that. That, sure, they’d have the quiet life. But never have children. And Eddie saw him wilt a little further and further. When they passed by the playground at the park. The daycare up the street from their home. After the seizure diagnosis, Steve stopped looking and thinking about it all together. It hurt Eddie’s heart.

He may have got the quiet life. And Eddie may have lived out his simple dream. He’d been a rockstar for a little bit in the late nineties and early two-thousands, retiring before they got married. But…Steve hasn’t lived his dream. Eddie hates that he thinks it’s being held back from him. Eddie’s determined to heal that hurt inside him.

——— Steve comes home from his Wednesday teaching shift around four in the evening. Eddie’s already on the couch, combing Poncho’s fur, watching the local news. He’s got a very important print out laid neatly on the coffee table. He hears Steve set down his briefcase on the dining table, his footsteps retreating to their kitchen to rinse out his thermos, coming back to the front door and placing his loafers on the shoe rack, and he hangs up his coat. Then, he enters the living room, hands scrambling to undo his tie, body leaning over the arm of the couch to press a kiss against Eddie’s mouth.

But then he pulls away, turning his whole body to watch the news. And that’s when he spots it. The flyer. He shuffles over on his mismatched socked feet, hands falling away from the collar of his dress shirt. He swipes up the paper. Behind his glasses, he squints.

It’s advertisement for the adoption agency some forty minutes out. Eddie hopes, by everything, that this will heal the pain in his own chest, and the emotional line of thinking in Steve’s brain. Hopes with everything that his body can physically give.

“What’s this about?” Steve asks. His voice is neutral. Almost…dare Eddie say, steely. Okay, maybe he made the wrong move. “We haven’t even—“

“I know,” Eddie immediately says. “I know we haven’t talked about it. But, sweetheart, just listen to me, alright?” At Steve’s confused and hesitant nod, Eddie tries to arrange his words. “This is something you’ve been wanting since forever ago. And I know that I haven’t really voiced my wants on it. But I also thought that it would never happen.

“That it would never be something people like me—“ He raises his eyebrows and points to the keyring attached to Steve’s belt loop. The short rainbow garland that sits discreetly among his keys. “—Would ever get the chance to do. But I—Steve, god, I want it so bad. I want to be able to be a dad and chase around a kiddo of our own while you’re busy at work. I want to see one off for school for their first day and cry like I’ll never see them again. Wanna make them a lunch they can bring to school, the same time that I make your lunch for your school. I want to watch them grow up with your goofy dancing skills and our combined love for music. And I—I want to be a better parent that I could’ve ever imagined.

“I want it with you,” Eddie breathes. “I want all of that with you. And I know that you still want it. Your forlorn looks at couples with babies. Every time you see Lucas and Max and their spitfire teenager, your eyes get this brightness to them that I—I have to be honest, I don’t think I’ve seen you happy like that since we got married.” He swallows at some of the implications there. And it’s not meant to be accusatory, but gosh does Eddie notice. The way his sunflower wilts. “This is just something for you to think about, okay? I know my decision on it. But think about it.”

Steve’s grip on the paper trembles. And his eyes are searing Eddie in a way that melts him. Blazing with adoration and love. “You want that?” He shakily asks. “You want to raise a kid with me?”

Eddie nods. “Yeah, baby. I really, really, really do.”

“Even though…Even though I have seizures that could scare them shitless? And I get so angry some days that all I can do is hide in our bedroom and cry? And I—You want that with somebody like me?” He hesitates to ask again. Eddie doesn’t answer, but his arms open in comfort and his eyes soften with earnest. Steve doesn’t move from his spot, though. He looks back at the paper. “What’s the—Our first step?”

“We apply. And they determine if we’re worthy and that it’ll be safe,” Eddie answers. “If they see us fit, they’ll look at our house and things like that. We’ll come back to that later on. If that’s something you still want.”

“Okay,” Steve states with fervor. “Let’s do this.”

——— After a tedious process, Eddie realizes how correct he was.

It’s a Saturday. The curtains are open. Dinner is simmering on the stovetop. And Eddie stirs the soup while he listens in on Steve’s activity in the living room.

“There you go, sweetheart,” Steve is cooing. “Good job, Carmen. Look at you.” He’s been supervising her tummy time everyday he’s able to. Loves being able to lay on his back on the floor, eyes watching their daughter, his fingers combing through her hair as she uses her wide brown eyes to wonder about the world around her.

Eddie bites back a smile.

“That’s Poncho,” Steve is saying. He’s introducing them like they’re all acquaintances around a water cooler. Eddie, maybe, snickers a little bit behind his hand. “He’s gonna be your buddy. He likes the space between his shoulder blades scratched. Just like you, huh?” And hears the moment that Steve dully traces his fingernails on Carmen’s back. She gurgles a little excited babbling. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” Steve murmurs. “Daddy likes that, too.” He’s talking about himself. Because he practically fought tooth and nail for that title. Eddie wouldn’t have it any other way.

From the kitchen archway, Eddie surveys the display on the living room floor. And Steve’s on his back in his pajamas. Glasses smooshed awkwardly up his face as his cheek is pressed against the carpet, eyes gone soft and glistening while Carmen is on her belly. Her hands are sprawled in front of her, squeezing at the soft toys they had gotten. He’s brushing his fingers through her short, curly wisps of brown hair. Then, his hand travels back down to massage and scratch at her back again. She’s wearing a pink striped onesie and a pair of white socks on her little feet.

He clears his throat to make himself known. Steve looks up at him, softly smiling. “I reckon things are going good in here?” Steve only nods, too enamored with petting at Carmen’s back. Eddie finally smiles at him. “Good,” he whispers. He leans his weight on the doorway. A dish rag thrown over his shoulder, arms crossed low over his belly, hair thrown up in a loose bun on his head. Domestic life has really begun to suit him, if he’s honest. He finds himself at ease about it now.

As he turns back to the kitchen, to serve up their bowls of soup, Steve calls his name. He immediately turns back around. Greeted with his husband’s soft face, his deepened smile lines, his messy hair spread on the carpet. He’s more youthful than ever, fatherhood has changed him for the better, at least Eddie thinks so. He hums to see what Steve needs, because by god, he’ll do anything for him.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers.

“For what?”

“Making my hurt go away,” Steve says. But Eddie’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. And Steve clarifies, “Allowing me to accomplish my final dream. I’m really happy that it’s with you.”

Eddie crosses into the living room, crouching down to kiss Steve’s forehead, pecking Carmen’s soft head, too. He combs his own fingers through Steve’s hair. Smiling at the way he keens. “You made me believe that I could be a good dad,” he admits. “I can’t wait to do this right.”

Steve brings a hand to Eddie’s cheek. His index finger softly tracing down the side of his face. “Love you,” he murmurs.

Turning his face, Eddie kisses the tip of Steve’s finger. “Love you, too,” Eddie easily says in return.

Sure, he got to be a rockstar, but he thinks that this life—Steve soft and middle aged and smiling at him, petting down their daughter’s back, cooing soft as if he’s not almost fifty—is much better than anything he could’ve ever dreamed. Maybe filling the hole in Steve’s soul, the remedy that their daughter brings—Maybe that heals something for Eddie, too.

💕—————💕

#stranger things #steddie #fanfiction #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddielovemonth #day 16 #domestic fluff #domestic steddie #fluff

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vaaaaaiolet · 5 months

Text

click any title for tags + scroll to the end for drabbles and more!

one shots:

line connects

Good thing your doctor's always on speed dial for your health scares, but can he help you out of this one?

eyes on my baby [nsfw]

When you run out of his work summit on the brink of tears, you can't believe that Leon hasn't picked up on how he hurt you. His only option is to apologize, but you're not listening to a word he says. So he'll just have to make you watch.

flight risk

Left to his own devices during an international flight, Leon reflects on the most recent failure in his life: screwing over his airport crush. Said crush might also happen to be seated a couple rows ahead.

my true love gave to me: a catastrophe

Leon's got a week to buy his office crush the most non-lame Secret Santa gift ever. He also happens to be the worst gift giver in the world. What's a guy to do?

good samaritan [nsfw]

Leon gives beyond what's asked of him at both work and home, in excess. He's stressed, overworked; worrying you sick. So you teach him how to take. More or less.

american jesus. [nsfw]

Why choose between riding a cowboy, a stallion, or an Italian when you can have all three? In which you find competition for the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost in the American West.

RE: You Don't Know My Name

A broken backspace key, two rival magazines, and love letters sent through email. It’s the 2000's and Raccoon Mag’s prize photojournalist lands himself a secret admirer. You.

susurri / whisper [nsfw]

He’s away on a mission, but you can’t get him out of your head. Like he’s whispering from miles away. You can't bear how Leon’s presence haunts you. And then one night, you snap.

bulletproof, baby!

You take it upon yourself to spice up your husband's work lunches at Rebecca's encouragement, and Leon nearly dies in the process. Is Hello Kitty really a killer? Leon, for one, is convinced she's up to no good.

a story where no one goes anywhere

“This story is about a girl, and a boy who loved her very much.” Leon keeps his best tales under lock and key, and you crack one out of him on a particularly sleepless night. He thinks you might like this one. read cressie's INCREDIBLE continuation

got me overnight, just let me be close to you [nsfw]

Leon's not very good at staying out of business concerning you, especially not when you call him late at night crying over your shitty on-and-off boyfriend. Feelings get involved, and he finds out he has quite a sticky finger when it comes to phone calls.

nineteen ninety-nine [nsfw]

September 30th, 1998. Your world ended with Leon's death, or so you thought. Or alternatively, how you spent two decades of your life tied to a man full of secrets who can't love you how you want him to.

series:

sketches for my sweetheart the drunk

a collection of bite-sized fics: sweet, salty, and something for everyone. all are individually wrapped and labeled. i write these drabbles in between my other work! if it’s under 1k words and/or not listed above, it's here :)

and they were roommates! (hiatus)

You move to the big city in search of bigger and better, so naturally, you get your first place. You just don't anticipate the roommate that comes along with it.

misc:

pool afternoon ft. aftercare + cuddles moodboard

the eternal question: boobs or ass? [nsfw]

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x y/n #vaaaaaiolet

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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 4 months

Text

Reckoner: Final Part

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.3k

Summary: Your world is turned upside down when you get in trouble for something you didn't even do. The entire team is in uproar over this but Hotch says he will take care of it. Can he? Or are you doomed to live out the rest of your days in misery?

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them.

Thankfully, the team has the current case to keep them occupied so they don't think about you, but Spencer doesn't have that outlet. He's stuck in Penelope's office forced to think about you, what you might be going through, how you must be feeling, and how he can't do anything about it. He's bouncing his leg up and down rapidly because his anxiety is spiking. He would bite his nails if they hadn't already been bitten down to the nub.

"Spence, why don't you take a walk? I'm sure it'll do good to clear your head," Penelope suggests.

"No, thanks."

She sighs and turns back to the computer screens before calling Rossi. She's been working hard on her end to try and figure out who The Planner is.

"What do you have?" Rossi answers.

"I've concentrated on the last three cases because they left the freshest e-prints. However, over a hundred thousand cases pass through the Long Island Court."

"Who had eyes on the files?"

"Literally hundreds of people."

"Change track. Focus on The Enforcer. Look at mob-related murder trials on Long Island over the last ten years. We're looking for a hitman."

Penelope types quickly and comes up with a shorter list, albeit still long.

"There are over ninety-three mob trials in the last ten years."

"Put aside any trials that resulted in a conviction. Weed out mistrials and arraignments."

"Nineteen."

"Were any of those on trial suspected of being hitmen or enforcers?"

"Three, but I got something else here. Tony Mecacci's case was judged a mistrial but check out his suspected victim."

She sends over the file immediately so they can look it over. His victims are the same as the team's current victims. All were shot in the same style as the ones on the file.

".22 caliber, right?"

"Bulls-eye."

"Cross-match our profile of The Planner against all those connected with this trial."

Penelope continues to type as she speaks.

"Let's see here. We have prosecuting lawyer Garret Daniels, Judge Boyd Schuller, criminal defense lawyer Paul--"

"Wait, did you say Judge Shuller?" Rossi cuts her off.

"Yeah, I'm sending over a photo."

Rossi waits for the photo to come through so he can confirm whether or not he knows this person. He does.

"What's wrong?" Hotch asks. "Do you know him?"

"No, but I knew his wife. Two years ago, she was driving home from work and was killed by a drunk driver."

"That could be the tragedy."

"She was the love of his life, that's for sure."

Penelope digs into the Judge's life to see what kind of dirty secrets he has.

"Twelve months ago, Judge Shuller took a leave of absence due to health issues. He was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He has six months to live. That's when the killings started."

"You don't seriously think Judge--"

"Judge Schuller is the planner. Yes, I do," Rossi cuts off the detective. "It fits the profile, and Tony Mecacci is most likely Bosola the Enforcer. What have you got on Bosola?"

"He went off the grid after his last trial," Penelope answers.

"JJ put out a statewide APB and release Mecacci's photo to the media," Hotch orders, and she leaves to do it.

"Judge Schuller's a highly-respected man. We can't just walk in there and accuse him of serial murder."

"Then I'll go to the attorney general and petition the Chief Justice if I have to."

Rossi looks behind Hotch to see Judge Schuller walk right into the police station as if he knew the team was talking about him.

"Maybe not."

"I believe you're looking for me," the Judge says.

Judge Schuller is taken to an interrogation room to be questioned by Rossi and Derek.

"You know we have to advise you of your rights," Derek says and sits across from him.

"I waive my constitutional rights against self-incrimination."

"When you walked in here, you said, 'I believe you're looking for me'."

"Yes."

"Your timing was impeccable, but how could you know that?"

"I knew it wouldn't take you long to find me. Not after what I've left behind."

"So, you don't deny any of this?" Derek asks.

"Why would I? What you see as a crime, I see as justice."

"Ray Finnegan was a friend of mine," Rossi glares.

"Ray Finnegan was a criminal. You should choose your friends more wisely."

"It must have really thrown you when Ray showed up at Emma's funeral."

This pisses Judge Schuller off, and he slams his hands angrily onto the table.

"How do you know about my wife?"

"You have absolutely no idea who I am, do you?"

Ray told Rossi that everyone only meets Bosola once. That means Judge Schuller had to have given Bosola a list of names. He would never have to meet him again, just to make final payments on proof of death which he can send electronically. If anyone can get into Schuller's personal files and financial record, it would be Penelope. She has to do it quickly before everything gets shut down.

Detective Gill made a call to Schuller's office a few hours ago and told them they had two suspects, which means he knows what the police know. Schuller knows the FBI is onto him, which means he didn't come here for a confession. He has a list, and there is more to come.

He came here to stall.

"Can we just get on with what I came here for?" Judge Schuller sighs.

"Why? So Bosola can go on and carry on whatever it is you asked him to do? No. You call him and you end this," Derek says.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't."

"She was born Emma Louise Taylor on the 4th of July, 1958," Rossi reminisces.

"You could get that from anywhere," Schuller glares at Rossi.

"When she was six, her dad bought her a black and white homeless kitten."

"No, if she knew you, she would have told me."

"She named it Oscar," Rossi continues, "after Oscar Wilde. Out of all of Oscar's work, she loved an ideal husband the most."

The judge is getting angrier by the minute the longer Rossi talks about his wife.

"I don't know how you know all of this about Emma or what you hope to achieve, but we're done. You know the charges. Charge me."

"Is that what started all this insanity? Emma's death?"

"What started all of this was the thirty-five years I had to sit and watch as the system I swore an oath to protect failed the very people our justice system was meant to protect!"

"I wonder what Emma would make of all this."

"Every single person on that list deserves justice, and it's justice they managed to evade," Schuller shouts.

"So, you do have a list?" Rossi smirks.

"I'm finished talking."

Rossi and Derek continue to work over Judge Schuller while Emily is in another room talking to Penelope over video chat. Spencer isn't in the room because she managed to convince him to take a lap or two around the building to clear his head or try to.

"Hey, where's Spence? How is he doing?" Emily asks when she notices the lack of Spencer's presence.

"He's not doing too good. He doesn't have the hands-on work like you guys have to keep him distracted. It's killing him knowing Y/N's in jail for something she didn't do."

"Yeah, I know. It's hard on us, too. We don't talk about it but I know we're all thinking about it. Hotch will fix it once we're back, I know it."

"Yeah, me too."

"So, what did you find out about Judge Schuller?"

"We've got loads of two-way traffic going on, which means someone is trying to bounce us out."

"Okay, Bosola doesn't come cheap, so Judge Schuller had to have made some pretty substantial transactions."

"I've got wire transfers to a Cayman Island bank, and that's where the trace ends."

"How many and how much?"

"In June, he debits numerations of nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine dollars every few days four separate times. Then, he takes a break for a few weeks until he makes his final transaction for the same magic number. Anything less than ten thousand dollars keeps the IRS off your trail."

"So, the final payment must be for proof of death. That makes fifty-thousand dollars the price of a kill."

"He did that three times over a period of twelve months, but two days ago, he raised his account for a hundred thousand dollars all in one hit. He also closed all his accounts and handed his entire estate over to a victim's support group." Penelope gasps in shock and groans in frustration. "Someone who isn't suffering from too many brainiacs in the high-tech kitchen just bounced us out."

"Good job," Emily praises and hangs up. She returns to Hotch to tell him her findings. "If our calculations are correct, there are two more names on that list."

"There are."

Hotch replays the footage from the interrogation from when Emily was on the phone with Penelope.

"Every single person on that list deserves justice," Judge Schuller says and looks at his watch yet again.

"He said deserves, not deserved. Look right there. He looks at his watch for the second time. Whatever he's waiting for is about to happen."

"I don't think you knew Emma at all," Rossi continues to antagonize him. "At least not the one I knew. I made an excuse for myself that I wouldn't be welcome at her funeral. The truth is, I couldn't face it."

"You knowing Emma changes nothing."

"Oh, but it does. Emma changed the lives of everyone she knew, but at least Ray and I saw her death for what it truly was--a tragic accident."

"Dan Patton was drunk. He murdered Emma as surely as if he put a gun to her head!" Judge Schuller yells.

"Is that why his photo's not here? You're saving the best for last? How many other people have you targeted? I want the truth."

"I have nothing more to say."

"I do. I ran into Emma a few years ago at a hotel in Manhattan. I was working on a case and so was she. I knew she was married, but I didn't care."

Judge Schuller knows what Rossi is implying and he refuses to accept that his wife was cheating on him.

"No, she wouldn't... Emma would not do that to me. You're lying."

"Am I?"

"I want the truth."

"You first."

The Judge sighs knowing he's cornered and decides to give it up.

"Dan Patton is the last one. There are no more. Now, tell me the truth."

"That night in Manhattan, she told me our connection was so strong that it could never happen only once, and I was fine with that."

Rossi leaves with a smirk on his face, and the judge is shocked. He shakes his head and looks at Derek who is still seated.

"At least you now know what kind of man you're working with."

"What kind of man are you?"

"I've had enough of seeing the guilty walk free of their sins."

"What about your sins?"

"I got cancer for mine."

Emily, Hotch, and Detective Gil went to Dan's apartment after checking the police department he works for. Turns out Bosola got to him before the FBI could. They found him with two bullet holes, one in the heart and one in the head, but also beaten to death. Bosola is nowhere to be found because he killed him and left immediately after like a professional hitman.

There's no way Bosola is getting off Long Island since the FBI has all ports, roads, and airports guarded to make sure he doesn't get away. Judge Schuller is being moved somewhere safer because he is a high-court judge, which makes this a federal case now. The FBI is taking over this one before more people get killed. If Dan is dead, then the judge's list is complete.

However, something isn't adding up.

The Judge gave away his entire estate and all his money, and he closed out his accounts and paid off his utility bills. He has cancer but he has six months left to live. Why would he pay off his bills now and give away everything he owns? Not to mention the one hundred thousand dollar payment for not one but two more kills. If Dan was killed, then there should be one more.

Usually, the judge waits for confirmation of death before sending the payment, but he knew he wasn't going to be around to see this last proof of death. He sent everything over because he was not making it ten feet out of the police station.

Bosola has one more kill to make before moving on to another client, and it's Judge Schuller himself. With a crowd of reporters and a bunch of bystanders, it's easy for him to blend into the crowd. He managed to shoot Schuller in the heart and escape without anyone seeing him.

Case closed. With that major distraction out of the way, everyone is now focused on you and your situation. No one has said a word or talked about it since Hotch arrived in Long Island, but he's been making calls since getting on the plane to figure out what he can do to help you out.

The first person to get back to him is the lawyer that your dad snagged for you. He got ahold of his contact information and asked nicely to be let into the loop since he is your boss.

"Steven? Did you hear anything?" Everyone knows what Hotch is talking about so they stop what they're doing and listen to his side of the conversation. Hotch looks visibly upset which isn't a good sign. "Are you sure? ... There's nothing you can do for her? ... What about bail? ... Is there anything I can do? ... Okay. I appreciate you calling me. Thanks."

"What did he say?" Derek is the first to ask.

Hotch looks down and tries to keep the anger and frustration off his face as much as he can. When he feels he's neutral, he looks up and addresses the team.

"Y/N is being transferred to Virginia Correctional Center for Women in Goochland awaiting trial and bail. He said they have everything they need to convict her, and it's not looking good. Whoever did this really wants her to suffer for it."

Everyone is sent into silence because no one can believe this.

"I have always found that mercy bears richer fruit than strict justice." - Abraham Lincoln

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds angst #criminal minds series rewrite #criminal minds season 5

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agustdiv1ne · 1 year

Note

hi!! congrats on 3k <3

for the event, could i request taehyun + twilight + fluff/smut

tysm! and congrats again!!

NOW SHOWING...

pairing: kang taehyun x fem!reader

genre: fantasy/supernatural, fluff, smut

wc: 2.8k

details + warnings: mdni, vampire!taehyun + human!mc are not representative of any particular characters they're just vibing in the twilightsphere, taehyun (looks-wise,,) + mc are in their early twenties, sex in the great outdoors, dom!tae, sub!mc, mc is kind of a masochist LOL, light spanking (f receiving), praise, thigh riding, face sitting, tae calls mc: baby

note: thank you nonnie!! i hope you enjoy :))

you maybe, kind of, sort of hate the town that is forks, washington.

forks, in your honest opinion, is...painfully gray. clouds constantly hide the sun from view. it is almost always raining. fog is the norm, not the exception. the real cherry on top is how the town is blocked in and divvied up by expanses of creepy trees of which you have no desire to step even a single toe into. it's dreary, it's boring, it's weird — and it's just all too fucking gray.

you wonder what your life would be like if you had left while you could, if you had uprooted your life and attended college in some state far, far away, if you had gotten a degree and become a teacher or an artist or even some bigshot lawyer. maybe you wouldn't be wasting the years of your youth in your parents' little diner. maybe you wouldn't be stuck with the indelible expectation that said diner will be yours one day, hanging dark and heavy over your head like the storm clouds that loom over your house ninety-nine percent of the year.

then again, if you had left, you would never have met taehyun.

he moved into town when you were nineteen, an age at which you were hard-headed and bitter because everyone else your age had already moved on to bigger and better things while you were abysmally stuck like a tire in mud. you felt abandoned, alone, and you saw yourself in him because he, too, seemed to have no one else.

at the same time, you also thought he was a little strange — stoic, reserved, out at odd hours of the night — but you couldn't really judge, lest you sound like a raging hypocrite. you remember the first time that you saw him: it was well after midnight, you had just closed the the diner, and the streets were eerily empty — yet there he stood, across the street, turned away towards the tree line. he seemed to have been watching something in the woods, but as soon as he picked up on the crunch of your shoes against the gravel parking lot and saw you behind him, he fled, gone as quick as lightning. you almost thought that he was a figment of your imagination, that you were finally losing it after your nearly lethal consumption of caffeine that night.

however, after that incident, he began to show up during your shifts, sitting in the far corner of the small space for hours, answering your questions with curt nods and quiet hums. very real, very much not a hallucination. he never ordered anything other than a water, and his eyes often stayed trained on the woods that lay just outside the windows. watching, waiting (for what, you didn't know, but you didn't really care to find out). though the fact that he never once ordered something — not even a basket of fries, or a milkshake — irritated you to no end, but you bit your tongue like a good waitress had to and allowed him to sit there. not many people stopped by at such late hours, anyway, and maybe his presence cured some of your loneliness; he wasn't good company, by any means, but company nonetheless.

one particular night, a few months after he began to come in, things simply weren't going your way. if the argument between you and your parents before your night shift started wasn't enough, you burned your forearm when you accidentally spilled a pot of coffee and slipped and fell onto the unforgiving linoleum floors while carrying two plates of food. by the time he showed up, you were in the middle of a full-blown mental breakdown and could barely hold back tears as you greeted him at his normal booth.

“are you okay?” he had asked, his eyebrows furrowed, betraying his typically apathetic expression. in response, you burst into tears, apologizing as you attempted to run to the back, but he stopped you, his ice-cold fingers looped around your wrist. the sensation sent shivers straight down your spine, something that you can still vividly remember. you whipped around to face him. his wide, carob eyes cut through you with an intensity that you’d never experienced before. “sit. with me, i mean.”

“i-i’m working,” you choked out.

his lips formed a flat line. “no one else is here.”

“fine,” you mumbled, taking a seat on the other side of the booth. he had let you vent about everything and anything that plagued you, silent while he listened. the words he spoke once you finally exhausted yourself stick in your mind to this very day.

“it’s never too late to start carving your own path, y’know. you’re young, you have time.”

things changed after that night. a friendship bloomed, then a relationship began after about six months of knowing each other. things changed again, however, growing strange once you did begin dating. he made constant excuses as to why he couldn't sleep over and why you couldn't come over to his place; he didn't touch you often; and the weirdest of all his habits: he never, ever went anywhere near your neck, whether it be with his hands or his lips. loneliness and the acrid feeling of being unwanted returned in full force, nipping at each and every nerve within your body.

sick of it all, you eventually confronted him about it during a picnic date in a large clearing one evening. naturally, when your boyfriend admitted to you that he's a vampire — in the middle of the woods — and showed you his sparkling fucking skin, you were freaked the hell out. yet, in the end, it didn't scare you away, especially once he said that he only ever fed from animals he'd find in the woods. you cared for him just as much as he cared for you — human or not, you decided that you loved him either way.

(also, he'd always seemed a little off, other. maybe you were a little satisfied to know that you were right, but you'd never admit to that.)

nearly two years have passed since then, and while your feelings about forks haven't changed in the slightest, taehyun brings an ironic sense of life to the dismal little town.

“you’re staring.”

you feel your face heat up at your boyfriend’s words, your gaze immediately diverting away. you were not staring, no way. though he moves to find your eyes again, you maneuver out of his hold, now glaring at a spot on his shoulder. “no, i wasn’t.”

“aaand your heart rate just picked up.”

“you’re so unfair,” you hiss. “just— just keep your stupid vampire senses to yourself!”

he laughs, the sound light and melodic, as he attempts to wrap his arms around you again. you've turned away from him, arms crossed over your chest and in a state of faux despondency. he knows just how to press your buttons; the fact that he can pick up on each and every minute change of your heart rate and scent will forever be something that gets to you. you can't hide anything from him, and both of you know it.

you feel like you spend every waking hour with taehyun nowadays. if you're not working, you're with him doing fuck all just to spend time with each other, but even in the most mundane moments, boredom never becomes an issue. even right now, as you lay together in this small clearing in the forest, simply talking and staring up at the pewter clouds, everything feels...right? complete? you think that's the word that you should use — like the final piece being placed into a puzzle.

“c’mon, you can’t stay mad at me,” he goads. he blows into your ear afterward to make you flinch, earning a yelp in response. “you just make it so easy to tease you.”

“yeah, yeah. make fun of the defenseless human,” you sigh, turning back around to face him with pursed lips, delivering a firm poke to his forehead. “you’re lucky that you’re pretty.”

if he had said anything similar to you a couple years ago, you would've likely stormed off and ignored him for hours. you're not proud of how you once acted, but at least you've grown softer around the edges over the years. kinder, less resentful. and rather than tear your walls down, he scaled them slowly and met you at the top, took them apart brick by incorporeal brick as the trust between you grew, gentle and never prying.

one of his eyebrows raises. “pretty, hm? is that all i am to you?”

pretending to think, you tap your chin, your eyes shifting up towards the sky. you've grown softer, no doubt, but your witty edge refuses to disappear. how else could you keep up with him?

you make eye contact with him again, finding an expectant glint in them. you can barely bite back the smirk fighting to pull at your lips. “hmm...yeah, i think that’s about it.”

“you are such a brat, my god,” he groans, head falling against your chest. “is your life goal just to rile me up?”

“honestly? yeah. it’s just so easy to tease you,” you throw his earlier jeer straight back into his face, but the words are soon followed by a series of shrieks as he pushes you onto your stomach, unfazed by your feeble attempts to break away from his inhumanly strong hold. a hand leaves your wriggling waist to deliver a light slap to your ass. it’s careful, barely there. he knows how much more fragile you are compared to him, after all. the last thing he’d want to do is hurt you.

what he doesn't account for is the way you'd moan at the sensation.

a tense silence overtakes the air around you, the only noises remaining being the rustle of trees and the chirping of birds. you've all but buried your head into your arms. although your current position renders him unable to catch your flustered expression, your scent — fuck, your scent has changed, something heady and sweet and it's almost as if he can taste the lust and need rolling off of your form. your blood rushes faster beneath your skin, the erratic ba-bump of your heart loud in his ears. he pushes his base instincts down; he's better than this. he can't hurt you — he won't.

“you— did you like that?” he carefully asks, a gentle hand pressing into the middle of your spine. it’s not often you find each other in spontaneous intimate moments, mostly due to his fear of losing control, but your trust in him is immutable. in the span of two years, he has not once hurt you — but you still find yourself shaking your head in denial, the embarrassing heat gracing your cheeks keeping you from looking at him. he won’t hurt you, you know that, but that doesn’t change just how mortifying this moment is. you and him haven’t explored this part of your sexuality yet, the hidden side of you that enjoys a little pain amongst all the pleasure. it’s something that you’ve barely touched upon yourself.

taehyun, on the other hand, isn't satisfied with your answer. a morbid curiosity eats at his nerves, and he can't help himself from gathering you into his lap so that you straddle his hips. you are wearing a thick pair of jeans today, but it's not enough to prevent your scent from overwhelming his senses further due to your spread apart thighs. he steels himself, trying not to press the pads of his fingers into your hips too hard. you still refuse to look at him, your head hanging low and bottom lip tucked beneath your teeth. he brings a hand to your chin, tilting your head up. your eyes divert to his shoulder under his intense gaze.

“look at me, baby,” he orders softly. he watches a shudder run through you before you listen to him. the muscles of your throat contract as you gulp, though his expression remains neutral, his fingers squeezing your chin. “i’m going to ask you one more time: did you like that? did it feel good?”

inhale, exhale, nod.

his lips purse. “words, baby.”

“y-yes,” you whisper, weak and breathy, like you don’t want to admit it to yourself either. it earns you a quiet “good girl” and his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

taehyun stares at you for a moment before he asks, “do you trust me?”

of course you do, and you tell him just that, pulling a smile from him. “i want you to take your jeans and panties off for me, okay?”

you nod, rolling off his lap with shaky limbs and removing everything below your waist. the chilly air nips at your bare skin.

he takes no time in maneuvering you back onto his lap, legs straddling only one of his thighs now. you send him a questioning glance, with which he responds by rubbing soothing circles against your bare hips beneath your oversized sweater.

“get yourself off on my thigh,” he encourages. he doesn’t trust himself to be inside of you right now — he’s barely keeping it together as it is — but that won’t stop him from making you feel good.

you're silent as you take an experimental roll of your hips. the friction of your clit against the rough fabric of his jeans causes your mouth to fall open. you press your hands against his chest, grinding down again. and again. and again. the picnic blanket below you digs into your knees. taehyun grabs your hips a little tighter, beginning to help you move your hips faster, pressing you down harder. his grip is nearly bruising, but the ache that it brings renders you speechless, unable to speak besides the quiet gasps that you let out. quickly, you grow lost in the pleasure, the delicious friction against your clit growing more intense as the seconds tick by.

smack! taehyun brings a hand down against the swell of your ass, much harder than the teasing one he gave you earlier. you jolt on top of him with a loud moan, clenching around nothing. “tae— fuck!”

“yeah? what is it, baby?” he coos, slapping his palm down again. he’s barely breathing, monitoring your expression to make sure he’s not hurting you too much. but all he finds is pure, unadulterated pleasure, your head thrown back and your eyes fluttering as your movements grow more desperate. his head grows fuzzy at your strengthening scent.

“gonna— ‘m gonna cum, please,” you whine, nails now digging into his chest. you look like pure sin, with your flustered face and heaving chest and your glazed over eyes straight into his. “please please please—”

he can't take it anymore.

suddenly, your body careens through the air before you can even process it, your thighs now cushioning taehyun's face while he fully lays back. he gives you no time to complain of your ruined orgasm, his lips suckling your clit while his tongue circles the weeping bud. your hands grab at his hair, pressing down. there's no way that you can hurt him, so you allow yourself to grind down on his face like you did his thigh, using his face as your own personal toy. he gropes your ass all the while, pushing you further down against him until you smother him, ravaging you whole. you can no longer hold in your moans, and they only serve to spur him on. one of his razor-sharp teeth slides against your lower lips, and that's enough for your high to wash over you, your vision flashing white while you quake above him. he holds you up with strong hands, continuing to tongue at your clit until you're pushing his head away.

“tae, stop,” you beg while he cleans you up, ignoring your heightened sensitivity. “tae.”

“fine, fine,” he mumbles once he pulls his mouth away from your center. “can’t help it, you taste good.”

“quit being embarrassing,” you groan, your submissive tendencies all but gone. you struggle to lift yourself off of him and wiggle your jeans back on. he ends up helping you, patting your ass when you’re all done. you slap his chest, but you lean up and press your lips to his anyway. pulling away, you slide a hand under his sweatshirt. above, beams of sunlight break through the thick clouds, illuminating his skin. biting back a smirk, you rub a thumb over his cheek where it shines.

“take me home,” you purr. “we’re not done yet.”

you're careening through the woods moments later.

3k event masterlist | masterlist

#txt smut #taehyun smut #txt x reader #taehyun x reader #txt fluff #taehyun fluff #txt imagines #taehyun scenarios #txt hard thoughts #txt hard hours #agust.nsfw #3k milestone celebration #💌 — tyun

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doe-eyed-fool · 8 months

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Fallen {Chapter Five}

Alastor x (fem)Reader

Finally I turn to face Alastor, his eyes seemed to be focused on Husk's. There was an intimidating aura radiating off of him, as if he dared Husk to question things any more than he already has. After another second, Husk huffed and turned his back to Alastor, his attention on the various liquors on the shelf.

"Whatever you say." He shrugs. Alastor seemed to be satisfied with that answer and then looked at me. "Y/n dear, Charlie wants to have a word with you." He tells me. "

About what?" I asked, standing from the bar seat. "Something about your rehabilitation plan." I nod my head before Alastor began to lead me off. As we left, Husk turned his head to glance at me, shaking his head before getting back to work.

The walk to Charlie's office was quiet, I stole a few glances Alastor's way. He kept his gaze forwards, his grin ever present. Though he was a infamously feared demon, he carried himself with the grace of a proper gentleman.

His posture straight, arms folded behind his back, and head held high. I had half a expected someone with his reputation, to be a brute. A feral beast. And yet, he here he was, behaving like a normal person.

Well, sorta. I could tell there was nothing but malicious intent in those eyes of his. He was a demon after all.

"Do I catch your eye?" Alastor's voice snapped me back to reality. I had been staring for a while. I quickly look away and ahead. "Uh. Well, I've never seen a demon before." I answer honestly. "And you have dear ears. And the antlers too...And you're tall too." I mutter.

Alastor chuckled. "Would you believe it if I said I was shorter in my living days?" I glance at him. "Yes, I was around hm...five foot six before I awoke in hell. And now, I'm a strapping six and a half feet tall!" He says, a bit of smugness in his tone.

I hummed. "How long have you been in hell?" I asked. His staticky voice, and ways of talking made me believe that he was from the "old days". But I didn't want to assume, so why not ask? "Ninety years or so, give or take. Took my last breath in nineteen thirty three." He explains.

"Oh, and by the way." Alastor starts. "I haven't said anything to Charlie about your "sins" that caused you to end up here. She did ask, however, I held my tongue. I'm sure you wouldn't have liked what I would have came up with anyway."

I couldn't disagree with that. "Well, I've already made up my mind about it." I tell him. "Husk asked me and I just came up with theft." A huffed laugh escaped Alastor. "Much tamer than what I would have said. But it will do." I roll my eyes. Finally we reached Charlie's office, Alastor knocked on the door. Within a few seconds the door opened, revealing the princess.

She smiled upon seeing me. "Hey Y/n! Ready for your recovery plan?" I nod my head and put on a false smile. I was the last of the select few in the hotel that needed a recovery plan, but it wasn't like I had any say in it.

Charlie let us both inside, I took a seat in front of her desk, while Alastor chose to stand next to me. Charlie sits down at the chair of her desk, pen in hand and ready to write. "Alright. Now, what sin did you commit while you were alive?" She asks. "Theft." I answer, choosing to ignore the slight shake of the head from Alastor.

"What did you primarily steal?" She asks me. "Uh, money. That was what I was mostly after." I lie. "Is there any particular reason why you felt the need to steal money?" Charlie questions.

"Well, I grew up poor so I guess I just got tired of having no money." Charlie nods, taking in my words. "Did you buy any materialistic things with it?" I just nod my head. Charlie moves the pen up to her chin and bummed as she thought.

After a moment she began to write something down on a clipboard. "Ok, I recommend starting with giving back instead of taking from others. Perhaps you can provide a little community service or volunteer work."

She continues. "You don't have to do anything major right away. Maybe just start with the little things. Say someone drops their wallet, pick it up and give it back to them. Or, donate some old clothes to those who are in need of them. Then, maybe you can steadily work your way up to cleaning up parks and donating a bit of money to charity. Fairly earned money that is. Nothing stolen."

All I could do was nod along. I still couldn't believe the princess of hell was so caring and nice. Recommending I do little things to better hell. It sounded unheard of, but her enthusiasm and infectious good attitude made it seem possible.

I glance over to Alastor, he didn't seem to being paying attention. "And of course, this optional but. Promoting the hotel in a positive light would really help a lot. The more people we can get to try redemption, the better." She says with a bright smile.

"I believe in you Y/n. Before you know it, you're gonna be in heaven with all the angels!" I was in heaven with all the angels, until I was forced down here with no explanation as to why. Charlie gave me a few more pointers before she excuse me and Alastor. We walked out of the office and down the hall.

Along the way, I gave more thought to Charlie's advice. Maybe this recovery plan would help me in the end after all. I mean, doing good in the worst place imaginable could prove to be beneficial. Maybe this was my ticket back into heaven.

But then again, the more I thought about it, it seemed ultimately pointless. I haven't committed a sin to need redemption. At least, I hope I didn't. My memory was blank to what happen before I woke up in hell.

One minute I was in heaven, the next I was here. It just didn't make any sense. However, I'm not in much of a position to be picking and choosing how I return to heaven.

I was willing to do just about anything to go back, even if it meant pretending to be someone I'm not. I sighed softly before speaking. "Guess I should get out there and spread some joy." I mutter. "You're really going to do that?" Alastor asks me.

I shrug. "Might as well. If it'll get me into heaven, I'll do it." The demon chuckled. "You trying to help out the sinners of hell, is sure to be quite entertaining." He says with a grin. I roll my eyes. Right, that part of the deal still stands.

My struggle is sure to bring him much delight. We made our way to the lobby, I walk to the front door, only noticing Alastor wasn't following me as I stepped outside. I turn my head towards him expectantly. "I thought you were coming with me?"

"Oh I can't just walk out there with you, I'm an overlord dear. One look at me and those fools will be sent running for the hills with their tails tucked between their legs." He takes a step next to me, leaning down to whisper in my ear.

"But make no mistake, I will be watching you." A shiver ran down my spine, I quickly step away from him. I clear my throat before turning away from him.

"S-Suit yourself." I say before walking down the stairs of the hotel. When I got to the bottom of the few stairs, I look up at the blood red sky. Then I gaze ahead at the streets, filled with sinners passing by. A shaky sigh left me. "Let's get this over with."

#alastor x reader #alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #charlie morningstar #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel

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queermania · 2 years

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Ok so I have a real question not trying to start discourse or any thing. If Dean knew how he felt about Cas slash knew he liked men why was he always so weird about gay people. I can see a reading where Dean knew how he felt about Cas but not one where he knew he was bi

this is totally a fair question and i don't think there's any one True reading or interpretation of the show/characters so it really just depends on what version of events resonates the most with you. the way the picture makes the most sense to me is that dean is a guy who was raised in the 80s-90s in a hyper-masculine environment with zero stability. i think all of those puzzle pieces slotted into place in his brain in a way that said "sex with men is okay, feelings are not." a furtive hookup with a dude in a seedy bar bathroom is fine. going on a date with a guy is prohibited.

and the thing is that this is kind of true for dean when it comes to women as well. a one night stand is a-okay. falling in love and settling down is not. so, you take that sort of mentality and then apply all the homophobia of growing up in the eighties and the nineties and a life lived out of a car bouncing between truck stops and, well, you get a dean who is absolutely flabbergasted when confronted with the fact that not only are you allowed to want something romantic with a man, you're allowed to say it out loud to other people. you're allowed to have it.

dean wasn't weird about gay people, necessarily. he was weird about people who were able to just be themselves. he didn't know that was an option. also, i don't know about y'all but as a queer person who doesn't necessarily read as queer at a glance, i too get Very Awkward when confronted with another queer person in the wild and it's not because i'm homophobic. it's because oh! new friend! must send telepathic signals that me queer too! my behavior around other queer people in queer spaces does not match my behavior around other queer people in random public spaces. i'm embarrassing and i see that part of myself in dean lol.

and dean being weird about other people making comments about his perceived queerness, to me, is a very normal reaction for a closeted person (or even someone who is selectively and/or quietly out). you can be perfectly at peace with who you are and still not want to be clocked. like???? homophobia is not a thing of the past. dean grew up during the AIDS crisis. he was, what? nineteen years old when matthew sheppard was killed? his reactions to people insinuating he might be anything even close to queer make perfect sense for someone his age, living the life that he did.

also, like, here's the thing: i realized i was queer when i was about eleven and i freaked out about it for about a day and then promptly suppressed the whole thing because of a deeply traumatizing childhood. being queer was the least of my worries and there was never any time to unpack it and deal with it so i just didn't. and then when i was about nineteen i started to have queer sexual/romantic relationships but continued to suppress the fact that EYE was in fact queer because, again, i didn't really have the space to unpack it. it wasn't until i was about twenty-three and surrounded by other queer people (in a platonic way) that i finally felt safe to fully admit to myself and to other people that i was in fact queer. and then i never really did a whole coming out thing. i just... lived my life openly as a queer person and let other people figure it out.

my point in all this is that i feel like my general experience/trajectory lines up really well with how i view dean's. he had a very traumatic upbringing so while he knew he was attracted to men, he had no time or space to deal with it. that didn't stop him from having sex with men, but he never really unpacked what it actually meant. it wasn't until he was older and had openly queer friends that he felt safe enough to fully acknowledge that part of himself. and then.. that was it. he just lived his life as a queer man. like, i feel like we actually watched that happen over the course of the show???

most importantly, i cannot handle any reading where everyone else knows dean is queer but dean does not know himself. i especially loathe the idea that sam Knows and has to explain dean's own sexuality to himself. that is so ugly. dean is a very self-aware person. you could even argue he is perhaps too self-aware at times.

anyway, this is all obviously just a watsonian explanation of dean's relationship to his queerness. it doesn't even touch on the doylist stuff but that's a whole can of worms i'm not really interested in opening on tumblr dot edu right now.

so, yeah. that's my personal reading.

#replies #anonymous #dw #queer!dean #mp

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tiktaalic · 1 year

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Why are you (and others) so convinced that Neil Gaiman must be lying when he implies that he and Terry Pratchett always intended Azicrow to be canon in the potential second Good Omens book? I'm new to this fandom so don't know the backstory, but Gaiman has been writing gay characters (and nonbinary angels) since the '90s, and Pratchett according to fans is an ally. I've seen a few receipts (about Gaiman not "getting" slash) from the early oughts, but the South Downs cottage endgame comes from a conversation G&P had about the sequel in 2005 (see the story here: https://. thegoodomensdumpster. tumblr.com/ post/621209875504054272/.. where-the-south-downs-thing-comes-from). He seems credible but did he say something since then?

I mean. Even in the excerpt you sent there’s this.

people have asked him about the south downs, and scenes in the book, and any time he's asked he takes the chance to reiterate that it's Not Canon. this has been the line for 30 years. this was the line a month! before the show aired. i think it's true that the planned sequel was aziraphale and crowley focused. this makes sense to me. they were on book covers, they were people's favorites. i dont think this means hes been planning a romance since the 90s. prior to the show, the stances neil gaiman had, had repeatedly on record, and never strayed from were:

+ it's fine if you like azcrow i want you to continue to have fun with it if you like it, but it's not canon, it is strictly 100% fanon.

+ the sequel is about aziraphale and crowley

+ i am not comfortable making a season two because it would involve creating new content that terry would not have input on.

after season one aired, the stances were:

+ i intended azcrow as a love story. i always have.

+ season 2 coming july 2023!

+ the new seasons that i'm writing were something i discussed with terry decades ago.

which is simply. not true. either he spent 30 years lying. because. ??? or he has spent the years after season 1 garnered a lot of praise for having gay people in it lying. because it makes him look good, and because s2 (and 3) will make money. one of these options makes sense. one of them doesnt. like.

this was one MONTH before the show. if he for real always since nineteen ninety meant azcrow was in a relationship. why would he. a month before his show. say DONT get it twisted it's NOT a love life.

i also dont think its worth anything to compare representation in gomens to his other works, bc his other works are very very different. gomens is solidly pg13 lighthearted romp. and - as someone who has read a lot of neil gaiman's work, and liked a lot of neil gaiman's work, most of it errs to the side of i'm SICK. i'm TWISTED. im FUCKED UP and WEIRD. and. to be clear. i am not calling him homophobic. i am not doubting that he legitimately cares about gay people in his life. but i do think. he like many other men. were like. you know what'll take this fucked up weird story from a 10 to a 100. if there were GAY MEN in it. and to be doubly clear. i am speaking primarily about american gods, which is what i remember with most clarity. which is fine. its a fine thing to do. representation win the guy who writes weird horror adjacent sex scenes wrote one about men. (this is a gross oversimplification of sex scenes in american gods).

and again i well and truly do not blame the man for being like. um. actually i dont want the characters i based on me and my buddy to be in love or have sex in my lighthearted pg 13 story. i think this is a very normal stance to have! i would never fault someone for this stance! it's just. the lying. the people who are ragging on him are primarily composed, from what i can tell, of book fans who followed him pre show. because he was exceedingly consistent about his opinions pre show. again. if you followed him at any point! before the show you would see his opinions iterated then reiterated. if you followed him a MONTH! 30 DAYS! before the show you would see his pre show opinions. because he's expressed the exact same opinion dozens of times since 1990. and they quite literally only changed once it came out and people started praising him.

#ask #anonymous #cfct #long post

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taeskooksbin · 10 months

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BEGUILE ; kth

CHAPTER TWO

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[ series' masterlist ]

you respect his fucking relationship. yes you do.

i kept telling myself over and over again and searched up his details, according to the media, kim taehyung is over thirty nine years old.

and so fucking handsome.

he had a god-like body, out of the world facial features and perfect fashion sense, he almost seemed perfect. he was a well known lawyer, not only in korea, not only in italy but all around the world, everyone knew him.

he was truly a whole package of brain and beauty, a package that clearly did not belong to me.

i bit my nails anxiously and searched up another thing that was making me interested and nervous.

kim taehyung and ciandra park.

almost immediately swarms of pictures of taehyung and ciandra took over my laptop screen.

his girlfriend, ciandra, was pretty, no wait she was gorgeous. no wonder she was his girlfriend. she was over twenty seven, had a perfect symmetrical face which almost made me insecure as well, almost.

glass like tender skin almost pale like paper, perfect pair of plump lips and the most enchanting eyes ever. she had a lean and slim figure, her thin arms standing out of the most and most importantly her height.

she had no breasts whatsoever but her hips did stand out, long and healthy black hair complimenting the pale skin.

i searched her up and it turns out she was a model. of course. however to top all of the 'insecurity' that was building up in me, she also had her own fashion line, not quite popular but it did well, she was pretty-much known in business with over ninety something followers on instagram.

damn, i'm nothing in front of her, no wonder he chose her.

disappointment filled me to the brim after getting to know he was in a relationship, i mean not like i was planning on getting with him, but i did raise my hopes to at least flirt with him.

nevermind, alex will do for now.

━━━━━

"once again, how much older is he than you?" aurora asked while looking at her nails that were almost done. "twenty years" i answered back. "oh, well atleast he's handsome right?" she said.

"very much" i answered back while sophia kept doing our nails. "very well then, he isn't married right? you can shoot your shot" she said while sophia looked at us and then back at her work.

"he has a girlfriend" i sighed as i slightly rolled my eyes, "it doesn't matter 'ella, if he cheats on his girlfriend with you, that ain't your fault" she replied back.

"i don't know 'rora, it might be your thing but it's a no for me, truly" i sighed while trying my best to look at the bright side.

but no matter how much i try, he is just a forbidden fruit that i can never have.

"well it's alright but remember, if he flirts, then flirt back"

━━━━━

it was thursday and i was shirtless scared, although aurora's idea was slowly taking over me. i mean it's not my fault if he flirts with me now is it?

of course i'm not gonna make the first move but if he does it then who am i to stop? right? well, then a little bit of seducing wouldn't hurt anybody.

ugh i'm so stupid to think that he would even glance at me while leaving his model girlfriend. he wouldn't allow a dumb nineteen year old to destroy his perfectly made relationship.

but nevertheless, i got up and took out a green sleeveless dress which revealed the majority of my cleavage and ended till my knees. 'perfect' i thought as i stared at my reflection.

i was halfway through imagining my victory when i heard the main door opening, "he's here 'ella!" i heard mom yell from the kitchen and ran downstairs only to stare at the godly figure in front of me.

"fiorella, pleased to meet you" he smiled to which i smiled back at, politely.

"likewise, mr. kim" i smiled and he shook his head, "please call me taehyung" he smirked and leaned down to leave a peck at my cheeks which had my knees trembling.

i took a sniff at the expensive cologne he was wearing, only if i could wake up to this smell surrounding my whole body. not once did he glance down at my exposed legs or my cleavage which surely left me disappointed.

at least, he's loyal.

"well, where are we gonna start now?" he asked and leaned back, "will dad's office room work?" i said and he nodded. "of course, i just need to focus you anyway" he smiled and we walked to father's office room.

after reaching there, i took a note - not once did he try to stare at my cleavage of my bottoms that i was trying to use to seduce him desperately.

he saw the organised and really neat books and the things that were kept there which i made sure doesn't looks messy, he chuckled "i could not even imagine how much you were disappointed at your grades"

he looked over at where he was staring and smiled, "oh i bet you can't". he picked up one of the books, "i'm getting ptsd just by looking at it" he said while i chuckled.

"can you show me your result again? i need to know the area of improvement" he asks and takes a seat at one of the chairs while i nodded and walked to the table to grab my pad and handed him the results.

we went through the whole exam and re-solved the questions together, two minutes into it and i was feeling damn stupid.

i cursed myself fully knowing that i studied way too hard for this exam and didn't do a single thing correctly.

when we received the results, i heard the degrading chuckles of the teachers and smug faces of the people who deteriorated me into saying that i'd be better off as a housewife. the teachers were really cruel though.

"i'm feeling so damn stupid" i said as i looked at the common mistakes i made which degraded my grades more than before.

"don't be darling, do you know how many times i had to re-do my exams?" he chuckled. "wait really?"

"of course, in college, i was way too immersed in all the bad things that were called the 'cool-kid things' back then, such as drinking, partying and being a playboy, i did everything but study which cost me a huge loss" he let out a laugh.

"but even though i suffered, i'd still say that a little bit of fun wouldn't hurt anybody, instead it will refresh your mind surely" he smiled.

"but despite all the obstacles and distractions, i still managed to get through, and i'm sure you would too" he smiled and kept a hand on my shoulder encouragingly, not once did his eyes slip from my face to the cleavage.

it made me ashamed of my acts, did i come out as too desperate? or should i dress up a hot more revealingly next time?

the grades and his gentleman-like behaviour was making me overwhelmed, i was upset not because i was ashamed of my acts but because i wasn't able to woo him.

stop doing this, he's committed.

"hey, why are you crying?" he looked at me with concern lacing his voice.

"i'm sorry" i muttered, "don't be, princess, i know how hard it is for you, it is for everyone but you would pass it no matter what, i do see a lot of potential in you to do so" he said while patting my head.

"yeah, i can be a baby sometimes" i said when the embarrassment rushed through me, my cheeks blushed since at this point i was totally giving off a vibe of some spoiled daddy's princess who didn't get what she wanted.

it was the grades, in my case.

"don't worry, we'll work this through, alright?" he said and held my cheeks in his hands wiping a tear off of my face. i nodded and refrained myself from pouting when he took his hand back.

girlfriend fiorella, fucking girlfriend.

"i'm giving you some homework for today, you need to prepare for the first portion of your test and i'll return with a test next week to make sure you got everything right, is that okay with you?" i nodded

"we need to change your study method as well so how about i stop by on monday to see how you're doing, how does that sound?" he said with a little smile to which i nodded.

"thank you" i smiled and stood up. "anytime darling" he replied and stood as well, totally towering my small figure which had me ogling for a second.

he wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me a bit closer to which i slightly widened my eyes, my delusional mind already making up all the possible (not) scenarios of all the possibilities of him liking me back as i wrapped my own arms around him

and thank you for the sweet words as well" i whispered in his ears sniffing his cologne. i was a bit disappointed when he pulled back since it left me extremely empty and lonely.

"not really a gentleman like behaviour if you see a pretty girl crying and don't help her out, right?" he winked a bit playfully and then broke into a gorgeous boxy smile instantly making me fangirl over him.

shit, i'm going to seduce the fuck outta him.

━━━━━

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#bts taehyung #bts v #bts #taehyung #taehyung × y/n #bangtan #bts fic recs #jeon jungkook #taehyung dilf #beguile #cheating au #angst #fluff #smut #happy ending? perhaps #LMAOOO

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night-crawlin · 4 months

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FUCK I keep thinking abt morph they have me in a CHOKEHOLD like can you imagine??? you're in hell. maybe. It's nineteen ninety six. late in the year. you dont think youre in hell anymore, but somethings Wrong. Somethings not right. Your body doesn't look like You anymore. you dont feel like You. did he take something out? was there some vital component youre missing? your skin is coming off. theres a ghost underneath. a thousand faces, none of them yours. what the fuck are you? what are you?

#x men 97 #i think having a gender crisis would be a million times worse if you were a shapeshifter and also hadn't heard of being nonbinary yet #xmen morph

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shuxiii · 1 year

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Everyday

Hanni Pham x reader pt1, pt2, pt3, pt4, pt5, pt6, pt7, pt8, pt9, pt10, pt11, pt12, pt13, pt14, pt15, pt16, pt17, pt18

A/n this is based on the novel book "every day" by David Levithan saur credits to him I tots recommend reading the novel itself it's so damn goodies bro like gosh golly lawrd.

synopsis: You, someone who wakes up in a different body every day to live a different life. You spend your days inhabiting a new body and pretending to be the person without changing their personality or life.

TW: profanities

Day 5994

I wake up.

Immediately I have to figure out who I am. It’s not just

the body—opening my eyes and discovering whether the skin on my arm is light or dark, whether my hair is long or short, whether I’m fat or thin, boy or girl, scarred or smooth. The body is the easiest thing to adjust to if you’re used to waking up in a new one each morning. It’s the life, the context of the body, that can be hard to grasp. Every day I am someone else. I am myself—I know I am myself—but I am also someone else.

It has always been like this. The information is there. I wake up, open my eyes, and understand that it is a new morning, a new place. The biography kicks in, a welcome gift from the not‑me part of the mind. Today I am Kim Minji. Somehow I know this—my name is Minji—and at the same time I know that I’m not really Minji, I’m only borrowing her life for a day. I look around and know that this is her room.

This is her home. The alarm will go off in seven minutes.

I’m never the same person twice, but I’ve certainly been

this type before. Clothes everywhere. Far more video games

than books. Sleeps in her shorts. From the taste of her mouth, a smoker. But not so addicted that she needs one as soon as she wakes up.

“Good morning, Minji,” I say. Checking out her voice. Low. The voice in my head is always different.

Minji doesn’t take care of herself. Her scalp itches. Her eyes don’t want to open. She hasn’t gotten much sleep. Already I know I’m not going to like today. It’s hard being in the body of someone you don’t like, because you still have to respect it. I’ve harmed people’s lives in the past, and I’ve found that every time I slip up, it haunts me.

So I try to be careful. From what I can tell, every person I inhabit is the same age as me. I don’t hop from being nineteen to being ninety. Right now, it’s only nineteen. I don’t know how this works. Or why. I stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago. I’m never going to figure it out, any more than a normal person will figure out his or her own existence. After a while, you have to be at peace with the fact that you simply are. There is no way to know why. You can have theories, but there will never be proof.

I can access facts, not feelings. I know this is Minji’s room, but I have no idea if she likes it or not. Does she want to kill her parents in the next room? Or would she be lost without her mother coming in to make sure she’s awake? It’s impossible to tell. It’s as if that part of me replaces the same part of whatever person I’m in. And while I’m glad to be thinking like myself, a hint every now and then of how the other person thinks would be helpful.

We all contain mysteries, especially when Seen from the inside. The alarm goes off. I reach for a shirt and some jeans, but something lets me see that it’s the same shirt she wore yesterday. I pick a different shirt. I take the clothes with me to the bathroom and dress after showering. Her parents are in the kitchen now. They have no idea that anything is different.

Nineteen years is a lot of time to practice. I don’t usually make mistakes. Not anymore. I read her parents easily: Minji doesn’t talk to them much in the morning, so I don’t have to talk to them. I have grown accustomed to sensing expectations in others, or the lack of them. I shovel down some cereal, leave the bowl in the sink without washing it, grab Minji’s keys, and go.

Yesterday I was a girl in a town I’d guess to be two hours away. The day before, I was a boy in a town three hours farther than that. I am already forgetting their details. I have to, or else I will never remember who I really am.

Minji listens to loud and obnoxious music on a loud and obnoxious station where loud and obnoxious DJs make loud and obnoxious jokes as a way of getting through the morning. This is all I need to know about Minji, really. I access her memory to show me the way to school, which parking space to take, and which locker to go to. The combination. The names of the people she knows in the halls.

Sometimes I can’t go through these motions. I can’t bring myself to go to school and maneuver through the day. I’ll say I’m sick, stay in bed, and read a few books. But even that gets tiresome after a while, and I find myself up for the challenge of a new school, and new friends. For a day.

As I take Minji’s books out of her locker, I can feel someone

hovering on the periphery. I turn, and the girl standing there Is transparent in her emotions—tentative and expectant, nervous and adoring. I don’t have to access Minji to know that this is her girlfriend. No one else would have this reaction to her, so unsteady in her presence. She’s pretty, but she doesn’t see it. She’s hiding behind her hair, happy to see me and unhappy to see me at the same time.

Her name is Hanni. And for a moment—just the slightest beat—I think that, yes, this is the right name for her. I don’t know why. I don’t know her. But it feels right.

This is not Minji’s thought. It’s mine. I try to ignore it. I’m not the person she wants to talk to.

“Hey,” I say, keeping it casual.

“Hey,” she murmurs back.

She’s looking at the floor, at her inked‑in Converse. She’s drawn cities there, skylines around the soles. Something’s happened between her and Minji, and I don’t know what it is. It’s probably not something that Minji even recognized at the time.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

I see the surprise on her face, even as she tries to cover it. This is not something that Minji normally asks. And the strange thing is: I want to know the answer. The fact that she wouldn’t care makes me want it more.

“Sure,” she says, not sounding sure at all.

I find it hard to look at her. I know from experience that beneath every peripheral girl is a central truth. She’s hiding hers away, but at the same time, she wants me to see it. That is, she wants Minji to see it. And it’s there, just out of my reach. A sound waiting to be a word.

She is so lost in her sadness that she has no idea how visible it is. I think I understand her—for a moment, I presume to understand her—but then, from within this sadness, she surprises me with a brief flash of determination. Bravery, even. Shifting her gaze away from the floor, her eyes matching mine,

she asks, “Are you mad at me?”

I can’t think of any reason to be mad at her. If anything, I am mad at Minji, for making her feel so diminished. It’s there in her body language. When she is around her, she makes herself small.

“No,” I say. “I’m not mad at you at all.”

I tell her what she wants to hear, but she doesn’t trust it. I feed her the right words, but she suspects they’re threaded with hooks.

This is not my problem; I know that. I am here for one day. I cannot solve anyone’s girlfriend problems. I should not change anyone’s life.

I turn away from her, get my books out, and close the locker.

She stays in the same spot, anchored by the profound, desperate loneliness of a bad relationship.

“Do you still want to get lunch today?” she asks.

The easy thing would be to say no. I often do this: sense the other person’s life drawing me in and run in the other direction. But there’s something about her—the cities on her shoes, the flash of bravery, the unnecessary sadness—that makes me want to know what the word will be when it stops being a sound.

I have spent years meeting people without ever knowing them, and on this morning, in this place, with this girl, I feel the faintest pull of wanting to know. And in a moment of either weakness or bravery on my own part, I decide to follow it. I decided to find out more.

“Absolutely,” I say. “Lunch would be great.”

Again, I read her: What I’ve said is too enthusiastic. Minji is never enthusiastic.

“No big deal,” I add.

She’s relieved. Or, at least, as relieved as she’ll allow herself to be, which is a very guarded form of relief. By accessing, I know she and Minji have been together for over a year.

That’s as specific as it gets. Minji doesn’t remember the exact date.

She reaches out and takes my hand. I am surprised by how good this feels.

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me,” she says. “I just want everything to be okay.”

I nod. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: We all want everything to be okay. We don’t even wish so much for fantastic or marvelous or outstanding. We will happily settle for okay, because most of the time, okay is enough.

The first bell rings.

“I’ll see you later,” I say. Such a basic promise. But to Hanni, it means the world.

...

At first, it was hard to go through each day without making any lasting connections, leaving any life-changing effects. When I was younger, I craved friendship and closeness. I would make bonds without acknowledging how quickly and permanently they would break. I took other people’s lives personally. I felt their friends could be my friends, and their parents could be my parents. But after a while, I had to stop. It was too heartbreaking to live with so many separations.

I am a drifter, and as lonely as that can be, it is also remarkably freeing. I will never define myself in terms of anyone else. I will never feel the pressure of peers or the burden of parental expectations. I can view everyone as pieces of a whole, and focus on the whole, not the pieces. I have learned how to observe, far better than most people observe. I am not blinded by the past or motivated by the future. I focus on the present because that is where I am destined to live.

I learn. Sometimes I am taught something I have already been taught in dozens of other classrooms. Sometimes I am taught something completely new. I have to access the body, access the mind and see what information it’s retained. And when I do, I learn. Knowledge is the only thing I take with me when I go.

I know so many things that Minji doesn’t know, that she will never know. I sit there in her math class, open her notebook, and write down phrases she has never heard. Shakespeare and Kerouac and Dickinson. Tomorrow, or someday after tomorrow, or never, she will see these words in her own handwriting and she won’t have any idea where they came from, or even what they are.

That is as much interference as I allow myself. Everything else must be done cleanly. Hanni stays with me. Her details. Flickers from Minji’s memories. Small things, like the way her hair falls, the way she bites her fingernails, the determination and resignation in her voice. Random things. I see her dancing with Minji’s grandfather, because he’s said he wants a dance with a pretty girl. I see her covering her eyes during a scary movie, peering between her fingers, and enjoying her fright. These are the good memories. I don’t look at any others.

I only see her once in the morning, a brief passing in the halls between first and second period. I find myself smiling when she comes near, and she smiles back. It’s as simple as that. Simple and complicated, as most true things are. I find myself looking for her after second period, and then again after third and fourth. I don’t even feel in control of this. I want to see her. Simple. Complicated.

By the time we get to lunch, I am exhausted. Minji’s body is worn down from too little sleep and I, inside of it, am worn down from restlessness and too much thought.

I wait for her at Minji’s locker. The first bell rings. The second bell rings. No Hanni. Maybe I was supposed to meet her somewhere else. Maybe Minji’s forgotten where they always meet.

If that’s the case, she’s used to Minji forgetting. She finds me right when I’m about to give up. The halls are nearly empty, the cattle call has passed. She comes closer than she did before.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says.

She is looking to me. Minji is the one who makes the first move. Minji is the one who figures things out. Minji is the one who says what they’re going to do.

It depresses me. I have seen this too many times before. The unwarranted devotion. Putting up with the fear of being with the wrong person because you can’t deal with the fear of being alone. The hope tinged with doubt, and the doubt tinged with hope. Every time I see these feelings in someone else’s face, it weighs me down. And there’s something in Hanni’s face that’s more than just the disappointments. There is a gentleness there. A gentleness that Minji will never, ever appreciate. I see it right away, but nobody else does.

I take all my books and put them in the locker. I walk over to her and put my hand lightly on her arm. I have no idea what I’m doing. I only know that I’m doing it.

“Let’s go somewhere,” I say. “Where do you want to go?” I am close enough now to see that her eyes are brown. I am close enough now to see that nobody ever gets close enough to see how brown her eyes are.

“I don’t know,” she replies.

I take her hand.

“Come on,” I tell her.

This is no longer restlessness—it’s recklessness. At first, we’re walking hand in hand. Then we’re running hand in hand. That giddy rush of keeping up with one another, of zooming through the school, reducing everything that’s not us into an inconsequential blur. We are laughing, we are playful.

We leave her books in her locker and move out of the building, into the air, the real air, the sunshine and the trees and the less burdensome world. I am breaking the rules as I leave the school. I am breaking the rules as we get into Minji’s car. I am breaking the rules as I turn the key in the ignition.

“Where do you want to go?” I ask again. “Tell me, truly, where you’d love to go.”

I don’t initially realize how much hinges on her answer. If she says, Let’s go to the mall, I will disconnect. If she says, Take me back to your house, I will disconnect. If she says, Actually, I don’t want to miss sixth period, I will disconnect. And I should disconnect. I should not be doing this.

But she says, “I want to go to the ocean. I want you to take me to the ocean.”

And I feel myself connecting.

It takes us an hour to get there. It’s late September in Maryland. The leaves haven’t begun to change, but you can tell they’re starting to think about it. The greens are muted, and faded. Color is right around the corner.

I give Hanni control of the radio. She’s surprised by this, but I don’t care. I’ve had enough of the loud and the obnoxious, and I sense that she’s had enough of it, too. She brings melody to the car. A song comes on that I know, and I sing along.

And if I only could, I’d make a deal with God...Now Hanni goes from surprised to suspicious. Minji never sings along.

“What’s gotten into you?” she asks.

“Music,” I tell her.

“Ha.”

“No, really.”

She looks at me for a long time. Then smiles.

“In that case,” she says, flipping the dial to find the next song.

Soon we are singing at the top of our lungs. A pop song that’s as substantial as a balloon, but lifts us in the same way when we sing it.

It’s as if time itself relaxes around us. She stops thinking about how unusual it is. She lets herself be a part of it.

I want to give her a good day. Just one good day. I have wandered for so long without any sense of purpose, and now this ephemeral purpose has been given to me—it feels like it has been given to me. I only have a day to give—so why can’t it be a good one? Why can’t it be a shared one? Why can’t I take the music of the moment and see how long it can last?

The rules are erasable. I can take this. I can give this.

When the song is over, she rolls down her window and trails her hand in the air, introducing a new music into the car.

I roll down all the other windows and drive faster, so the wind takes over, blows our hair all around, and makes it seem like the car has disappeared and we are the velocity, we are the speed.

Then another good song comes on and I enclose us again, this time taking her hand. I drive like that for miles, and ask her questions. Like how her parents are doing. What it’s like now that her sister’s off at college. If she thinks school is different at all this year.

It’s hard for her. Every single answer starts with the phrase I don’t know. But most of the time she does know, if I give her the time and the space in which to answer. Her mother means well; her father less so. Her sister isn’t calling home, but Hanni can understand that. School is school—she wants it to be over, but she’s afraid of it being over, because then she’ll have to figure out what comes next.

She asks me what I think, and I tell her, “Honestly, I’m just trying to live day to day.”

It isn’t enough, but it’s something. We watch the trees, the sky, the signs, the road. We sense each other. The world, right now, is only us. We continue to sing along. And we sing with the same abandon, not worrying too much if our voices hit the right notes or the right words. We look at each other while we’re singing; these aren’t two solos, this is a duet that isn’t taking itself at all seriously.

It is its own form of conversation—you can learn a lot about people from the stories they tell, but you can also know them from the way they sing along, whether they like the windows up or down, if they live by the map or by the world, if they feel the pull of the ocean.

She tells me where to drive. Off the highway. The empty back roads. This isn’t summer; this isn’t a weekend. It’s the middle of a Monday, and nobody but us is going to the beach.

“I should be in English class,” Hanni says.

“I should be in bio,” I say, accessing Minji’s schedule.

We keep going. When I first saw her, she seemed to be balancing on edges and points. Now the ground is more even, welcoming.

I know this is dangerous. Minji is not good to her. I recognize that. If I access the bad memories, I see tears, fights, and remnants of passable togetherness. She is always there for her, and she must like that. Her friends like her, and she must like that, too.

But that’s not the same as love. She has been hanging on to the hope of her for so long that she doesn’t realize there isn’t anything left to hope for. They don’t have silence together; they have noise.

Mostly her. If I tried, I could go deep into their arguments. I could track down whatever shards she’s collected from all the times she’s destroyed her. If I were really Minji, I would find something wrong with her. Right now. Tell her. Yell. Bring her down. Put her in her place. But I can’t. I’m not Minji. Even if she doesn’t know it.

“Let’s just enjoy ourselves,” I say.

“Okay,” she replies. “I like that. I spend so much time thinking about running away—it’s nice to actually do it. For a day. It’s good to be on the other side of the window. I don’t do this enough.”

There are so many things inside of her that I want to know. And at the same time, with every word we speak, I feel there may be something inside of her that I already know. When I get there, we will recognize each other. We will have that.

I park the car and we head to the ocean. We take off our shoes and leave them under our seats. When we get to the sand, I lean over to roll up my jeans. While I do, Hanni runs ahead. When I look back up, she is spinning around the beach, kicking up sand, calling my name. Everything, at that moment, is lightness. She is so joyful, I can’t help but stop for a second and watch. Witness. Tell myself to remember.

“C’mon!” she cries. “Get over here!”

I’m not who you think I am, I want to tell her. But there’s no way. Of course, there’s no way.

We have the beach to ourselves, the ocean to ourselves. I have her to myself. She has me to herself.

There is a part of childhood that is childish, and a part that is sacred. Suddenly we are touching the sacred part—running to the shoreline, feeling the first cold burst of water on our ankles, reaching into the tide to catch at shells before they ebb away from our fingers.

We have returned to a world that is capable of glistening, and we are wading deeper within it. We stretch our arms wide as if we are embracing the wind. She splashes me mischievously and I mount a counterattack. Our pants, our shirts get wet, but we don’t care.

She asks me to help her build a sand castle, and as I do, she tells me about how she and her sister would never work on sand castles together—it was always a competition, with her sister going for the highest possible mountains while Hanni paid attention to detail, wanting each castle to be the dollhouse she was never allowed to have. I see echoes of this detail now as she makes turrets bloom from her cupped hands.

I myself have no memories of sand castles, but there must be some sense memory attached, because I feel I know how to do this, how to shape this.

When we are done, we walk back down to the water to wash off our hands. I look back and see the way our footsteps intermingle to form a single path.

“What is it?” she asks, seeing me glance backward, seeing something in my expression.

How can I explain this? The only way I know is to say

“Thank you.”

She looks at me as if she’s never heard the phrase before.

“For what?” she asks.

“For this,” I say. “For all of it.”

This escape. The water. The waves. Her. It feels like we’ve stepped outside of time. Even though there is no such place.

There’s still a part of her that’s waiting for the twist, the moment when all of this pleasure will jackknife into pain.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “It’s okay to be happy.”

The tears come to her eyes. I take her in my arms. It’s the wrong thing to do. But it’s the right thing to do. I have to listen to my own words. Happiness is so rarely a part of my vocabulary, because for me it’s so fleeting.

“I’m happy,” she says. “Really, I am.”

Minji would be laughing at her. Minji would be pushing her down into the sand, to do whatever she wanted to do. Minji would never have come here.

I am tired of not feeling. I am tired of not connecting. I want to be here with her. I want to be the one who lives up to her hopes, if only for the time I’m given.

The ocean makes its music; the wind does its dance. We hold on. At first we hold on to one another, but then it starts to feel like we are holding on to something even bigger than that. Greater.

“What’s happening?” Hanni asks.

“Shhh,” I say. “Don’t question it.”

She kisses me. I have not kissed anyone in years. I have not allowed myself to kiss anyone for years. Her lips are soft as flower petals, but with an intensity behind them. I take it slow, let each moment pour into the next. Feel her skin, her breath.

Taste the condensation of our contact, linger in the heat of it.

Her eyes are closed and mine are open. I want to remember this as more than a single sensation. I want to remember this whole.

We do nothing more than kiss. We do nothing less than kiss. At times, she moves to take it further, but I don’t need that. I trace her shoulders as she traces my back. I kiss her neck. She kisses beneath my ear. The times we stop, we smile at each other. Giddy disbelief, giddy belief. She should be in English class. I should be in bio. We weren’t supposed to come anywhere near the ocean today. We have defied the day as it was set out for us.

We walk hand in hand down the beach as the sun dips in the sky. I am not thinking about the past. I am not thinking about the future. I am full of such gratitude for the sun, the water, the way my feet sink into the sand, the way my hand feels holding hers.

“We should do this every Monday,” she says. “And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And Thursday. And Friday.”

“We’d only get tired of it,” I tell her. “It’s best to have it just once.”

“Never again?” She doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Well, never say never.”

“I’d never say never,” she tells me.

There are a few more people on the beach now, mostly older men and women taking an afternoon walk. They nod to us as we pass, and sometimes they say hello. We nod back, return their hellos. Nobody questions why we’re here. Nobody questions anything. We’re just a part of the moment, like everything else.

The sun falls farther. The temperature drops alongside it.

Hanni shivers, so I stop holding her hand and put my arm around her. She suggests we go back to the car and get the “make-out blanket” from the trunk. We find it there, buried under empty beer bottles, twisted jumper cables, and other crap. I wonder how often Hanni and Minji have used the make-out blanket for that purpose, but I don’t try to access the memories.

Instead, I bring the blanket back out onto the beach and put it down for both of us. I lie down and face the sky, and Hanni lies down next to me and does the same.

We stare at the clouds, breathing distance from one another, taking it all in.

“This has to be one of the best days ever,” Hanni says. Without turning my head, I find her hand with my hand.

“Tell me about some of the other days like this,” I ask.

“I don’t know...”

“Just one. The first one that comes to mind.”

Hanni thinks about it for a second. Then she shakes her head. “It’s stupid.”

“Tell me.”

She turns to me and moves her hand to my chest. Makes lazy circles there. “For some reason, the first thing that comes to mind is this mother-daughter fashion show. Do you promise you won’t laugh?”

I promise.

She studies me. Makes sure I’m sincere. Continues.

“It was in fourth grade or something. Eric’s was doing a fundraiser for hurricane victims, and they asked for volunteers from our class. I didn’t ask my mother or anything—I just signed up. And when I brought the information home—well, you know how my mom is. She was terrified. It’s hard enough to get her out to the supermarket. But a fashion show? In front of strangers? I might as well have asked her to pose for Playboy. God, now there’s a scary thought.”

Her hand is now resting on my chest. She’s looking off to the sky.

“But here’s the thing: she didn’t say no. I guess it’s only now that I realize what I put her through. She didn’t make me go to the teacher and take it back. No, when the day came, we drove over to Eric’s and went where they told us to go. I had thought they would put us in matching outfits, but it wasn’t like that. Instead, they basically told us we could wear whatever we wanted from the store. So there we were, trying all these things on. I went for the gowns, of course—I was so much more of a girl then. I ended up with this light blue dress with ruffles all over the place. I thought it was so sophisticated.”

“I’m sure it was classy,” I say.

She hits me. “Shut up. Let me tell my story.”

I hold her hand on my chest. Lean over and kiss her quickly.

“Go ahead,” I say. I am loving this. I never have people tell me their stories. I usually have to figure them out myself.

Because I know that if people tell me stories, they will expect them to be remembered. And I cannot guarantee that. There is no way to know if the stories stay after I’m gone. And how

devastating would it be to confide in someone and have the confidence disappear? I don’t want to be responsible for that.

But with Hanni I can’t resist.

She continues. “So I had my wanna-be prom dress. And then it was Mom’s turn. She surprised me, because she went for the dresses, too. I’d never really seen her all dressed up before. And I think that was the most amazing thing to me: It wasn’t me who was Cinderella. It was her. “After we picked out our clothes, they put makeup on us and everything. I thought Mom was going to flip, but she was actually enjoying it. They didn’t really do much with her—just a little more color. And that was all it took. She was pretty. I know it’s hard to believe, knowing her now. But that day, she was like a movie star. All the other moms were complimenting her. And when it was time for the actual show, we paraded out there and people applauded. Mom and I were both smiling, and it was real, you know?

“We didn’t get to keep the dresses or anything. But I remember on the ride home, Mom kept saying how great I was. When we got back to our house, Dad looked at us like we were aliens, but the cool thing is, he decided to play along. Instead of getting all weird, he kept calling us his supermodels, and asked us to do the show for him in our living room, which we did. We were laughing so much. And that was it. The day ended. I’m not sure Mom’s worn makeup since. And it’s not like I turned out to be a supermodel. But that day reminds me of this one. Because it was a break from everything, wasn’t it?”

“It sounds like it,” I tell her.

“I can’t believe I just told you that.”

“Why?”

“Because. I don’t know. It just sounds so silly.”

“No, it sounds like a good day.

“How about you?” she asks.

“I was never in a mother-daughter fashion show,” I joke.

Even though, as a matter of fact, I’ve been in a few.

She hits me lightly on the shoulder. “No. Tell me about another day like this one.”

I access Hanni and find out she moved to town when he was twelve. So anything before that is fair game, because Hanni won’t have been there. I could try to find one of Minji’s memories to share, but I don’t want to do that. I want to give Hanni something of my own.

“There was this one day when I was eleven.” I try to remember the name of the boy whose body I was in, but it’s lost to me. “I was playing hide-and-seek with my friends. I mean, the brutal, tackle kind of hide-and-seek. We were in the woods, and for some reason I decided that what I had to do was climb a tree. I don’t think I’d ever climbed a tree before. But I found one with some low branches and just started moving. Up and up. It was as natural as walking. In my memory, that tree was hundreds of feet tall. Thousands. At some point, I crossed the tree line. I was still climbing, but there weren’t any other trees around. I was all by myself, clinging to the trunk of this tree, a long way from the ground.”

I can see shimmers of it now. The height. The town below me.

“It was magical,” I say. “There’s no other word to describe it. I could hear my friends yelling as they were caught, as the game played out. But I was in a completely different place.

I was seeing the world from above, which is an extraordinary thing when it happens for the first time. I’d never flown in a plane. I’m not even sure I’d been in a tall building. So there I was, hovering above everything I knew. I had made it somewhere special, and I’d gotten there all on my own. Nobody had given it to me. Nobody had told me to do it. I’d climbed and climbed and climbed, and this was my reward. To watch over the world, and to be alone with myself. That, I found, was what I needed.”

Hanni leans into me. “That’s amazing,” she whispers.

“Yeah, it was.”

“And it was in Minnesota?”

In truth, it was in North Carolina. But I access Minji and find that, yes, for her it would’ve been Minnesota. So I nod.

“You want to know another day like this one?” Hanni asks, curling closer. I adjust my arm, making us both comfortable. “Sure.”

“Our second date.”

But this is only our first, I think. Ridiculously.

“Really?” I ask.

“Remember?”

I check to see if Minji remembers their second date. She doesn’t.

“Dack’s party?” she prompts.

Still nothing.

“Yeah...,” I hedge.

“I don’t know—maybe it doesn’t count as a date. But it was the second time we hooked up. And, I don’t know, you were just so . . . sweet about it. Don’t get mad, alright?”

I wonder where this is going.

“I promise, nothing could make me mad right now,” I tell her. I even cross my heart to prove it.

She smiles. “Okay. Well, lately—it’s like you’re always in a rush. Like, we have make-outs but we’re not really...intimate. And I don’t mind. I mean, it’s fun. But every now and then, it’s good to have it be like this. And at Dack’s party—it was like this. Like you had all the time in the world, and you wanted us to have it together. I loved that. It was back when you were really looking at me. It was like—well, it was like you’d climbed up that tree and found me there at the top. And we had that together. Even though we were in someone’s backyard. At one point—do you remember?—you made me move over a little so I’d be in the moonlight. ‘It makes your skin glow,’ you said. And I felt like that. Glowing. Because you were watching me, along with the moon.”

Does she realize that right now she’s lit by the warm orange spreading from the horizon, as not-quite-day becomes not-quite-night? I lean over and become that shadow. I kiss her once, then we drift into each other, close our eyes, drift into sleep. And as we drift into sleep, I feel something I’ve never felt before. A closeness that isn’t merely physical. A connection that defies the fact that we’ve only just met. A sensation that can only come from the most euphoric of feelings: belonging.

What is it about the moment you fall in love? How can such a small measure of time contain such enormity? I suddenly realize why people believe in déjà vu, why people believe they’ve lived past lives, because there is no way the years I’ve spent

on this earth could possibly encapsulate what I’m feeling. The moment you fall in love feels like it has centuries behind it, generations—all of them rearranging themselves so that this precise, remarkable intersection could happen. In your heart, in your bones, no matter how silly you know it is, you feel that everything has been leading to this, all the secret arrows were pointing here, the universe and time itself crafted this long ago, and you are just now realizing it, you are just now arriving at the place you were always meant to be.

We woke an hour later to the sound of her phone. I keep my eyes closed. Hear her groan. Hear her tell her mother she’ll be home soon.

The water has gone deep black and the sky has gone ink blue. The chill in the air presses harder against us as we pick up the blanket, providing a new set of footprints. She navigates, I drive. She talks, I listen. We sing some more. Then she leans into my shoulder and I let her stay there and sleep for a little longer, dream for a little longer.

I am trying not to think of what will happen next.

I am trying not to think of endings.

I never get to see people while they’re asleep. Not like this.

She is the opposite of when I first met her. Her vulnerability is open, but she’s safe within it. I watch the rise and fall of her, the stir and rest of her. I only wake her when I need her to tell me where to go.

The last ten minutes, she talks about what we’re going to do tomorrow. I find it hard to respond.

“Even if we can’t do this, I’ll see you at lunch?” she asks.

I nod.

“And maybe we can do something after school?”

“I think so. I mean, I’m not sure what else is going on. My mind isn’t really there right now.”

This makes sense to her. “Fair enough. Tomorrow is tomorrow. Let’s end today on a nice note.”

Once we get to town, I can access the directions to her house without having to ask her. But I want to get lost anyway.

To prolong this. To escape this.

“Here we are,” Hanni says as we approach her driveway. I pull the car to a stop. I unlock the doors. She leans over and kisses me. My senses are alive with the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, the sound of her breathing, and the sight of her as she pulls her body away from mine.

“That’s the nice note,” she says. And before I can say anything else, she’s out the door and gone.

I don’t get a chance to say goodbye.

I guess, correctly, that Hanni’s parents are used to her being out of touch and missing dinner. They try to yell at her, but you can tell that everyone’s going through the motions, and when Minji storms off to her room, it’s just the latest rerun of an old show.

I should be doing Minji’s homework—I’m always pretty conscientious about that kind of thing, if I’m able to do it—but my mind keeps drifting to Hanni. Imagining her at home. Imagining her floating from the grace of the day. Imagining her believing that things are different, that Minji has somehow changed.

I shouldn’t have done it. I know I shouldn’t have done it. Even if it felt like the universe was telling me to do it. I agonize over it for hours. I can’t take it back. I can’t make it go away.

I fell in love once, or at least until today, I thought I had. Her name was Danielle, and it felt so real, even if it was mostly words. Intense, heartfelt words. I stupidly let myself think of a possible future with her. But there was no future. I tried to navigate it, but I couldn’t.

That was easy compared to this. It’s one thing to fall in love. It’s another to feel someone else falling in love with you, and to feel a responsibility toward that love.

There is no way for me to stay in this body. If I don’t go to sleep, the shift will happen anyway. I used to think that if I stayed up all night, I’d get to remain where I was. But instead, I was ripped from the body I was in. And the ripping felt exactly like what you would imagine being ripped from a body would feel like, with every single nerve experiencing the pain of the break, and then the pain of being fused into someone new.

From then on, I went to sleep every night. There was no use fighting it. I realize I have to call her. Her number’s right there in her phone. I can’t let her think tomorrow is going to be like today.

“Hey!” she answers.

“Hey,” I say.

“Thank you again for today.”

“Yeah.”

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to ruin it. But I have to, don’t I?

I continue, “But about today?”

“Are you going to tell me that we can’t cut class every day? That’s not like you.”

Not like me.

“Yeah,” I say, “but, you know, I don’t want you to think every day is going to be like today. Because they’re not going to be, alright? They can’t be.”

There’s a silence. She knows something’s wrong.

“I know that,” she says carefully. “But maybe things can still be better. I know they can be.”

“I don’t know,” I tell her. “That’s all I wanted to say. I don’t know. Today was something, but it’s not, like, everything.”

“I know that.”

“Okay.”

I sigh. There’s always a chance that, in some way, I will have brushed off on Minji. There’s always a chance that her life will in fact change—that she will change. But I have no way of knowing. It’s rare that I get to see a body after I’ve left it. And even then, it’s usually months or years later. If I recognize it at all. I want Minji to be better to her. But I can’t have her expecting it.

“That’s all,” I tell her. It feels like a Minji thing to say

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you will.”

“Thanks again for today. No matter what trouble we get into tomorrow for it, it was worth it.”

“Yeah.”

“I love you,” she says.

And I want to say it. I want to say I love you, too. Right now, right at this moment, every part of me would mean it. But that will only last for a couple more hours.

“Sleep well,” I tell her. Then I hang up.

There’s a notebook on her desk.

Remember that you love Hanni, I write in her handwriting. I doubt she’ll remember writing it. I go onto her computer. I open up my own email account, then type out her name, her phone number, her email address, as well as Mniji’s email and password. I write about the day. And I send it to myself.

As soon as I’m through, I clear Minji’s history. This is hard for me. I have gotten so used to what I am, and how my life works. I never want to stay. I’m always ready to leave.

But not tonight. Tonight I’m haunted by the fact that tomorrow she’ll be here and I won’t be. I want to stay. I pray to stay. I close my eyes and wish to stay.

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