#the only thing missing is a tiny hat

[kiwiplaetzchen]

"Thump! Thump! Thump!" Nosy hears something knocking on the door of his Majesty's dorm room. It is late at night on All Hallows' Eve, and the castle seems eerie and spooky even for such an occasion. It seems that all the other students have fallen dead asleep as nobody as much as stirs to get up and open the door. The thumps continue, and the longer the door it closed, the more insistent they become.

Does Nosy dare opening the door to be met face to face with a fierce pumpkin monster of approximately his size, sporting 6 little stumpy legs and sharp pumpkin teeth?

The castle was unusually quiet that All Hallows' Eve. Shadows stretched long across the walls as the candles flickered dimly, their light barely holding back the creeping darkness. All the students were fast asleep, tucked snugly in their beds. But one creature, the teal-furred menace himself, was still very much awake and snuggled deep in Sebastian’s mop of hair.

"Thump! Thump! Thump!"

Nosy's ears twitched at the sound. Someone - or something - was knocking at the door. The little Niffler tilted his head, considering his options. He could ignore it, of course, and return to the warmth of Sebastian's hair. But… what if something shiny was waiting on the other side? The thought of a new treasure made his little heart flutter with excitement.

The thumps grew louder and more insistent, echoing ominously through the room. Nosy sat up, his teal fur bristling slightly as he glanced around the room. Sebastian and William were still snoring like babies, entirely oblivious to the disturbance! Fine, Nosy huffed to himself. Nosy will deal with this himself!

Scrambling down from his companion's head, Nosy's little paws tapped lightly against the cold stone floor. The knocking continued, relentless and demanding. Puffing out his chest, Nosy waddled to the door, ready to face whatever dared disturb his night. He sniffed at the dark crack beneath the door and squinted suspiciously. His nose twitched again, searching for danger - or treasure. That smell was familiar...

But before he could react—

BOOM!

The door flew wide open, and Nosy froze. There it was: a pumpkin monster, no taller than the Niffler himself, but far less terrifying. The pumpkin lunged forward, clicking its legs as it skittered into the room. Nosy let out a startled honk and scrambled backward, his eyes wide with shock. But only for a moment.

Recovering quickly, Nosy narrowed his eyes. A challenge? His teal fur puffed up. How dare this gourd invade the Teal King’s domain?! With a defiant honk, Nosy darted to his little nest in the wardrobe, where he grabbed his trusty pea shooter.

With a fierce honk, he fired his first shot at the pumpkin menace, the pea bouncing harmlessly off the gourd's jagged grin. The pumpkin lunged again, snapping its jagged teeth, but Nosy was too quick, skidding behind the silky pillow fort he'd built with Charlie earlier that day.

From behind the fort, Nosy let loose another volley of peas. One struck the pumpkin square between its grinning eyes, making it stumble backward with a guttural "Gourrrr!"

Honking victoriously, Nosy leapt from his fort, landing on the gourd's back with a ferocious chirp. Grabbing its stem with both paws, Nosy yanked with all his might. The pumpkin monster swayed, spinning in circles, before finally toppling over with a resounding THUD!

Perched proudly atop his defeated foe, Nosy puffed out his chest and let out a long, smug honk. Victory! His little tail wagged in satisfaction, daring any other intruders to try their luck against the Teal King.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ask Around in the Morgue

Most times, Tim is not a fan of social interaction. If he can acquire the necessary data from literally anything written in text, without the need to actually talk to people, he does that. It's the logical thing to do, come on! People lie, or, even if they don't, they take ages to get to the point, and you can't put them on pause or set aside to return later. Some written resources lie as well, but that is, at least, way easier to prove by relying on several of them instead of a single one.

That saying, he can work in a team — Young Justice is great proof of that. Batfamily, not so much, but then, none of the Bats like working together. Because they are all hypercontrolling, manipulative, and paranoid.

And yet, keeping all that in mind, right now Tim is about to go and speak — using his mouth and words — to a GCPD mortician whom he's never seen or met before in his life.

All because of this report.

More precisely, because of the line 'pls come talk to me if u r a bat' that was inserted right into the file, just between the description of contents of the victim's stomach and the rather unappealing photo of the same thing. Tim supposes the placement was intentional — most people skip over that kind of information, jumping straight to the cause of death. Which is a homicide, by the way.

Not that it's anything unusual in Gotham.

Tim walks through the hallway, keeping his steps silent. Daniel Nightingale, the mortician, more accurately a pathologist, works graveyard shifts — very ironic and no less convenient — and most days, he does so all alone, so Tim is not expecting company. He is just keeping quiet out of habit.

And yet, as he gets closer to the autopsy room, he hears it. The chipper, amused voice from inside.

"You can't just make that shit up, I swear," it laughs, "Oh, Minerva. You were way too old to pull it off." There's a pause, and then it starts speaking again, filled with hidden laughter, "You don't say?"

The door is, thankfully, already half-open. Tim takes a quick look inside, hoping to figure out who's the other part of the alleged conversation, but the only person there — erm, the only alive person — is a guy in a gray uniform and a lab coat. Supposedly, Mr. Nightingale. There's also a corpse of an old lady on the table in front of him, of course, but Tim doubts she can hold up the conversation. A phone call? Or maybe he's just talking to himself?..

The guy raises his head briefly, turning to the door.

"Come on in, lurking in the shadows doesn't suit you," he calls, almost cheerful, and Tim pauses.

He's pretty sure he hasn't made a single noise.

Oh, well. Maybe he did. Maybe the pathologist has an alarm system in case of a zombie apocalypse. Maybe he sees the future. The possibilities are endless.

Tim steps inside.

"I'm here about your note," he says, cutting the greetings and niceties. The pathologist hums, his eyes still on the bare, skinless ribcage of the woman before him.

"Cool. Which one?" He asks without missing a beat. Tim stares; the guy looks entirely too nonchalant, given the circumstances, but that's not the only reason. Daniel Nightingale is way younger than Tim expected — twenty, at most — and he is... well, if Tim had a type, which he doesn't, he would definitely check all the boxes. Most of the boxes. A lot of boxes.

Okay, he's just good-looking, what is he even thinking about, this is getting sidetracked.

"There was more than one?" He asks because that's the logical, reasonable thing to ask. Daniel glances up at him. A tiny strand of hair escapes his pinned down bangs, and the guy huffs, shaking it away from his face. Shouldn't he be wearing a hat?

"Yeah, I put the bat alert in at least five reports I've written. Only two recently, though, so, if you could specify?" He asks. The loose strand of his hair moves all on its own, brushing itself up over Daniel's head. Then, one of the bobby pins comes out, hanging in the air briefly, and goes back into Daniel's hair, securing it from falling again. "Thank you, Minerva," the guy smiles politely, casting a glance to the side.

Tim is not sure what's going on but he has a hunch.

"I'm speaking about John Doe from last week?" He attempts, but Daniel only hums.

"Unfortunately, that doesn't narrow it down," he turns back to the table, looking down into the old lady's open abdomen with a critical eye. "Darling, do you think you'll be fine here all on your own while I speak with our dear guest?" He asks, almost demurely, and Tim is not dumb. Minerva is definitely the name of the lady on the autopsy table. The question is, has the GCPD hired a schizophrenic man during such dire times, or is the guy really some kind of ghost-whisperer?

The chances are, honestly speaking, 50/50. It's Gotham.

There's no response that Tim can hear, but Daniel straightens back up and takes off his gloves before turning to the other side, still away from Tim. "Mind cleaning up?" He asks again and then throws his gloves into the nearest bin. They don't land, but just as Daniel huffs and goes to retrieve them, the gloves float up from the floor like someone invisible picked them up and dropped them into the bin.

"Ah, thank you, Minerva," the pathologist smiles.

Tim feels an uncomfortable chill run down his spine.

"How many ghosts are in here?" He tries for casual, but fails spectacularly, judging by Daniel's chuckle.

"Five," he answers without any pause, "Six, if you count the nonverbal kid that's hiding in Page's cold locker. Anyway, John Doe?.."

A few of the instruments Daniel has used float up from the table and start moving towards the nearest sink.

Tim takes a deep breath.

Either he's gotten himself a new contact in GCPD forensics or a very alarming new meta. 50/50.

But Daniel's smile is 100 percent going to be a pain in his ass.

[nethereasypeasy]

Some fluffy head canons I have about the Baldurs Babes

mainly at camp :)

Gale stops tav to lace their boots, sarcastically tutting as he does it.

Karlach holds her hands round someones bowl and cups to warm them if they cool down too much. (Mama K microwave™)

Jaheira and Halsin share nightcaps and chat about the tadpole team. Mainly laughing at their comparative lack of experience - always ends on a 'they're good eggs tho' vibe.

Astarion and Shadowheart rate people's hair to eachother as an injoke, tav hears them mumbling numbers behind them whenever they speak to someone.

Lae'zel asks Gale to explain and pronounce things when no one is around because the 'annoying wizard' won't make fun, he's too eager to teach.

Jaheira has the best bedtime stories but they get Karlach hyped up and she asks a lot of questions till Astarion begs her to be quiet. Wyll takes mental notes for his own storytelling.

Karlach will force a game of 'I Spy' any time there is silence on the road.

Wyll is very good at little random gifts, he just remembers anything someone mentions to him. He's also low-key emotional if you return that kindness, 'you remembered?! 😭'

Halsin stops, kneels and whispers as he points and shows tav interesting plants or animals he spots when walking. 'look there's the mother and her babies' type shit. (He is camp dad(dy) ok)

Wyll teaches Lae'zel fencing. She's too keen though and tries to pin him down. She is not as graceful... But she has fun... chk!

Gale keeps a tiny portrait of Tara on him, you can't tell me modern au Gale's phone wouldn't be full of cat pics.

Astarion watches over the camp at night, he acts like he 'might as well/ I'm the only one lurking in the dark around HERE darlings' but sometimes he secretly gets a little teary looking at his first real friends all together.

Shadowheart writes moody poetry. She would tell Gale but she doesn't care for his taste... Or his possible critiques. If he ever did find her journal though he would be VERY enthused.

Astarion and tav will play with people's wardrobes when looting. Tav loves a funny hat and Astarion will do impressions of who he thinks would wear such god's awful attire.

Gale and Wyll play chess together after dinner some nights. They both say progressively cheesy lines when they take pieces, which is its own game itself at this point.

Halsin would quietly sing or hum to owlbear baby and scratch at night. Little lullabies and he'd probably tuck them in too. OR he'd be big daddy bear and snuggle up, especially when owlbear is scared and misses his mum.

The gang have played 'never have I ever' ONE time and ONE time only. It was a messy night.

... Jaheira was 100% last man standing.

[100vern]

while he's gone | ksy & hvc

𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒆 // 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒖𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓.

★ pairing: vernon x f. reader; established hoshi x f. reader ★ genre: open relationship, fwb to lovers au; smut, fluff, lite angst ★ summary: your boyfriend's on tour, but vernon's still in town. ★ rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. ★ warnings: i am reiterating that this is an open relationship so there is NO CHEATING!! i don't wanna hear it!! soloist hoshi, producer vernon, i wax way too poetic about music and interior design, swearing, alcohol, use of pet names, one miscommunication, one tiny argument that gets resolved, discussions about polyamory. everyone being in love and down bad for one another. ★ smut warnings: mentions of threesomes, voyeurism (over the phone), dirty talk, oral sex, dry humping??, protected vaginal sex, marking/biting, multiple orgasms, sex toys, cuckolding, recording (photos/videos), masturbation, teasing, cum play/eating, lingerie. please tell me if i forgot anything! ★ wordcount: 12.6k ★ credits: cam (@highvern) for spreading the "hoshi holding vernon's head down" agenda far and wide. bee (@imnotshua) for telling me when my words don't make sense and fixing them. jess (@starlightkyeom) for reading this over. ★ author's note: more cursed thoughts thanks to a conversation about monsta x with @aeristudios. i've been wanting to write a fic based off "got my number" for ages, so here we are! a lil treat dedicated to @sailorsoons for girlbossing her ass off these last few weeks (and pulverizing her knee). i would also like to apologize to all the hansol truthers. i typed it out once and had a visceral reaction, much like i did using hoshi's government name, so he's just vernon.

Your boyfriend’s flight departed from Incheon just shy of four p.m., though he’d left the apartment long before that.

Needed time to make the hour and a half drive. Fix his hair and makeup before he hopped out and posed for Dispatch. Push his way through the horde of fans and to security, get his face scanned and passport checked. Needed time to make it to the privacy of his terminal lounge where he could catch his breath and lock himself in the bathroom. Needed time to send you a mirror selfie: hoodie unzipped to the middle of his bare sternum, hat pulled low to cover his eyes, tongue just barely peeking out from between his lips.

Made it 😘, it said.

Beneath that, even though the two of you have been through this exact scenario more times than you can count—even though it’s the same every time and he said all the same things as he was fucking you into the mattress last night and again this morning, as he was kissing you goodbye at the door hours ago:

Soonyoung: Love u babe. Gonna miss u sooo much~ I’ll text u every chance I can !! Soonyoung: Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do ㅋㅋㅋ just kidding don’t u dare behave Soonyoung: Send me pictures tho. What if I get lonely 😔

There was a thought: your boyfriend on tour, all alone between the cold, crisp sheets of his hotel bed, no one to occupy all that extra space. You’d snorted at that. Replied with the eye-roll emoji and wondered, privately, if he was going to meet up with the same old flames; if he was going to send you pictures with faces and bodies you recognized. Anticipation clawed its way up your spine and settled in your gut, left behind an insurmountable want.

Saying goodbye was always hard, but this part? It felt like Soonyoung held the forbidden fruit in his hand, sliced and fed to you on the point of a paring knife.

Delicious, in other words.

Whatever you and Vernon have fallen into can best be described as a foregone conclusion: Soonyoung leaves, Vernon arrives, and there’s no need for the discretion or the habit, but you can’t deny there’s a certain allure to it. It feels scandalous, dirty—something that only happens in a dark corner away from prying, garrulous eyes—even though it isn’t. Not really.

Soonyoung will be in Japan, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand; he’ll be in Berlin, Paris and London; he’ll go across North and South America. In every one of those places, someone will keep him company until he comes home to you. And, after every single time, you’ll have something in your inbox to mark the occasion—a text, some pictures, a video—because your boyfriend is nothing if not a pervert.

So no, the discretion isn’t necessary. You and Soonyoung are free to do as you please, both separately and together, which is how all of this started, anyway: his album release party, prod. by VERNON in the credits, you safely sequestered on the other side of a velvet rope. Not a secret, just… not out in the open, either, which was both a little embarrassing and difficult to explain to Vernon over the deafening, teeth-shattering background noise as he unabashedly hit on you.

He’d known, of course, that Soonyoung had been writing love songs about someone, but he hadn’t known it was you he’d helped him write about.

Not that it mattered much in the end. Soonyoung had slunk over, drunk on the spotlight and the status it afforded him, the most important man in the room, and looked Vernon dead in the eye. Pushed his tongue into the fat of his cheek, looked like a real sleazy piece of shit, and said, “You wanna fuck my girl?”

He did, admittedly, and Soonyoung had rewarded him for his honesty. Took both of you home and held Vernon’s head down as he told him how to eat you out, wet and messy and filthy. You came in record time, and a man that made you come in record time was not one you were itching to get rid of.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions you don’t have answers to. Doesn’t mind your unconventional relationship and definitely doesn’t mind recording the way you suck his cock: the way spit pools in the corners of your mouth and glistens under the flash; the way you moan around him as he rasps out husky praise; the way he says shit—fuck, baby, just like that, cock’s so far down your fuckin’ throat, huh; how wet your eyelashes are and the tears tracking down your cheeks.

Vernon fucks you right and doesn’t ask a lot of questions and calls Soonyoung hyung even though they’re colleagues, but that’s the sort of relationship you naturally fall into after you have a threesome and fuck said colleague’s girlfriend, you suppose, and Soonyoung doesn’t mind it. Because he’ll go away for whatever it is he gets called away for and Vernon will come over and tell you to ride him as he pulls out his phone and says shit like, “God, hyung, she’s about to come all over my cock. I don’t think she’s thinking about you at all. You aren’t, are you, baby? You’re not thinking about Soonyoung-hyung at all, are you? Only me,” between gasping, fractured moans.

And Soonyoung knows how that feels, is the thing. Knows the feeling of being suffocated in your tight, wet heat and how it can drive a man nearly to madness, and all he feels is pride. That’s his girl, bringing another man to his knees.

Hence the routine.

Normally you’d go out—a swanky new rooftop bar, a nightclub owned by a friend of a friend. Your drinks would glow neon blue under the blacklights, skinny red straw stuck in a plastic cup that matched the cherry at the bottom. Your skin would glisten with sweat as one of your friends twirled you around, kaleidoscope shapes behind your eyelids, both of you laughing breezy and sweet.

At some point throughout the night, Vernon would text you. You’d send him your location. He’d show up in an outfit contradicting the exclusivity of wherever you were, shower-soft, Sauvage on his wrists and neck, and he’d lean in close, ask if you wanted to stay or get out of there. Discarded on your bedroom floor, pooling at his feet in the club bathroom—it no longer mattered what he was wearing, because it never stayed on very long.

So here you are. While Soonyoung’s 800 kilometers away, undoubtedly trying to charm someone into his bed, you’re at home biding your time until the inevitable, no urge to go out. Instead, you indulge in yourself, work yourself up. Soonyoung, Vernon, both of them together—regardless of who you think about, the results are the same: you pinpoint the anticipation in your stomach and press, let your body sink beneath the weight of it.

Your boyfriend has only been in Osaka a handful of hours when the inevitable happens.

Vernon’s name lights up your screen. Transforms the slow simmer of expectation into full-blown wildfire. Has you squeezing your thighs together, bottom lip tugged between your teeth, when you open the text thread. Before tonight, the last time he’d texted you was three months ago: two o’clock in the morning, a video with a completely innocent thumbnail belying its content, already sent this to hyung but figured u might want it too written underneath.

Vernon: heard soonyoung hyung’s out of town for a while Vernon: what are u doing tonite

You exhale a soft laugh. As if Vernon just happened to stumble upon this information. As if he doesn’t already know what you’ll be getting up to tonight. As if he also isn’t falling victim to the desire. As if his lowercase letters and disregard for his ego with a double-text aren’t feigned nonchalance.

But just because you both know exactly where this is heading doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun.

So you pull your shirt over your head and toss it aside. Open up your camera and angle your body the way you like: glossed lips parted, the bruise Soonyoung sucked into your skin this morning just beneath your collarbone, cleavage framed perfectly, curve of your ass center frame, both covered in cheeky forest green lace. You snap a photo and another one with a painted-on pout; snap a third as the tips of your fingers delve beneath the waistline of your panties.

You: [Attachment: 3 Images] You: Hopefully you?

At the receiving end, Vernon swears, drops his phone. Of course you’re bathed in his favorite color. Of course you’re wrapped in sheets he’s lucky enough to know the feel of. Dizzy, his breath catches in his throat; tries to stave off feeling like he’s in free-fall. He’s no stranger to this kind of insatiable hunger—becomes reacquainted with it every few months, in fact—but it always catches him unaware. Always comes back with such a vengeance, as if all the times before had simply been the prefix.

He grabs his jacket.

Vernon’s barely been at your place twenty minutes when your phone rings.

You groan as he rolls his cock against you, jeans undone but still sitting low on his hips, zipper biting into your skin every time he presses you further into the mattress. The next sound you make he swallows with his mouth. Moves his lips to the column of your throat, the underside of your jaw, the spot just beneath your ear. Takes your lobe between his teeth, asks, “Is it him?” and lets you feel the way he smirks.

Blindly, you reach toward the sound, that horrible scattering across your nightstand that makes your teeth ache. It must be Soonyoung because it’s relentless, another call just as the first one ends, and you’re trying, you really are, but Vernon’s relentless, too. Abandons your space, takes your common sense and all his heat with him as he sits back on his haunches and moves his hands beneath your ass; drags you closer until your cunt—still covered in that dark lace and growing darker the wetter you become—is back against his cock and ruts.

You’re speechless, head thrown back against the pillows, the synapses of your brain misfiring and coming up empty. Both of you are still clothed and Vernon’s still having his way with you; still smirking dirty and arrogant out of the side of his mouth. Almost looks like he’s sneering a little as he asks again, “What’s the matter, baby? Not gonna answer him?” At your continued silence, he amends, “Oh, or maybe you can’t?”

You want to roll your eyes, shut him up with some sharp retort, but he’s got you exactly where he wants you. It’s a place you don’t mind being, either, because whether it’s the way his thick cock feels rubbing against your clit or the result of months of waiting, it doesn’t matter, it all feels divine. Has your breathing labored and heavy, has sweat pricking at your skin, has Vernon staring down at you with a gaze so pointed it cuts through the haze.

So he makes the decision for you. Reaches over and grabs your phone, tucks it between his ear and his shoulder. Keeps his hands free so he can keep moving you against him and greets your boyfriend with a, “Sorry, hyung, she’s a little busy right now.”

You can hear Soonyoung’s bark of laughter from where you’re laying, and then more muted chattering. He must give Vernon instructions, because Vernon puts the phone on speaker and tosses it somewhere on the bed. “Hello, princess. Are you having fun?” All you can manage is an uh-huh that’s fractured in the middle, punctuated with another roll of Vernon’s hips. “Mm, you sound so good, baby. Miss hearing you like that already. Can I see you, too?”

Vernon catches your eye as he reaches for your phone again. Waits for your nod before he points the camera at you and switches it to FaceTime. You hear Soonyoung suck in a breath. Wonder what he looks like. If the low light of his hotel room casts amber shadows across his face that intensify his stare, sharpen it to a point. If he’s got his arm tucked behind his head, laissez-faire in that way that drives you crazy, sensual without having to try. You almost ask Vernon to see, but then Soonyoung clicks his tongue and says, “That set is your favorite, isn’t it?”

The man he’s addressing looks down at you, eyes full of stars. “Yeah, hyung,” Vernon says, and it’s breathy, barely counts as separate words. Through the camera, Soonyoung watches as Vernon runs his fingertips over the hickey he’d left, over the swell of your breast and the space between each rib. Watches as Vernon grips at the meat of your thigh; as his hands flex before he grabs at you again.

“You want to touch her, don’t you? Properly.” He watches as Vernon nods, the camera wobbling with the intensity of it. “Put your mouth on her, Vernon-ah—she loves that so much.”

You can hear the shit-eating lilt to his tone and you know he’s enjoying this. That he loves watching you. Loves that Vernon’s always so fucked up over you and that he gets to direct these scenes. Loves what he gets to experience with you: something enduring and impenetrable, something that grants him freedom and indulgence. Loves you, most of all, but there will be time for that later.

Right now, he wants to watch Vernon make a mess of you. Wants to watch him pull those little lace panties to the side and eat you out, fervent and messy. Wants to hear it when he starts sucking at your clit and you keen high in your throat. Wants to watch the way you grab at his hair and force him closer as you roll your hips and seek out your own undoing.

Right now, Vernon hands the phone to you. “There’s my pretty girl,” Soonyoung says, and your face grows hot—as hot as the hands that skim over your skin and move to take off your panties. Soonyoung loves this part—loves watching someone unwrap you like a present; loves the tension even when isn’t there for it—so you flip the camera so he can see. “Leave them on,” your boyfriend instructs. Vernon’s brows pinch together. “You know she wore that set just for you, so leave it on when you fuck her. Make a mess of it. Cum all over it and ruin it, and then maybe I’ll let you take my card to buy her a new one.”

Vernon’s eyes flutter closed, long lashes fanning across his ruddy cheeks, so fucking pretty.

Anticipation sinks its claws into you again. Feels like an eternity passes before Vernon’s hands start moving again. Before he presses the pads of his thumbs into your hips and the contact makes both of you gasp. Before he leans in closer and kisses all the places he’d left fingerprints. Kisses your stomach, hips, the tops of your thighs and down, down, down until he’s where you want him—until you can feel his breath against your cunt, goosebumps rising from the warmth.

You only tear your eyes away from him to look at Soonyoung. Even through the screen you can tell he’s growing restless: pupils blown wide, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, breathing unsteady. You reach for Vernon, thread your fingers through his hair and tug, and at his resulting whine Soonyoung flips his own camera. What greets you is an expanse of familiar tan skin, his defined abs, legs spread wide, cock curved and hard.

There isn’t an ounce of shame to be found as he palms at himself. Just a ghost of a touch before he squeezes at the base and groans. All the times you’ve watched him do this… you can imagine the way his head rolls back, lips parted, muscles tensing.

“You look so good,” you murmur, and there’s no telling who it’s directed at—because Soonyoung looks good, just as he always does, but Vernon is a vision.

Especially when he’s between your legs.

There’s a glimpse of a half-cocked smile before he flattens his tongue and delves between your folds, stealing the breath from your lungs. One stripe and then another, all parallel lines as he works you over. Wraps his arms around your hips and pulls you closer to his mouth, doubles his efforts, doesn’t pay any mind to the mess he’s making, both of the sheets and of you.

You tug harder at Vernon’s hair. Roll your hips in time with his tongue, both of you endlessly noisy. Vernon groans as he sucks at your clit and you feel the sparks like lightning. Feels like he’s making a mockery of you. Feels like all he knows is your pleasure. Feels like an eternity has passed since he’s worked you over like this, and Soonyoung must agree because he almost sounds whiny as he says, “God, I missed this. Missed seeing you two together.”

You dare a look. Soonyoung jerks himself slowly with a loose fist, drags it out, savors every second and shiver that dances up his spine. Hisses through his teeth when he gathers the precum at the tip and spreads it along the length of his shaft. You want to see his face. Want to see the way his dark hair falls into his eyes when he shudders and curves into himself, the crease that forms between his brows, his eyes when they’re glassy and unfocused.

But then Vernon does something with his mouth that has you crying out—a strangled sound halfway between shock and gratification. Has you mirroring the exact image you expected to see on Soonyoung’s face. There’s poetry in that, you think, and that’s the last thought you have before Vernon drags your orgasm from you and your world tilts on its axis.

When you come to, vision still out of focus and fuzzy around the edges, you’re covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your phone is lost somewhere in the duvet, and Vernon’s still between your legs.

You choke. Feel around desperately for your phone and can barely hold onto it, weak and trembling, all your energy drained. Try to clamp your thighs around Vernon’s head for some reprieve but he knows you too well, knows you can take it, so he forces them back open.

Bliss spreads like wildfire. Starts in your toes and works its way into your bloodstream. Feels like you’ve been carved out of kerosene and matchsticks. It’ll be Vernon, you know—he’ll be the catalyst, light the spark that consumes and overwhelms you.

Especially when he’s like this.

When you’re the only thing that exists to him. When he’d forego pleasure for the rest of his life if it meant drowning in your pussy and getting you off. When he pays no mind to your boyfriend’s obscene goading—“Can you taste me, Vernon-ah? Did she tell you I filled her up this morning? That it was so much it was leaking out of her?”—and stays focused on you. When he runs two fingers through your mess and presses them inside, right against the spot that nearly folds you in half, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, pressure mounting.

“Oh my god. Vernon, please, it’s too much, I’m gonna—”

You feel him smile against your cunt. Pulls back only far enough to bite at the juncture of your thigh and say, “I know you can take it,” in his hoarse voice. With lips that are covered in you. “You’re gonna come again, aren’t you, baby? And you’re gonna be a good girl and soak through these fucking sheets while your boyfriend has to jerk himself off.”

That’s exactly what happens.

The cord inside you snaps. Soonyoung swears as he watches you come again, body pulling taut, Vernon’s name spilling from your lips like a mantra. Vernon’s on you immediately, setting the phone on your nightstand and kissing you senseless. Lets you taste yourself and the way you claimed him. Slots his body between your legs, careful as he presses against you because he knows how oversensitive you get. Waits until the tremors subside and he can feel you tracing shapes against his back before he murmurs a quiet okay? into your ear.

It takes a second for you to nod, but you do.

Vernon looks to his right at your phone. “Still want her fully dressed, hyung? She’s made a pretty big mess already.”

Soonyoung laughs, breathy and a little disbelieving. He loves this part, too, when Vernon dishes back as good as he gets. Both of them know it’s not a competition and would never treat it as one, but Soonyoung can’t help himself sometimes. Loves to stir shit just because he can—because Vernon is younger and looks up to him, but also because you like Vernon and he enjoys teasing you just as much.

So Soonyoung laughs. Asks, “How are you feeling, pretty girl? You want him to fuck you?” and continues stroking himself, pace leisurely, cock glistening with spit and precum, balls tight.

He’s always affected.

And so are you. You nod. Readjust your body beneath Vernon’s so he can press in tighter, so you can wrap your legs around his waist and delight in the sounds he makes—first like the breath’s been punched out of him, then more intentional as the electricity ebbs away and settles into his bones. His fingers grip at your thigh, movements fluid as he rocks his hips, unconcerned with the stickiness seeping through the fabric of his briefs.

Vernon wants you every second of every single day, and he doesn’t care who knows it.

You move your hands to his face. Let your thumbs rest on the high points of his cheekbones and settle into the contours there. Press your lips to his and lick into his mouth, all teeth and tongue and no savoir-faire. Vernon responds in kind. Starts moving frenetic and mindless, vehemence making up for his lack of composure, swallowing everything you give him.

Fucks you up a little that he still tastes like you—that you’re not all that easy to rinse out.

“Shit,” he swears, slurring the word against your mouth, lips bitten red and swollen. “Need you so bad, baby, please.”

Your vision swims, the raw urgency in Vernon’s tone making everything look like television static. All you can do is nod, spread your legs wider, press your body into him and hope he knows what to do with it, but he needs you to say it. “Tell me,” he says, settling a hand around your throat. Not tight—just so he can feel your words, just so he knows they’re there. “Tell me you want me. Tell me how you want me to give it to you.”

“Want you. Wanna ride you,” you answer. “Wanna be able to look at you. So pretty, Nonie—you look so pretty when you cum, I wanna see it.”

Vernon swears again. Sits back and has his jeans and underwear pulled off before you can process what’s happening, rolls on a condom, and that’s where you meet him, in the center of the bed. You move into the space between his spread legs, drape your arms over his shoulders as your knees bracket his hips, spit into your hand and work it over his cock, thumbing at the head just to make him whine.

“Babe—”

And then you’re pulling your panties to the side and sinking down on it.

The stretch is overwhelming. Steals the air from your lungs. Has Vernon pressing his forehead to yours, sharing your breath, dimpling your hips with bruising fingerprints. “Slow,” he pleads, and you’d give him anything, so you kiss the spot just beneath his eye, say okay, okay, and turn your attention to Soonyoung.

Not far off from how you’d left him: touching himself with reverence, not an ounce of shame to be found; sounds spilling from his lips that sound like home. He doesn’t notice you watching, but it doesn’t matter, he’s a performer in every aspect of his life. Thrives when he’s under the spotlight, demanding everyone’s attention, all eyes on him. Sex is no different. Always goes into it with eyes wide open, so you’re not surprised when he feels yours on him. When he says, “What’s the matter, princess?”

Beneath you, Vernon’s starting to gather his bearings. Thrusts slow and shallow and groans. “Did you bring it?” you ask Soonyoung, trying to keep your voice steady as Vernon fucks into you.

“The—”

“Yes,” you interject, already knowing what he was going to ask. Shit, Vernon feels so good. “Get it out. Use it. Wanna see you cum that way.”

Soonyoung swears. Says, “Fuck—god, yeah, I’ll get it,” and disappears from the screen. Vernon’s lips move to your chest, your neck, your mouth. He’s moving in earnest, now—doesn’t care what he sounds like, that he’s devolved into staccato whines and half-syllables. Doesn’t care about the mess between your legs.

Doesn’t care that when Soonyoung comes back onto the screen, you’re wholly focused on him, grinning pleased and wicked. If you want him to work for it, he will. If you want him to give it to you so good you’re not even thinking about your boyfriend, that’s what he’s going to do. If you want him to fuck you so hard you can’t even speak, well, that’s the goal.

So he doubles his efforts. Plants his feet on the bed and uses the leverage to bury himself as deep in you as he can. He’s done this enough to know his angles, know how to have you dripping and shaking, but he wants to savor this. Wants to drag it out for you. Some sick, selfish part of him wants this to be the fuck you’re thinking about later as you’re about to drift to sleep even though you aren’t his to claim. Not like that, anyway. He can still paint you in bruises that match Soonyoung’s, undecipherable from one another. No telling what’s his work and what’s Vernon’s.

“Tell me what to do.”

Vernon glances sideways. Watches as his hyung dribbles lube all over his cock, slicks himself up. Glances at you and sees you watching. Sees the way your jaw ticks, your eyes darken. Can feel how endless your love is for Soonyoung and he wants to burn up.

But then you say, “Fuck yourself the way Vernonie’s fucking me,” and the words soothe over him like a balm. Even more so when Soonyoung listens; when he grabs the pocket pussy and works it slowly down his shaft, moaning long and drawn out the entire way.

“God, I’m about to fucking bust.” Soonyoung laughs. “Tell me how he’s fucking you, pretty girl. Bet it feels even better than this, huh? Bet he’s making you feel so good.”

Everyone’s about to make an early exit at this rate. Vernon tells (begs) him to shut up in so many words. Tries to focus on himself, thinks about every terrible thing in the world to stave it off, but the way you’re nodding along with Soonyoung’s words are hurtling him towards the end at record speed. The way you look at Vernon with constellations in your eyes. The way you’re reduced to mindless babbling, all your words slurring together as you say, “It’s so good. So good, Soonyoungie, he’s so deep, fucks me so good, god I’m gonna come again—”

Vernon panics, bites at your collar bone, knows he wouldn’t survive feeling you clench around his cock. Tells you, “Not yet,” even though he’s barely able to choke out the words; even though he can barely endure you now, cunt spasming, walls fluttering around him. The unbelievable white-hot heat, the vice grip. Fuck, he wants to do this every day. Wants to do this for the rest of his life.

And you must be able to tell. Must see how spaced out he looks, because you move your hands to the center of his chest and dig your nails in, urge him backwards until he’s propped up on one elbow. This is what Vernon sees when he closes his eyes, when it’s been months since he’s seen you and he’s cumming all over his fist: the lines of his own body, the coarse strip of hair that leads from his stomach to where your bodies connect; you on top of him, hips sinuous and sinful as you circle them.

You put on a show of your own. Move your hands to his knees and spread your legs wider. Vernon’s cock looks obscene inside of you, trapped beneath your lace panties, so he grabs your phone, makes sure Soonyoung can see what he’s seeing. Makes sure Soonyoung can see the sheen your wetness leaves on his skin as you grind back and forth on him. Makes sure Soonyoung can hear the slapping of your and Vernon’s skin, the way your pussy squelches, how lewd everything sounds in the still air of the bedroom the two of you share.

“Jesus—fuck,” Soonyoung says down the line, voice metallic and fucked out. “You two are so goddamn hot together. Make her come, Vernon-ah, and then I wanna see her covered in you. Wanna see you ruin my pretty girl.”

Vernon shudders and nearly folds in on himself. Grabs your hip to slow your movements, refusing to get off before you, but you’re determined. Your grin is devilish as you move his hand to your clit and tell him to get to work. As you lean forward briefly to kiss him before you’re moving in earnest again, more intentional than before, and it’s all Vernon can do to stay conscious. All of it’s too much: the way you look above him, head thrown back, the marks he’d left on your throat; the way you’re able to handle both of them at once, riding Vernon into the mattress while you talk Soonyoung over the edge, the most filthy words spilling out of your mouth.

The way you gasp as Vernon thumbs circles against your clit and reach for his hand, trying to ground yourself as your pussy clenches, as you barely have time to stammer out the words before you’re coming on his cock.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Vernon pulls out, almost cries at no longer being enveloped in your heat, pulls off the condom and fists his cock once, twice, and then watches, entranced, as he does what his hyung said and covers you in cum.

Your tits, your stomach, the fabric of your panties.

For a moment, everything is quiet, everyone still coming down and trying to catch their breath. You’re spent, exhausted and satiated in ways you haven’t been in months. Every muscle in your body feels overworked. Your throat feels raw. Every inch of skin that’s bruised feels like a branding iron, and it is, you suppose.  Soonyoung’s, Vernon’s, it doesn’t matter—you wear them both.

“Don’t wash those,” comes Soonyoung’s voice.

It takes you a second to realize what he means. “My panties?” you ask, shock apparent. You’d known he was a freak, of course, but the depths of his perversion continue to surprise you. “Soonyoung…”

“Don’t kink shame me, princess, I’m covered in my own jizz and I need another shower. I came so hard I think I had religious visions. How’re you feeling, Vernon-ah?”

The man in question doesn’t answer. You’d think he was asleep with his eyes open if you knew he was capable of it, but that’s not what’s going on. Vernon’s fixated on you. Can’t tear his eyes off of you and the cum that’s drying into your skin, and you know you shouldn’t, that you should give him a break, but there’s no fun in that, so you trail your fingers through the mess on your stomach and suck them into your mouth.

“Yeah, don’t need to ask after that. Goddamn. I’m gonna go shower before you get me hard again. Good luck with her.”

The call disconnects. In the aftermath, the silence is almost stifling, almost makes you feel a sense of guilt that’s entirely undeserved, but then Vernon’s sitting up and crowding your space, hands behind your back as he works at the knots he finds there. Pulls you in closer. Presses a spun-sugar kiss to your forehead that makes your heart skip a beat.

The thing is, though: he doesn’t stay.

It’s not a rule. It’s not something Soonyoung requested to keep some semblance of boundaries in your relationship. He doesn’t care, and neither do you, but Vernon does. Doesn’t want to overstep and muddy the lines. Doesn��t want to make it seem like more than it is, and you’ve always been fine with that, but something about this time feels different. Strikes you someplace deep, hidden away, tucked behind your ribs. Vernon runs you a bath and changes the sheets while you’re soaking your aching muscles and when you’re tucked into bed, he presses another kiss to your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Promises to text you later in the week.

And then he lets himself out.

You’re still awake an hour later when your phone lights up with a string of texts, and you force yourself not to think about what it means that you’re disappointed it isn’t Vernon.

Soonyoung: Going to sleep. The two of u wore me out ㅋㅋㅋ Soonyoung: I’ll text u in the morning. Got an early day tomorrow 😭 Soonyoung: Love u baby. Sleep tight ❤️

With Soonyoung in Paris, it’s hard to make the time difference work.

Seven hours usually isn’t a problem—it’s worse when he goes to the Americas, for example—but it’s been weeks since your technological ménage à trois and you aren’t feeling any less unsettled. All you want to do is talk to him. Ask him what the hell is going on with you, why you can’t seem to shake this, what it all means, but it just never works out.

Not the right time. Not enough time. Soonyoung often has his own plans that keep him occupied until the early hours of the morning wherever he is, and by then he’s too exhausted and you’ve been awake for hours, already well into the monotony of your day.

Still, it eats at you. Makes you feel guilty in ways you can’t rationalize. You know you haven’t done anything wrong. Haven’t done anything you haven’t done plenty of times before; haven’t done anything Soonyoung isn’t also doing when he’s not around to answer your calls. And that’s fine—even though it’s unconventional to most, you love the dynamic the two of you have. Wouldn’t change it for anything except Soonyoung himself, so you know he’s not the point of contention.

No, it’s you—you’re the problem here.

Something’s changed, but whatever it is isn’t all that keen to let you in on the secret yet.

So you do your best to push it down and swallow it. You go to work. You meet your friends for dinner and drinks. You suffer through your gym sessions just to give the anxiety and jitters someplace to go. You clean your and Soonyoung’s apartment top to bottom until there’s not a speck of dust to be found and all the countertops start to squeak. You go shopping and charge whatever you want to Soonyoung’s credit card because he’d want you to.

None of it works.

It’s no wonder, then, that you break by the time Soonyoung gets to Paris. That you’re sending up flares and paying little attention to the time difference. That you text him—

You: Can you make some time to call me today? You: I don’t care about the time. You: It’s nothing bad, I promise. Just need/want to talk to you.

—and expect something, anything, in return: the familiarity of his tone, his overuse of emojis, the way he always calls on FaceTime and always greets you barefaced and with a relieved smile, like you’re the only thing he wants to see at the end of a long day. You expect him to say anything for my girl—or, at the very least, can’t today baby 🙁 I’m so sorry, but I’ll have time tomorrow and I’ll call first thing, ok ??

You don’t get any of that.

What you get is silence.

Your texts go unanswered. He doesn’t call. You double-check your calendar just to confirm you hadn’t gotten the date confused, but he doesn’t have a show tonight. Rehearsal and a team dinner, maybe, but nothing that should make him so unavailable to you.

Well, except one very obvious thing.

There’s a flashbang of hurt you immediately try to tamper down. Soonyoung can’t read your mind. He’s never ignored you when you’ve needed him or given you reason to believe he’d do something like this intentionally and maliciously—not to mention that the arrangement the two of you have has never been an issue before, so it’s nothing to get upset over. You know it’s nothing to get upset over, but knowing doesn’t suck the poison out.

A temporary lapse in communication is all this is. You’ve survived worse.

It’s just—

This shapeless, undefinable thing that’s clawed its way inside of you isn’t going anywhere. And you can deal with the stopgap emotions until you’re able to put a name to it—the anger and confusion, the abstract betrayal—but it’s always easiest to carry burdens with two sets of hands, is all.

Hours tick by. What was two hours without a response turns into four; four turns into six turns into you readying yourself for bed and spending the night tossing and turning, checking your phone every time you awake in the middle of the night. When your alarm goes off at eight o’clock and there’s still nothing, all those ugly feelings come swimming back to the surface.

Your first call rings and rings until it goes to voicemail.

So does the second.

Soonyoung answers the third out of breath, voice gravelly. A woman’s laughter greets you before he can, and for the first time ever, it makes you sick to your stomach. Makes you wonder what the fuck you’re doing. Has your hands trembling, all your words stuck in your throat, frustrated tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Another twinkling laugh that your boyfriend responds to with a husky one of his own. “Hello? Hi, baby, I’m a little—”

Busy, he’s going to say. You’ve gathered as much. Busy is laughing in your ear, probably has her hands all over him, and it’s always been like this, the sharing and the nonexistence of possessiveness, but you come first. That’s the rule. Both of you come first to one another, so busy isn’t acceptable. Busy has resentment biting at your heels. Has your blood pressure spiking, your skin flushing hot.

Has you cutting him off, saying, “So busy you couldn’t answer my fucking texts?” with so much animosity all noise at the other end of the line immediately ceases.

You hear footsteps and the shutting of a door, the turn of a lock. “Okay, I’m alone,” he murmurs softly; you wish it did anything to comfort you. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

A laugh of your own, derisive and disbelieving. “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been trying to do.”

You’re not about to spill your guts when Busy is in the next room over touching herself so she’s primed and ready to go when your boyfriend ends the call, goes back into the bedroom and says, sorry about that, and climbs back on top of her. You’re not about to spill your guts and feel like an inconvenience.

So you scoff and shake your head, say, “You know what, Soonyoung? Don’t even worry about it. Go back to fucking whoever the fuck she is and forget I even called.”

“Baby, come on, wait—”

You’re not about to spill your guts, so you rewrite the script.

You end the call. You ignore the texts that follow.

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

Vernon gets done work a little after ten.

You get off the train a few stops early and decide to walk the rest of the way. It’s been so long since you’ve done this. Since you’ve breathed in the smell of the samgyaetang and dakgalbi restaurants, the tteokbokki and bungeoppang from the street food vendors. Since you’ve thought the neon lights of Hongdae Street were going to blind you and shielded your eyes. Since you’ve walked by groups of friends posing for selfies in the middle of the sidewalk, apple cheeks from wide smiles pressed together; couples doubled over in laughter as they try to jump on one another’s backs. Since you’ve watched patrons stumble out of bars and clubs with queues to get in, faces flushed from the alcohol they’ve already consumed.

Vernon lives in Mapo, in an artsy high-rise in Seogyo-dong. New construction that’s meant to look much older, meant to resemble the industrial loft apartments found in older American cities, warehouses made irrelevant as the 21st century moved in and took hold. They’re all exposed brick, twenty-pane windows, concrete floors, neo-expressionist paintings hung in the lobby.

A block away, a bingsu restaurant is closed until the next afternoon, but it’s what lies beneath that piques your interest: a basement rock bar, show flyers plastered all over the door, live music pounding the pavement and spilling onto the sidewalk.

You’re in the lungs of the city, and it’s every bit as alive as you expected—and hoped—it would be.

You feel at home here, surrounded by people and nightlife and unrelenting noise. Where you and Soonyoung live isn’t dissimilar, just different—more refined and inhibited, more concerned with appearances than letting loose. You’ve gotten good at rubbing elbows with those types of people, as necessary and inevitable as it is, but sometimes you just miss the unpolished grime of ordinary people.

Vernon’s outside waiting for you when you reach his building.

Hat pulled low over his eyes. An oversized black hoodie that drowns his lithe frame, makes him look smaller than he is. Face lit up by the glow from his phone. A lollipop stuck in his mouth that he presses into the fat of his cheek when he looks up, sees you, and smiles.

“Hi,” he greets you, arms twitching at his sides, unsure of what to do—what’s okay, what isn’t. If he’s allowed to be affectionate with you in public. If anyone can know, even though you’re no one to these people and he’s as out of the spotlight as you are.

So you make the decision for him. Place a hand on his waist, lean in and press a kiss to his cheek. When you pull back, his cheeks are the same shade of cherry red as his lips and tongue. He ducks his head, tries to hide it, but there might as well be a flashing sign above his head to signal his embarrassment. “Oh,” he says quietly, touching the spot where you’d kissed him.

You swallow. The Vernon standing in front of you is a stark contrast to the one you fall into bed with. This one is all soft, rounded edges: shy, chivalrous, almost self-conscious—the kind that wouldn’t bruise if you bumped into him. You try to ignore the way your heart is hammering away in your chest, but the duality is making your head spin.

“Do you want to grab a drink first, or should we just…” He trails off, coughing to cover himself when all you do is quirk an eyebrow just to see if you can get him to blush again. “There’s a pretty cool LP bar down that way, if you’d be into that sorta thing? But I also have vinyl at my place, so I guess it doesn’t—”

You know laughing will only mortify him more, but you can’t help it. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” comes his automatic response.

“Are you sure?” you tease, watching as his fingers—covered to the second knuckle by his sleeves—worry insistently at the fabric of his hoodie. He flushes again, mouth opening and closing around words that don’t materialize, and it’s almost painful how endeared you are by him. “Come on, then,” you say, deciding to put him out of his misery, “show me this pretty cool bar.”

It’s a short walk, only a few blocks, but Vernon sets a slow pace and holds your hand anyway. Neither of you acknowledge that his is sweat-slick, and you can tell he’s thankful for this bit of reprieve. Must help him settle, because it isn’t long before he starts yapping away, animated and buoyant. He talks about work, about the album he’s mastering and how he hasn’t yet gotten the sidechain compression on the bass where he wants it. Tells you about a group the company recently put together that he’s excited about and thinks could be really successful.

“I don’t see them much since they’re always at practice,” he explains, slowing further as you approach a convenience store, “but when they have free time some of ‘em like to sit in the studio and watch me work. This GS25 gave me a black eye once.”

“What?”

He sounds straight out of a nature documentary as he tells you the story. How he’d wanted convenience store ramen because they had a 1+1, and on the way decided he needed a Yonsei bread, too, except he was piss drunk and didn’t realize the doors weren’t automatic, so yeah—hence the black eye. And it’s not particularly funny, but you laugh until your stomach hurts anyway; laugh until both of you are off-kilter from it, shoulders knocking into one another, tears blurring your vision and making the city look crystalline.

You laugh all the way to the bar, and Vernon only lets go of you to open the door and help you inside, hand reassuring and warm when it moves to the small of your back.

A two-seater table is open in the far corner. You sit with your back to the wall and a Blondie poster above your head, content to take in the view. Vernon’s content to let you. Asks what you’d like to drink and doesn’t bat an eye when you request a midori sour. You throw him an exaggerated wink as you say, “If you ask them to put a cherry in it, I’ll show you a magic trick.”

Vernon nearly cums on the spot.

But he does as you say. Returns to the table with two drinks and a pencil and paper. “For your song requests,” he explains when he sees you eyeing it.

“Thank you,” you say, taking your midori sour from him. “What are you gonna request? And what are you drinking?”

“It’s a Coke and something,” he answers, “but I’m not telling you what.” You roll your lips to keep from laughing. As if you couldn’t smell the coconut from across the bar. As if you can’t smell it on him now, when all you can think about is if you’ll be able to taste it on him later when he’s licking into your mouth. “I think you promised me a magic trick.”

A group of American girls taught you this in university, back when you were a starry-eyed freshman completely out of your comfort zone, friendless, more wallflower than functioning human. You just need a party trick, one of them had said, something to break the ice, and that’s how you learned to tie a cherry stem with your tongue.

Just like all those impressionable, hormone-riddled college boys, Vernon is stunned when you stick out your tongue to present it to him. Gets that dazed, faraway look in his eyes; has to clear his throat to get his lungs working again. Turns the tables on you when he reaches out and grabs it, putting it in his pocket for safekeeping, and then it’s you who feels like they’ve been punched in the chest.

It’s maddening, how oblivious he is to the effect he has on you.

“Did I ever tell you I was born in New York?” He drums the pencil against the table. Looks around the bar that’s grown steadily busier. “I moved here when I was five so I don’t really remember much, but it’s always felt like this huge part of me, so I went through this phase a few years ago—read a ton of books on the history of the music scene there, listened to all the albums they said were influential.”

You jot down some songs. “And? What was your verdict?”

He takes a sip of his drink. Laughs a little as he scratches at the back of his neck. “I got really into Tom Tom Club,” he answers. “You know Talking Heads, right? Tom Tom Club was the side project of the drummer and the bassist of that band. Husband and wife.”

Over the speakers, a bluesy folk song starts playing, soft and melodic. You’re not as musically inclined as your boyfriend or the man across from you, but you’re still able to be moved by it. Still able to appreciate in others when they love something so much it becomes tangible. When a bluesy folk song starts playing in a bar and it brings a smile to Vernon’s face. When he talks about artists and albums he’s discovered and speaks with all the reverence of an archaeologist digging up ancient riches thought to be long-forgotten. When you glance at the songs you’ve written down and don’t have to worry that they won’t be cool enough, because everyone here just loves music, no matter what form it takes; are able to find something to appreciate everywhere they look.

“Talking Heads had already put out, like, four or five albums I think by the time Tom Tom Club formed,” Vernon continues. His drink is almost gone. “But David Byrne had released some solo stuff by then with Brian Eno, so they wanted to do something, too, and what they made was this really funky, kind of unexpected new wave album.

“They did some really weird stuff production-wise—103 bpm when everyone else was doing 120, deliberately tuning Tina Weymouth’s bass to 150 hertz, using a really crunchy synth. I find myself going back to it every time I get stuck, mostly because it’s the sort of thing you can listen to and feel how much they loved making music.” He pauses. Almost looks horrified when he sees there’s nothing left in his glass but half-melted ice. “I—oh my god, I’m sorry, I can’t believe I’ve been talking your ear off about this.”

Head tilted to the side, you smile. “We’re in a music bar,” you deadpan. “I’d go so far as to say we’re in the perfect place for you to talk my ear off about this.”

“Yeah, but—” You give him a look that has him holding his hands up. “Okay, okay! I’ll go refill our drinks since it’s the least I can do. Do you have your…?”

That aforementioned smile morphs into something more mischievous when you hand him your slip of paper. You watch as he looks it over, nods at the picks he thinks were in good taste: “Dreams” by The Cranberries, “Don’t Push It Don’t Force It” by Leon Haywood, “Smalltown Boy” by Bronski Beat, “When I Come Around” by Green Day just to take the piss out of Vernon, who seems to have an endless collection of faded, worn Green Day t-shirts with loose necklines. Then, you watch as he gets to the last song on your list and his brows furrow.

He looks up at you. Even against the dark backdrop of the bar, against the red green blue lights casting technicolor shapes across his forehead, his cheeks, you can tell Vernon is stunned. Can see how wide his pupils have blown.

There, at the bottom of your list, is “Fantasy” by Mariah Carey.

Arguably the most well-known song to sample “Genius of Love” by Tom Tom Club.

Vernon’s apartment has three bedrooms.

One is used as a home studio, with a massive L-shaped desk that nearly takes up the entire room. In the middle, a laptop hooked up to a massive curved monitor with immaculate resolution, flanked on each side by monitor speakers. Stereo receiver. Preamps and input patch bays. A midi controller and a drum machine.

The rest of the room is taken up by instruments. An upright piano against one wall, clearly purchased secondhand; beside it, a two-tiered stand containing a keyboard and analog synthesizer. Two electric guitars, one acoustic, one bass. More microphones and over-ear headphones than you’ve ever seen in a single room.

Another resembles the LP bar: two walls of floor-to-ceiling built-ins that house his extensive vinyl collection, sorted first by genre then alphabetically. More records sit in milk crates on the floor, waiting to be catalogued and put away. To the right, on the only remaining wall that isn’t fully windows, sits a vintage credenza, most likely Japanese mid-century. You don’t have to ask—just by looking at it, you can tell Vernon’s hi-fi setup is top of the line, each item carefully chosen after hours of research and trial and error. Two plush armchairs, angled toward one another. Colorful shag rug.

His actual bedroom contains none of those things, but there are still touches of him everywhere.

Framed prints from his favorite artists and films. A concerning number of plain white t-shirts hung on a chrome clothing rack. On his nightstand, a well-used Replica candle (Jazz Club; smells like him) sits atop a stack of books with neon spines: Virgil Abloh. Nike. ICONS, Sofia Coppola Archive, Yoshitomo Nara. There’s a lamp on his dresser meant to look like entrance beacons of the New York City subway. Above his bed hangs a neon sign of Basquiat’s Beat Bop album cover, and on the floor, a black and white checkered rug.

As for the rest—well, you hadn’t been given much time to admire it before Vernon was laying you in the middle of the bed and kissing you breathless.

(It does taste like coconut when he licks into your mouth.)

And it isn’t like you needed a reminder—you never do with Vernon—but it serves as one anyway. That the two of you spent the last few hours of a Friday night drinking together in a bar, laughing at one another’s song requests, laughing at Vernon’s drinks mixed with coconut rum, laughing in general. That it’d taken a few rounds, but after the laughter faded and he plucked up the courage, he asked about your and Soonyoung’s relationship: how you met, how it started, how it works. That you answered all his questions because there was only curiosity beneath them.

That he paid your tab and held your hand as you left, giddy and eager to get back to his place. That when the two of you reached an intersection, no walking sign lit up, he pressed his chest to your back and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

That when you passed the GS25, you cracked a joke and asked Vernon if he wanted to stop and get ramen and Yonsei bread.

That he’d clenched his jaw and sent you a look that was pure heat; grabbed you by the waist and leaned in close, whispered in your ear, “I’ve been ready to bust in my fucking pants since you decided to torture me with that cherry, so I’m not doing a fucking thing that isn’t taking you back to my place and making you come over and over.”

Now here you are.

Vernon’s pace is bruising. It’s frenzied and unpredictable, like he’s trying to prove a point. What it is, you don’t know, but you find it hard to care when he’s like this. When he sheds his shyness like a second skin and is brazen in the way he wants you. When you’ve crossed the threshold of his bedroom and he makes it clear selfishness doesn’t exist here—that all you have to do is lay claim to what he’s willing to give.

And maybe that’s the thing: you can’t put a name to what you want. “Everything” feels too heavy, too much. When it’s exactly what’s on offer, it feels like the weight of the world. I couldn’t possibly ask for that, you think, and Vernon is right behind you asking, Why can’t you?

So you’ll take it, for now. You’ll let Vernon’s deft fingers undress you with reverence and you’ll claw at his back and help him pull his hoodie over his head. You’ll revel in his proximity; how it never, ever feels like he’s close enough. You’ll steal the breath from his lungs and wrap your legs around his waist to keep him draped over you like chiffon. And the first time your phone vibrates you’ll ignore it. The second and third times, too.

When it doesn’t let up, Vernon pulls back. Asks, “Is that…? Should I grab it?”

You only have a split-second to decide how things are going to play out—not only this, right here, but everything that comes after. You and Soonyoung come first to one another, but you still feel scorned. A bit petty. Hi, baby, I’m a little busy, still feels like a bruise; has hurt coursing you like it came from a blood bag.

So you thread your fingers through his hair—impossibly soft; the color of molten chocolate—until they’re resting at the back of his neck. Bring his mouth back to yours and let the taste of him transport you someplace else. Vernon groans as he fits his hands to the curve of your waist.

Your phone is still ringing. Vernon opens his mouth and you shake your head. “No,” you answer, voice unwavering, “this one’s just for us.” He stares down at you. Everything he’s feeling shows clearly on his face, but it’s still undecipherable: the push and pull of the tide, always changing. “Kiss me.”

He does. Whatever fire had consumed him earlier has cooled off considerably, replaced only with the need for closeness. Every press of his mouth against your body is delicate. Every brush of his fingertips and knuckles against your skin is tender. When he kisses down your body and makes you come with his tongue, it isn’t booming fireworks but a quiet gasp into the crook of your elbow.

When he rolls on a condom and presses into you, he twines your fingers together again, and they aren’t sweaty. When he rests his forehead on your shoulder, the words he speaks against you are full of velvet praise. When he moves his hips, the sound of his skin against yours reminds you of a symphony: adagios bookended by scherzos, culminating in a shared finale that leaves you both glowing and euphoric.

Four a.m. looks different from Vernon’s apartment.

More down to earth, not as deep into the clouds. You’ve called Seoul home for the entirety of your adult life, but you’re still learning its secrets. Here, on Vernon’s side of the city, it’s more lively. Sleeps less. You watch as dot-sized people duck in and out of 24/7 shops; as groups of friends converge and separate like starling murmuration. You watch through bleary eyes as the city lights start to blur together.

This is where Vernon finds you, sitting on his living room floor, knees tucked against your chest.

Wordlessly, he sits beside you. Stretches his legs out, hands planted on the rug behind him. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth still stuck to his skin, see every breath he takes from the corner of your eye. And you think you should say something—maybe apologize if you woke him—but four a.m. is built for silence.

Minutes pass. The traffic signals go through their sequence, green yellow red green yellow. The stream of dot-sized people remains steady. The man beside you is steady, too, but he’s also perceptive, and usually it’s a perception that lets you initiate, come closer once you’re ready, doesn’t push. Not this time. This time, he turns to face you and studies your profile. Must notice something, because his eyes narrow, perfect brows pinching in the middle. “You okay?” You nod. Give him a smile you hope is convincing. Four a.m. is a lot of things, but it doesn’t feel like the time or place for this kind of revelation.

Because you like him.

Something of this magnitude should feel world-altering, you think, but it doesn’t. Even if it was subconscious, you’ve known this, so it feels the same as when you look at the sky and see it’s blue, when you look at the grass and it’s green—the universe as advertised and in perfect working order. The way things are meant to be.

But you aren’t sure where the lines are drawn anymore, or if there’s anything left of them at all. Both you and Soonyoung have been here before: feelings that came out of nowhere, hookups that left a more lasting impression than others, the occasional short-term fling. All of it was within the boundaries of your relationship, but something about this—about Vernon—feels different. Feels like something you don’t want to lose.

You suck in a deep breath. “I’m okay,” you confirm, “I just… there are things I need to talk to Soonyoung about, I think.”

Vernon nods. “I figured as much with all the phone calls.”

And because it feels like something you don’t want to lose, you need to be honest. “We got into an argument yesterday morning, before I texted you. It wasn’t—I don’t even know if I’d actually call it an argument, really, because I just got pissed and hung up, but.” You sigh. Place your chin on top of your knees. “I needed to tell you that, because I don’t want it to seem like I used you. It’s not like that for me with you, but I also can’t lie and say I’m not still stung about it.”

Vernon hums. Asks, “Did you want to hurt him?”

“No,” you answer immediately, because it’s true. You never want to hurt him. “I know the relationship me and him have doesn’t make sense to a lot of people. Most people, probably. It works for us, though, and because it’s always worked, I’m not always sure what to do when it doesn’t.” A sigh. “I’m not jealous, you know? I love him, and I love that other people love him. I don’t want someone else’s normal.”

A half-smile ghosts across Vernon’s face. “I’m sensing a but coming.”

“No but.” You laugh. “Well, maybe a but—ever since you left a few weeks ago, I’ve just felt… off? I couldn’t put my finger on it. I couldn’t shake this feeling I’d done something wrong, and I tried talking to Soonyoung about it but we couldn’t make the time difference work, so I texted him and asked him to make time, but he never responded, so I called him yesterday morning. I’m sure you can guess where this is going.”

“Mm, yeah,” comes his simple reply.

“I overreacted, and I need to apologize for it, but I wasn’t ready to have the conversation until I figured out what was weighing on me.”

“And?” His fingers inch closer to yours. “Did you figure it out?”

You place yours over them. “Yeah, I did.”

Vernon had gotten called into the studio just after eleven.

Both of you had tried holding onto the last dregs of excitement of waking up together for the first time. Tried blinking the exhaustion out of your eyes and showing some semblance of life as you danced around one another, brushing your teeth and getting dressed. Vernon paid for your ride home and kissed you goodbye at the door, but not before promising it’d all get figured out.

The drive takes you down streets lined with cherry blossoms in full bloom, petals covering the asphalt, blowing in the breeze. Morning doesn’t often find you philosophical, but there’s something comforting about the changing of the seasons. Winter will always give way to spring in the same way everything will always work out, just like Vernon had promised, and it makes you feel light, finally unburdened, so you dig your phone from your bag.

You: I’ll be home soon You: I know it’s early where you are, but I’m around if you’re up and want to talk

Soonyoung doesn’t answer, but this doesn’t surprise you—the message just sits there, undelivered.

So you thank the driver when he drops you outside your apartment. Without much else to do, you stop into the grocery store to grab a few things, including a bundle of yellow and pink flowers, and the café next to your building after that, where you order something strong and not watered down. You soak up the sun on your skin, let it warm you from the inside out, and after half your coffee’s gone you start to feel human again.

This only lasts as long as it takes to get to your apartment and open the door.

Because there’s your boyfriend asleep on the couch. Soonyoung, whose mouth is hanging open and is snoring lightly. Soonyoung, who’s supposed to be in Europe. Soonyoung, whose phone is laying on the floor, halfway under the couch. Soonyoung, who startles awake when you call his name and punctuate it with a question mark.

Soonyoung, who realizes it’s you and crosses the living room in milliseconds. Who pulls you into his arms before you can breathe life into another question. Who peppers kisses all over your face and sighs when you thumb away the tears beneath his eyes simply because you’re touching him. Who presses his forehead to yours, content to hold you, and you, who fists your hand in the fabric of his shirt, content to let him.

Once the shock wears off, you realize you’re still holding the flowers. Say, “Let me just…” as you gesture at the bouquet. “Then we can talk?”

He’s reluctant to let you go, but he nods anyway. Doesn’t say a thing about the dozens of flowers already covering the kitchen island. When you spin around, his cheeks are dusted pink, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. “I ordered them to be delivered first thing this morning,” he explains. “Well, no—I ordered them yesterday, but they couldn’t deliver that many on such short notice. They also thought it was fake, since I was ordering them from France, so I had to call them, but—”

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper, rubbing a rose petal between your fingers. “Thank you.”

“I panicked. I thought you were breaking up with me.” You don’t mean to laugh, but one tumbles out anyway. Soonyoung pouts around a smile he tries to tamper down, doesn’t take any offense because he, too, knows how absurd it sounds.

“Why would I ever do that?”

He nods his head in the direction of the couch—his favorite place to have these kinds of talks. Says having serious discussions standing up gives him heartburn. Really, you suspect it’s so he has pillows within grabbing distance for when he inevitably starts crying and needs to cover his face in embarrassment, but you’ll give him this. You’ll sit in your usual spot and wait as he sits in his, and then you’ll stretch out and place your feet in his lap like you always do. And he’ll try to apologize first like he always does because he can’t stand things being tense between you, even when it’s your fault.

Today, though, you don’t let him.

“I owe you an apology,” you say, and you want to laugh again at the shocked look on his face, that he can’t believe you beat him to the punch, but you don’t. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way. It was out of line and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.”

“I did a little,” he snarks, all self-deprecation. “I am never, ever too busy for you, and I made you feel like I was.”

“I know.” He moves to protest; you hold up a hand to stop him. “Just let me try to explain this. After Vernon left a few weeks ago, everything felt really off. I had this overwhelming sense of guilt, like I’d done something horrible and I couldn’t figure out what it was, because it’s not like I’d crossed any boundaries, you know? Everything was above board. But I wanted to talk to you about it in case you knew something I didn’t, and then we couldn’t—”

“You like him.” Soonyoung says this as a declaration rather than a question. He says this with a shit-eating grin on his face. He says this as if he’s an old philosopher imparting ancient wisdom upon you, like he’s predicted historical events and has yet to be wrong. “You do, don’t you?”

“I—yeah, but how did you know that? How long have you known that?”

He laughs. “Baby, it’s been obvious to everyone except the two of you since that first night.” You sputter, ready to defend your own honor—Soonyoung’s album release party feels like ages ago now, so surely you would’ve been able to put two and two together before now if what he’s saying were true? “I know you,” he adds, tone far more serious and gentle. “I know what you’re like when you have feelings for someone, remember? I’ve watched you fall in and out of love; not only with me, but—”

You gasp and nudge him in the ribs with your foot. “First of all, I have never fallen out of love with you. Don’t even joke about that—”

“Yes, ma’am.” Soonyoung salutes you sarcastically. Captures your foot and acts like he’s going to tickle you just to get a rise.

“Soonyoung, don’t—you know how ticklish I am! I won’t be able to control my body and I’ll kick you in the ribs or the dick or whatever and hurt you and you’ll get all upset! Also, we are in the middle of a serious conversation here! Stop derailing!”

“I’m not even doing anything,” he lies. “Please continue.”

With a groan (and a very deadly stare), you convince him to stop fucking around. He doesn’t release you entirely, but he forgoes the threats of tickling to press his thumbs into the arch of your foot instead. It works. In an instant, you’re calm, half-melted into the fabric of the couch.

“I went out with him last night.” You swallow, feeling the guilt creep in again. Soonyoung digs in deeper. “I texted him after I hung up on you. I didn’t intend for it to be one, but it very much turned into a date. I slept there.”

“Did you have fun?”

“Yes,” you answer honestly. Soonyoung pulls you closer, moves his hands to your calf and works at the muscle there. “I didn’t tell him.” You don’t know whose sake you’re saying this for—if it’s for Soonyoung or you or even Vernon—but it feels important to admit. To acknowledge that Soonyoung still comes first to you; that, as chaotic as things feel, one thing hasn’t changed. “Wanted to talk to you first.”

“Okay,” he replies breezily. “Let’s talk, then, pretty girl. Let’s figure it out.”

And you do.

The two of you talk for hours. Mostly apologies and promises to do better, but Soonyoung wants to hear all the perverse details of your night spent at Vernon’s apartment. Can’t help himself. Laughs when you scold him for getting hard, but you’re laughing, too. He asks if you want to date him—properly, not only when you’re feeling spiteful—and you ask if it’d be okay if you did. Briefly, you wonder if such a question is presumptuous. After all, you haven’t talked to Vernon, haven’t put your feelings into plaintext, but then you think back to the way he’d touched you last night and come to the conclusion it isn’t.

The two of you talk about the future. Soonyoung makes a point to revisit the original agreement; needs to make sure the two of you are on the same page. “It’s okay if you don’t want this anymore,” he assures you. “I just want you to be happy.”

There’s something in his tone that has you eyeing him. “Do you still want this? You’ve never floated the idea of closing the relationship before.”

“I had a near-death experience,” he jokes. “You know how they say your entire life flashes before your eyes right before you die? That’s all I could think about on the flight home—that it’d be my fault if you left and I’d deserve it because I was selfish; that no one I’ve been with could ever come close to you and none of it would’ve been worth it.”

Everything’s starting to sound waterlogged again. Soonyoung takes you into his arms when you crowd his end of the couch and fit yourself against his side. “If you just want it to be the three of us, that’s more than enough for me.” You press a kiss to his shoulder. “Or we can decide later when I feel less like a deer about to get destroyed by a car.”

You snort. Say, “You can decide. Whatever you want is okay with me. I know it’d be a big adjustment for you.”

“Don’t say what you think I want to hear.”

“I’m not,” you affirm. “I’m really, truly, one-hundred-percent okay with whatever you want to do, even if, like, fifty-five-percent of that is because I’m way less enthusiastic about butt stuff than you—”

“Hey!”

With another shared laugh, the air is cleared. Together, the two of you erase the existing lines and draw new ones. Talk about what it would look like for two to become three. Has another moment of self-doubt and apologizes that he is who he is, that he can’t love you in public the way he desperately wants to, the way you deserve to be loved out in the open. “You love me in the ways you can,” you tell him, “and they’re more than enough because they come from you.”

You talk until the sky begins to darken and the conversation devolves into nonsense. Until Soonyoung realizes he never plugged his phone into the charger and his team’s probably in a panic. Until his stomach rumbles and he suggests ordering a ton of food for delivery, except he really does mean a ton, and when you ask him who’s possibly going to eat it all his cheeks redden and he says, sheepish and a little nervous, “I thought we could invite Vernonie over?”

Another playful groan. “You’re back home for—what, barely 48 hours?—and your main concern is having another threesome?”

“And if I say yes?”

You text Vernon and ask if he’s free after work.

He is.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! Sharing and reblogging my work is the best way to show you enjoyed it, but I also accept any and all feedback and screaming in my inbox. <3

[airosuiren]

Batfamily x Neglected Reader x Theodore Nott

A/N: Sooo I’ve been obsessing over neglected Bat family fics lately and the idea of mixing it with Hogwarts just wouldn’t leave my head!!! I tried to make this both angsty and satisfying - hope you enjoyyy!!!

Part 2

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔

You were born as [Y/N] Wayne, the biological daughter of Bruce Wayne and twin sister to Lila Wayne. You were both a year older than Tim Drake, making you part of the prestigious Wayne family… at least on paper.

From the moment you could remember, it was always Lila who got the attention. Lila who Bruce picked up and swung around. Lila who Alfred made special cookies for. Lila who Dick would take to the park. Lila who Jason would protect fiercely.

You? You were just… there.

“Dad, look what I drew!” you said excitedly, holding up your artwork at age 8.

Bruce barely glanced your way, “That’s nice, sweetie. Lila, come show me your dance routine again!”

You lowered your drawing, watching as your twin sister twirled and received thunderous applause from the entire family. Your papers crumpled in your tiny fist as you quietly slipped away… again.

When the letter arrived on your 11th birthday, everything changed.

An OWL. An actual OWL swooped into the Wayne Manor library where you were hiding, reading alone as usual. The letter it carried was addressed specifically to you:

Miss [Y/N] Wayne The Smallest Bedroom Wayne Manor Gotham City

“What the hell…” you whispered, breaking the wax seal with trembling fingers.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

You read it once. Twice. Three times. A witch? YOU?

When you told your family at dinner (which you were only at because Alfred insisted), their reactions were… predictable.

“Magic isn’t real, [Y/N]. Stop making things up for attention,” Bruce said dismissively.

“Yeah, [Y/N], that’s stupid,” Lila giggled, and everyone laughed along with her.

Only Alfred raised an eyebrow, “Perhaps we should investigate this claim, Master Bruce.”

But it didn’t matter if they believed you. Because Professor McGonagall arrived the next day, turned their coffee table into a pig, and suddenly no one was laughing anymore.

Lila wasn’t magical. The test McGonagall performed confirmed it. The look of PURE JEALOUSY on your twin’s face was the first genuine emotion she’d ever directed at you.

“I’ll take you shopping for your school supplies tomorrow, Miss Wayne,” McGonagall said kindly.

As you packed your trunk to leave for Hogwarts, you realized no one had come to say goodbye except Alfred.

“They’re busy with Lila’s recital,” he explained apologetically.

You smiled sadly, “I know, Alfred. They always are.”

The moment the Sorting Hat touched your head at Hogwarts, it spoke gently: “Ah, a Wayne with a heart too big for the family that failed to see it. Better be… HUFFLEPUFF!”

The table of black and yellow erupted in cheers, and for the first time in your life, people were actually happy to have you join them.

The years at Hogwarts changed you. Professor Snape discovered your talent for potions and took you under his wing. “You remind me of someone I knew once,” he said quietly one day. “Someone who deserved better than she got.”

Professor McGonagall became the mother figure you never had, teaching you not just transfiguration but strength. “Stand tall, Miss Wayne. Your magic comes from within, as does your worth.”

You made friends… real friends. Blaise Zabini with his dry humor. Draco Malfoy who, despite his arrogance, always saved you a seat in the Great Hall. Pansy and Astoria who braided your hair and taught you beauty charms. Even the mysterious Riddle brothers, Mattheo and Tom, treated you like their little sister, hexing anyone who dared upset you.

Your letters home grew shorter and fewer.

Dear Family, Hogwarts is fine. Classes are good. - [Y/N]

Their replies, when they came at all, were equally brief.

Glad you’re well. Lila made the honor roll again. - Bruce

By fifth year, you had stopped caring. Your family was HERE, among the magical folk who saw your value.

And then there was Theodore Nott.

Tall, intelligent, quiet Theodore with eyes that followed you in the library. Theodore who asked you to the Yule Ball with a rare, nervous smile. Theodore who kissed you beneath the enchanted ceiling as fake snow fell around you both.

“You’re extraordinary, [Y/N],” he whispered against your lips. “They’re fools not to see it.”

You fell HARD for Theo. His family’s estate in Italy became your favorite topic of conversation.

“We could go there,” he said one evening in your sixth year, his fingers intertwined with yours. “After graduation. Start fresh where no one knows the Waynes or the Notts. Just be ourselves.”

The idea took root and grew.

By your final Christmas break at age 18, you had barely spoken to your birth family in years. You only returned to the manor to collect the last of your belongings before graduation in six months.

“You’re… leaving?” Bruce asked, looking genuinely confused when you announced your plan to move to Italy with Theodore after graduation.

“Yes,” you said simply. “I’ve been gone for seven years, Dad. You just didn’t notice.”

The entire family stood frozen in the foyer. Dick looked stricken. Jason was frowning deeply. Tim seemed bewildered. Damian scowled. Even Alfred appeared pained.

“But… but you can’t just leave,” Lila sputtered. “You’re a Wayne.”

You laughed, the sound hollow. “I stopped being a Wayne the day I became a witch. You made sure of that.”

The doorbell rang, cutting through the tension.

When Alfred opened it, there stood Theodore Nott in an impeccably tailored wizarding suit that somehow still looked Muggle enough to pass in Gotham. His dark hair was styled perfectly, his handsome face serious as he took in the assembled Wayne family.

“Ready to go, darling?” he asked, his eyes softening only when they landed on you.

Lila’s jaw DROPPED. You couldn’t blame her. Theodore was gorgeous, wealthy in both wizarding and Muggle terms, and completely devoted to you.

“That’s… that’s your boyfriend?” she stammered.

“Fiancé, actually,” Theodore corrected smoothly, showing the engagement ring on your finger that none of them had even noticed. “We’re viewing properties in Italy next week.”

You picked up your enchanted bag that held all your remaining possessions. “Goodbye,” you said simply.

As Theodore led you to the waiting magical car, you heard Lila’s shrill voice: “Dad! Why does SHE get to go to Italy with a hot rich guy? IT’S NOT FAIR!”

Some things never changed.

But as Theodore squeezed your hand and whispered, “Home is wherever we make it, [Y/N],” you realized some things DID change.

You had found where you belonged. And it wasn’t with the Bat Family after all.

˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧˖ ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔

A/N: This was sooooo satisfying to write!!! I might do a part 2 if people want one where the Bat family tries to get reader back but she’s living her BEST LIFE in Italy with Theo and her magical family comes to visit and puts the Waynes in their place!!! Let me know what you think!!! Enjoyyy!!!

[mashtatosworld]

i'll be there

summary: jiyong goes on a work trip but then your baby gets sick...

Packing should have been simple.

It was only two days.

But Jiyong was good at stalling.

You were folding one of his shirts while he lay sprawled across the floor, halfheartedly tossing things into his suitcase like a petulant child being forced to do chores.

Diva, ever his little shadow, stood beside him, clutching one of his headscarves in her tiny hands.

“Give that to Appa,” you encouraged her, nodding towards the soft silk.

She gripped the fabric tight before proudly handing it over.

Jiyong gently took it, thanking her, before dramatically tossing it into the suitcase like it physically pained him.

Diva watched this carefully.

So, when you handed her one of his hats next, she did the same - aiming for the suitcase but missing completely.

Jiyong sat up. “See? She doesn’t want me to go. It’s a sign.”

You rolled your eyes, picking the hat up off the floor. “No, she’s just copying you, as always.”

“Exactly. And if I don’t want to go, she doesn’t want me to go.”

Diva gave a little nod, though she definitely didn’t understand what was happening.

Jiyong gave you a smug look.

You ignored him, instead pulling out another jacket. “Do you want to take this one?”

He barely glanced at it before his eyes drifted to the open closet.

And there, hanging neatly beside both of yours -

Was Diva’s tiny, pink dressing gown.

Jiyong immediately groaned, falling back to the floor again. “I can’t go.”

“Jiyong.”

“I can’t!”

You sighed, shoving the jacket into the suitcase yourself. “I’ll finish packing for you, since I know neither of you are going to be any real help.”

Diva, now fully siding with her Appa, sat on his stomach watching you as you moved around the room.

He stared up at the ceiling of your room. “I hate this.”

You laughed. “You’ll be gone for two nights.”

“Two nights too many.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

He was late.

His flight was in an hour, and he was standing in the doorway, hugging you both like he was about to be exiled forever.

“I don’t wanna go,” he murmured into your hair, his arms tightening around you and Diva.

“I know.”

He pulled back with Diva perched on his hip in her little matching Chanel outfit - because of course she had one. She stared up at him, blinking slowly, her little hands clutching his shirt.

Jiyong sighed and pressed his lips to her head. “I was supposed to take my baby with me.”

“She’s been a little off these past few days,” you reminded him gently. “I think it’s better if she stays home.”

This would be the first time he was separated from her overnight since... well she was born. When you two were younger and touring the world for your careers, you had been torn apart many times. But since having your baby, the three of you travelled together everywhere.

The plan had been for Diva to accompany Jiyong whilst you went to rehearsal's but for the past couple days she hadn't been sleeping through the night and was turning her nose up at any food placed in front of her.

You smiled, squeezing his arm. “You're going to miss this your flight again.”

“They can move it.”

You sighed. “Jiyong.”

He huffed, pouting, and cupped Diva’s little face in his hand. “You promise to be good for Eomma?”

She nodded, her little spiky pony-tail bobbing. He carefully handed her to you, hands lingering.

He kissed her forehead. Then kissed you. Twice. Then Diva again.

You rolled your eyes. “Ji, you’re going to miss your flight.”

“Then I’ll have an excuse to stay.”

“Go.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Go.”

He finally, finally stepped back, dragging his feet toward the car.

You didn’t tell him that you watched from the window as he lingered outside, checking his phone like he was hoping you’d text him to come back.

You didn’t tell him that Diva started calling for him when he got in the car, her little hand pressed against the window.

And you definitely didn’t tell him that later that day, something happened.

Something that would make him turn the plane around.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Diva loved rehearsals.

Normally, she’d sit with her Appa, tucked under his arm, sipping her juice while watching you dance.

But today, she was too quiet.

You glanced over, expecting to see her watching, but she was barely paying attention - just sitting cross-legged with her iPad in her lap.

You frowned, crouching beside her, brushing her hair back. “You okay, baby?”

She gave a tiny nod, but she looked… off.

Maybe she just missed her Appa.

To cheer her up, you handed her some juice.

And that’s when it happened.

She gagged.

Your eyes widened.

And then -

She started throwing up.

“Oh, my angel,” you gasped, immediately scooping her up, holding her close as she whimpered into your chest.

Rehearsal was over.

You didn’t care.

By the time you got home, she was still fussy, clinging to you, barely drinking anything.

You bathed her, changed her into soft pyjamas, and rocked her to sleep in your arms.

She felt so small.

Jiyong FaceTimed the second he landed, still on the plane.

“Where are my girls?” he grinned, expecting to see Diva running around behind you.

Instead, you flipped the camera, showing her tiny form snuggled under a blanket.

“She just fell asleep,” you whispered.

His smile softened. “My baby.”

You didn’t tell him she had been sick.

No need to panic him.

She’d be fine by morning.

Right?

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

She wasn’t fine.

She cried through the night, throwing up a couple more times until you were concerned enough to bring her to bed with you.

Both of you slept terribly and had matching messy buns as you watched a show on the tv, much in need of a quiet morning.

She was sat propped up against Jiyong’s pillow, holding onto his glasses that he’d left behind.

Your chest ached.

You pulled out your phone.

He answered immediately.

His face lit up. "Jagi!"

You could tell he was in the middle of something - a fashion show, probably. There were cameras around him, producers talking in the background. But the second he saw you, nothing else mattered.

He grinned, turning his phone around. “Look, everyone! My babies!”

The people around him smiled and waved, some even cooing at the screen.

Meanwhile, you tried to stay out of frame, knowing full well you looked a mess.

“Ji,” you hissed, “don’t show me!”

He pouted. “Why not? You’re so beautiful.”

He wouldn't share with you then how he'd been in the middle of sharing some of his favourite photos of you two for the camera for his show. You'd see it anyway when the fans reposted that particular photo of you holding your baby girl after she'd just covered your face in ice cream. One of his many screensavers.

You rolled your eyes but felt warm all the same.

But the second he saw Diva in her little pink dressing gown, his expression softened into something warm and longing.

“You miss Appa?” he murmured.

She didn't say much but held up his glasses.

Jiyong whined. “Shall I just come home?”

You chuckled. “No, no. We just wanted to see you.”

"I know you're busy with rehearsal today but can you call me when you two have lunch? I'll eat with you," He says, even though he was a few hours behind.

"Um, sure." You nod, but you knew you were staying home today and weren't sure if your baby would be willing to eat. You didn't want to panic him, knowing full well he'd cancel everything and come home if he caught wind that she was even just a little bit under the weather.

He kissed his phone and you handed yours to Diva so they could say their own goodbyes.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

She didn't eat.

She couldn't keep anything down - not even water.

That’s when you started panicking.

You called everyone.

Your husband's mom.

Your mom.

Hyorin.

“She’s probably just got a stomach bug.”

“Just keep her hydrated, she’ll be fine.”

“If you’re really worried, take her in.”

And you were worried.

So you went to the hospital.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

"It's a typical case of norovirus," the doctor explained. "She'll be okay but we'll keep her overnight since she's dehydrated."

You nearly burst into tears.

Overnight?

Your baby, in a hospital bed with an IV in her tiny hand?

The guilt pierced through your calm bubble and that’s when you finally called Jiyong.

And that’s when he lost it.

“She’s what?!”

“She’s going to be okay, but - ”

“I’M COMING HOME.”

“Ji - ”

“I’M COMING HOME.”

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

Jiyong moved heaven and earth to get back.

Left everything behind - his team, his manager, his luggage.

He didn’t wait for a private flight.

He didn’t care that he was flying commercial, stuck in economy with no security or leg room.

He didn’t even care that fans were taking pictures of him wiping his eyes with his hoodie sleeve.

All he cared about was getting to his family.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

When he arrived at the hospital, he burst into the room, breathless, hoodie pulled low over his eyes, but they were still red-rimmed and teary.

His gaze immediately locked onto the tiny form in the bed.

Diva, pale and sleepy, her IV-covered hand resting on her chest.

He kneeled on the bed, leaning over her.

“Baby,” he choked, brushing her hair back.

She stirred, blinking up at him with a small, sleepy smile.

“Appa…”

That was all it took.

Jiyong broke.

Tears slipped down his cheek as he leaned in, pressing a thousand kisses to her forehead, her hands, her little cheeks.

“I’m here, princess,” he whispered. “Appa’s here.”

You ran a hand down his back. “Ji, don’t cry.”

But you were crying too.

He pulled you close, both of you climbing onto the bed with her, wrapped up in each other.

And when it was finally time to sleep, Jiyong refused to leave her side.

His voice was barely a whisper:

“I’m never leaving again.”

And you knew he meant it.

𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪 𓆩♡𓆪

a lovely request! i actually had norovirus recently and it was brutal. poor diva ;(

taglist: @petersasteria, @mirahyun , @allthoughtsmindfull , @gdinthehouseee , @infinetlyforgotten , @redhoodedtoad , @kathaelipwse , @lxvemaze , @loveesiren , @sherrayyyyy , @getyoassoutthetrunk , @shieraseastarrs , @ctrldivinev , @xxxicddbr88 , @onyxmango , @tryingtolivelifeblog , @tulentiy , @bettelaboure , @maskedcrawford

[modernquackfare]

How about Simon having a wife that is a toymaker and makes plushies. Wife!reader comes to the base and gives each of the tf 141 a plushie that looks like them. All of them gets one… except Ghost

Needles to say, he’s very upset, all day, that he didn’t get one.

Only when he gets home, he sees plushies of himself and the reader on the bed

A/N: okay omg i'm so so sorry this has taken forever but I've lost my draft three times 😭 luckily i wasn't TOO far along writing/had it copied but HERE U GO <33

Ghost x Fem!Reader - Toymaker Wife

For such a special day, you come prepared. It's the first time you're setting foot on Spec Gru's European base, thanks to your husband's insistence on security and containment—whatever that means. After much begging and many strategically missed video calls, Simon finally extends an invitation.

It's a cold, concrete world, Simon tells you. Nothing like you, love, or so he says. Does he think being a toymaker for work is synonymous with an inability to handle a few more military men than you already have? It's hard to believe that anyone on base could be more threatening or deadly than Simon himself.

Or Ghost, as they call him here. It's a little funny—reminiscent of middle schoolers that roleplay wolves named Luna or Rebel, but he'd have your head if you ever say such a thing, regardless of how true it might be. You've considered making him a wolf-ear headband just to prove a point and laugh at his furrowed expression. You're sure that his friends, those large men and women in the photo he let you keep, would find it equally funny.

"Sergeant Gaz, Captain Price, Sergeant Soap…” You count, knocking each handheld plush into your bag. It feels just a little childish, showing up to a military base with a pack full of toys-but in your defense, they're the product of your profession and adorable. Each is handmade to recreate the likeness of every member of Task Force 141. They'll probably like the gifts, if Simon's description of each's personality is accurate. Soap's boyish charm, Gaz's calm demeanor, and Price's warm, but dry sense of humor—that's something you can work with.

***

"It's—is this a mini me? This is braw, you've nailed it, lass." Soap lifts his plush into the air, as if holding a newborn babe to the sun. "Down to the scars. I'll be."

You can't help the ripple of a laugh when beside him, Gaz similarly examines his miniature self. "Not bad," he breathes, wiggling the doll's arms as if to make it dance. "Not bad at all. What a handsome fellow."

Soap lifts his doll, moving its head as if it were speaking for him in a poor attempt at ventriloquism "Finely crafted, maybe. Handsome? Well, that's up for—"

"Well, pass yours on over then, let's see that Yule log you call a mohawk," Gaz sneers back, matching Soap's doll's movements with his own.

It's a successful introduction, you think! Simon watches on in silence, loving warmth evident in his eyes as he does. He's not dragging you away and shipping you back home, so things must be going well—as silent and distant as he's being.

"Do you like them?” You ask, hands folded in your lap.

Price fidgets with his, admiring the tiny boonie hat that you've included, small strips of Velcro lining the bottom to adhere the hat to the head. "Never thought I'd ever be the owner of my own doll," he murmurs. "Got the hat just right, didn't you? Spot on."

"Aye, but don't leave it lying about," Soap grins, making his doll trot on over and speak in pitched up tones. “That hat of yours might just disappear. I've got hair too, Cap'."

"Yeah, hair that needs covering."

"Oh, bolt, ya dobber."

Amidst the light chatter of your newfound friends in Simon's comrades, you glance over at the man. There your husband stands, arms crossed tight against his chest. He's got that look—definitely pouting under that mask of his, as much as he protests, saying that it isn't pouting, it's brooding. The others seem to take notice of your wandering gaze, though, and suddenly all eyes are on Simon and his very obvious lack of a personalized doll.

"Don't look so solemn, Ghost," Gaz grins cheekily. "You've almost got me feeling bad for you. You're the one with the dollmaker for a wife, mate.

Simon doesn't respond. His dark gaze, gentle brown eyes hardened into rocks, finds Gaz. Shut it, he seems to say without even opening his mouth.

That grey cloud seems to follow him throughout the day. Convivial conversation with his other friends on base falls flat when the spotlight falls on him, his responses limited to a scant "Hmm," or "Uh-huh," or even a quiet look that verges on a glare. He'll pull away when you reach for his hand, casually enough to pass off as an accident or fault of imperceptibility. As if you didn't know him better—that his reflexes and peripheral vision weren't as sharp as blades.

"Stupid anyway," he mumbles to himself, catching your ears. "Stupid toys."

You frown. He knows better than to speak this way—you've discussed it before, about how much you treasured your work and hated having it dismissed by words like stupid and childish. “I don't think they're stupid," you interrupt, never too intimidated to speak up against him.

Simon immediately softens upon realizing that you've heard him. “It's not—that's not what I meant. You know I don't think they're stupid."

Right, but he's acting strange all day. Still, you can't find it within yourself to probe. "Something is, though. Right?"

"The way they play with them,” Simon immediately speaks, shoulders stiff. "Just…grown men, playing like children."

"Ah," you hum. Somehow, you can't bring yourself to believe it—but you don't ask. It's not as if it's even remotely big enough of an issue to need addressing, after all. You just hate to see Simon so withdrawn. At least, more so than usual.

***

Simon is absent from dinner in the mess hall later on, after giving you an extensive tour and dropping you off at one of the on-base cafes. That's how you know something's off. He would never normally give up an opportunity to share a meal with you, even in a noisy, crowded cafeteria like the one on base.

"Wasn't hungry," he only shrugs when you find him in his on-base unit, boots kicked up as he nurses a neat whiskey. Oh, he's pouting.

You can't help yourself. "Aww, baby," you coo, lingering closer. "Are you feeling alright? You've been gloomy all day…"

"Mmph," he shrugs, gaze flickering up to yours—and he can't help how he all but melts at the love in your eyes. "Just…tired. Go'n and get your shower done. Wanna snuggle."

And how could you say no to that? Your growing suspicion had been that Simon was feeling left out, or forgotten, not receiving a doll of his own. Little does he know, you giggle to yourself.

***

You're in the shower when Simon emerges from his brooding, lurching off the couch and trudging towards the room, where he'd made his bed with clean sheets and set up fluffy pillows for his wife's arrival. The bitterness of being left out of her sweet benevolence has largely faded. She is his wife, after all.

He nudges open his bedroom door, set on his dresser to shed the heavy layers of the day, the mask, and finally exist as Simon for the rest of the night. With you. No doll could ever distract him from you.

He's pulling a hoodie over his head when tiny figures catch in the corner of his vision. A hallucination? No. Dolls.

You and him, smiling and snuggled together. You in your favorite sundress, rosy cheeks and cute face. Him in his mask—which is removable, he discovers on closer inspection. Simon gently tugs off the cloth skull mask, curious to see his own likeness rendered in doll form.

"Handsome bugger," he mutters, thumb brushing over his doll's small face. Blond with stern brown eyes, but smiling. Soap was right about the scars—each placed with perfect accuracy. The one extending from the left corner of his lip up his cheek. The one across his eyebrow. You even got the one under his chin, tucked under the plushie's soft, round face.

On the right hands of both dolls, he realizes, there is a hidden circle of Velcro. So they can hold hands in any orientation. It's such a you thing to do that it hurts.

When you emerge from your shower, all three are gathered in the living room, watching TV. Simon with his legs up on the coffee table, and your miniatures holding hands in his lap. It's hard to help the beam that curls up on your lips—and why would you want to?

"Looks like someone's found the kids," you coo, swaying over and plopping down beside him. “I'm glad you like 'em. Did I do you justice?"

"More than," Simon rasps, scooting close, flush against your side. "They're better than that git, Soap's, that's for sure."

His words coax laughter out of you as you press your head to his chest and scoop up the two little toys into your arms. "Careful, Si. They might hear what you said and tell him.”

"They can go on and tell the whole base, for all I care. Your skill went as far as it could go, it's his face that's the problem." Simon snorts, tugging you close and pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Better believe I'm showing this one off tomorrow. Might have to keep it in here, though. I'm not risking a theft."

"You say that every time," you laugh, snuggling close and shutting your eyes for the night as he wraps an arm around you—warm, solid, and safely his.

Request Archive

[violentdeliiights]

my baby

eek this is my first time properly writing for ghost gasp

this was supposed to just be a quick little drabble but i kind of got into the writing mood and couldn’t stop

also disclaimer i have never first hand played the games, but i’ve watched friends and family play them so any inaccuracies please ignore!

cw: details of car accident, hospitals, angst, female reader (i think that’s all pls let me know if there are others)

word count: 1.8k - not proofread, ignore any mistakes thank youuu

Simon could feel something was wrong.

Something in his bones, a rippling wave of nausea, a shift in the breeze on the back of his neck.

The other lads had always made a joke of his seemingly supernatural levels of superstition, how he was able to almost always accurately predict when or if something was going to go wrong.

Information had been from a dodgy source? Simon had guessed from the way Gaz had dropped his mug of coffee that morning.

One of their safe houses was infiltrated? Yeah, he’d known something was coming after Soap had stubbed his little toe getting out of bed and they’d heard the Scot’s high-pitched swearing from the mess hall.

They were being ambushed whilst on a seemingly harmless mission? You guessed it, Lt. Simon Riley had warned them in the helo the day before that Price’s favourite hat going missing was a sign.

One thing about Simon- he never, ever ignored his intuition.

So the forlorn look on Price’s face as he approached Simon’s hulking frame in the gym caused his stomach to drop. He’d been stood supervising Gaz and Soap training the newbies when that god awful sensation washed over him- and now he could tell Price was going to confirm that feeling.

Turning to face the Captain when he reached his side, Simon nodded out of respect, “Cap’n”.

The sigh that he received in response only made his stomach plummet further.

“Simon,”

Price never called him by his first name. Only ever Lieutenant or Ghost.

Something was really wrong.

“…it’s your girl. She’s in a bad way.”

✯ ✯ ✯

Unlike your husband, you’d never been one for superstition. All those things online about a woman’s intuition made you feel slightly out of the loop- you don’t think you’d ever predicted something bad before it happened.

In some ways you were thankful; you never lived with the lingering sense of dread and suspicion that Simon seemed to. You’d never woken up filled with anxiety over something that was a possibility.

However, in some ways, it was a curse. Every bad thing that had ever happened to you or your loved ones seemed to blindside you. Breakups, whilst sometimes predictable, had always gutted you in a deep, physical way. Betrayal, death, accidents, injuries. They all seemed to hit you deeper when you never saw them coming.

Being stabbed in the back hurts worse when you can’t see the knife coming.

That was why that morning had felt like just another Thursday. Your normal day to go food shopping, knowing the supermarket would be relatively quiet and that you would need to stock up for the weekend when Simon tended to snack like nobody’s business.

You had just packed up the car with the bags, pulling out of the car park and onto the large roundabout the led onto the main road.

Just like every other time you’d made the trip.

Only, those other times didn’t include a huge Land Rover who hadn’t seen you in your tiny Volkswagen Beetle- the one your husband had bought you when you’d told him it was your dream car as a little girl.

The Rover pulled out just as you passed him, driving head first into the passenger’s side and sending your car spinning, careening out of control and straight into a sign post on the other side of the road, tipping the car onto its side.

The accident had happened at such a speed that you hadn’t even mentally understood what was happening before your eyes closed involuntarily, shards of glass from the smashed windshield and doors littering your skin, your chest rising and falling at a rapid rate, cuts all over your body and your seatbelt digging painfully into you.

Your last thought before your body shut down was the face of the man you loved.

✯ ✯ ✯

Simon had never driven as fast in his life.

He was well over the speed limit, his foot on the accelerator almost parallel to the floor.

The hour drive to the hospital from the base took him 25 minutes.

He hadn’t even bothered with a response when Price had informed him of which hospital you were in, Gaz and Soap only looking up from their training when they heard the door slam after him, the gym feeling slightly colder than it had minutes prior.

He had no doubt that the rest of the task force wouldn’t be far behind him: you had become somewhat of a staple around the base over the years, bringing the boys hot meals, helping with odd jobs, making sure they were all taking care of themselves.

Sometimes, Soap would come to you with his issues instead of Ghost- that was when you knew your husbands colleagues were more than just colleagues. You had been welcomed into their little dysfunctional family.

Throwing his car into the first parking space he found, Simon stormed into the reception area, his aura more that of Ghost than Simon with the palpable anger and tension radiating off of him. The elderly receptionist seemed to cower in his shadow looming over the desk, ignoring the funny and fearful looks he got from the rest of the waiting area as he barked out your name.

“R-room 414, pet,” He made a mental note to thank the woman a bit more softly and charged his way down the hall to the stairwell. The lift would only hinder him and he knew fine well he would run up a million flights of stairs to get to you. Hell, he’d scale Everest blindfolded. Wrangle the moon with a rope. Anything. For you.

After reaching the fourth floor, he flung the door stairwell door open and began his search for you, scouring each and every door number until he found it

Despite his earlier efforts to get to you as quickly as possible, he felt himself take a shuddering breath before he dared to enter- he had no idea what he was walking into. The only information Price had been given was that you’d been hospitalised a handful of hours ago. It was harder to reach a next of kin who worked on a military base, apparently.

When his eyes landed on you in that hospital bed, the only thing keeping his legs from giving way beneath him was the thought of getting to you.

Your usually glowing face was pale and sunken. Your lovely rosy cheeks he loved to pepper with kisses were hidden beneath tubes and cuts. A bandage wrapped around your head skewed your hair from his sight. The feeling of seeing you lying there, helpless, relying on machines to keep you going was so much worse than any bad intuition he’d ever felt before.

He would swap places with you in a heartbeat. No physical pain would ever compare with the utter devastation he was experiencing. His heart was no longer in his own chest, but lying battered and bruised in a hospital bed attached to machines.

His large hands swept delicately over the side of your head, “My baby,” his voice wavered, heavy with fear, “My sweet girl. What happened to you, baby?”

The taste of salt on his lips was his only sign that he was crying.

Big, bad, Lieutenant Simon Riley. Ghost. His name drove terror into the hearts of men across the globe.

Reduced to tears at the sight of you.

His knees hit the floor by your bedside, both of his hands delicately cupping your bruised face, “Come back to me, baby. You promised forever, yeah? I’m holding you to that,” A quiet sob ripped from his throat before he could control it, pressing a delicate kiss to your cheek and moving to bury his head in your stomach to muffle any more sobs.

Simon had no idea how long he had been sat slumped over you, still on his knees yet not willing to leave your side for more than a second to grab a chair. He would never let you out of sight again. Judging by the fact that the sky was significantly darker by the time he heard the door open, he could tell he’d been here for a while. Jerking his slumped head up to the door, he left out a silent breath of relief when a familiar face appeared with a sorrowful smile.

“Hey, Si. How’s our bonnie lass?” To Soap, you had been their girl since the moment Simon had introduced you to the group. His best friend- second only to your husband.

When Simon said nothing, only looked at him in silent despair and flickered his eyes back to you, Soap pushed open the door and revealed the other two men stood patiently behind him. Filtering into the room, both Gaz and Price removed their hats in respect as the three of them came to stand by your bedside but Simon couldn’t remove his eyes from you. His baby. His sweet, funny, intelligent girl.

“Hope you don’t mind, LT- we found ‘er doctor a bit ago, asked ‘im what happened, thought we’d give you some space,” Price’s voice had never been so soft, so cautious not to disturb the sullen atmosphere of the room, “Said she’d been in a car accident. Some idiot had pulled out on her, thankfully on the passenger side so she avoided the brunt of it,”

“They’ve said to let her rest, should hopefully come round in a bit, but she’s gonna be sore for a while,” Gaz finished Price’s explanation as gently as he could, knowing his LT’s tendency to become protective and hostile at the flip of a switch.

“She’ll be just fine, Si. Just needs her beauty sleep.” Even Soap’s usual humour couldn’t calm Simon. Someone had done this to you. You were in her because of the careless mistake of someone else.

He wouldn’t leave your side. Never again.

✯ ✯ ✯

Price had managed to coax Ghost into a chair before they’d left to return to base, hoping to save his knees and back but allowing him to stay with you.

Simon had resumed his previous place of laying his head gently on your stomach, clutching the hand closest to him in both of his.

At some point, the utter terror he had been feeling since the minute he saw Price’s face that afternoon caught up with him and he had passed out, still clutching your hand.

The feeling of gentle fingers weaving into his hair was what stirred Simon from a dreamless sleep, confusedly lifting his head to see you looking down at him with a pained smile when you caught sight of his red-rimmed eyes. The only time you’d seen your husband shed a tear was at your wedding.

His mouth dropped open slightly as he took in your eyes. Your beautiful, open, awake eyes. He’d never take those eyes for granted ever again.

“My baby.”

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[3:29 pm]

(cw: f!reader, written on my phone)

Tutoring was something that you found to be pretty easy… most days. It was something that you found to be pretty simple and rewarding. Getting someone to understand something because you helped them out? Hell yeah!

But then there were days like this one, where you hated tutoring. Moments with snotty nosed, lazy underclassmen that were obligated to sign up for tutoring by their frats or sororities unless they wanted to get dropped, where you had to step in and play a role of authority. It wasn’t hard to track someone down at their class or across the student union, but coming to the frat house or sorority house? No, thanks! There were far too many people at these that you didn’t know and having to play the strict role around strangers was something you didn’t want to do. These fraternity and sorority presidents were struct though, stricter than you when they reached out and not only encouraged, but pushed you to push their brothers and sisters to pass the class they needed tutoring for.

So here you were on the front porch of the Nu Chi Theta fraternity, waiting. You rang the doorbell, waiting patiently for someone to answer. Glancing at the time, minutes ticked by, one after the other. You cleared your throat, ringing the doorbell again. “Doesn’t anyone around here do more than sit on their ass?” You heard someone shout.

Oh great, an angry male coming right in your direction. The door opened and your eyes widened traveling up, up, up until you finally made eye contact with a tall guy with his hair tucked under a backwards hat. His face was calm and a lot more welcoming than you were expecting after hearing his annoyed yelling. “I’m sorry about that. Did you need something?” He asked in a voice that was warm and relaxed— attractive even.

You’d seen this guy around before, Fratboy!Johnny, he was hard to miss. He was tall, he did well academically, he was on the basketball team, and he was super charismatic. You were sure you’d had him in some kind of general ed class when you were a freshman and your tiny crush had developed there. How couldn’t it when he always had a bright smile on his face and confidently answered the professor’s questions?

You blinked hard, shaking your head, that’s not what you’re here for! You cleared your throat again, “I’m Mark’s tutor-”

“Mark has a tutor?” Johnny interrupts with a look of confusion.

Another guy walks behind him, “oh yeah, Taeyong made him sign up because he’s like a percentage or two away from flunking his history class.”

Your cheeks flush, “actually, he’s skipped out on our last three sessions so he might actually be failing now.”

“That little shit. Come on in, I’ll show you to his room,” Johnny groans, opening the door wider for you to follow behind him.

The door shuts behind you and you’re immediately met with a sight of a totally stereotypical frat house. It’s everything you’ve imagined and you’re not sure that’s a good thing… The floor is sticky beneath your feet, a stale stench of beer and weed permeate the air. There are mix matched couches on your right and to your left, a dining room with mix matched chairs and tables. You can see some guys in the living room playing a video game, a few more guys are out in the backyard. You think you see someone actually studying in the dining room with a girlfriend maybe? You’re not sure, but you do think it’s cute that she kisses his dimples when he gets something right. The major thing that sticks out to you though, is that this house is run by only guys. It’s so obvious, in a bad way. It lacks the simplest, consistent female touch.

Behind Johnny, you follow him up the stairs and down a hall until he knocks on a closed door. He doesn’t give any time for an answer to be called out, he just pushes the door open. There, in a room messier than you’ve ever seen, sits Mark with a guitar on his lap.

His eyes are wide at the sight of his frat brother and tutor in his doorway. He drawls out your name awkwardly, “heyyyy, didn’t expect to see you here…”

“You’ve been skipping your tutoring sessions haven’t you?” Johnny asks, though to you, it sounds a lot more like an accusation.

“Not skipping… just opting not to go,” Mark replies sheepishly.

“Do you know that she has to sit around and wait for you when you don’t show up? Did you consider that? Or that if you fail your history class, you’ll have to drop out of the frat and have to find somewhere else to live! Come on, Mark!” Johnny exclaims exasperatedly.

“I don’t want to fail!” Mark retorts, setting his guitar aside, “it’s just— look, I’m a music major alright? You do a great job of tutoring me but you can’t make history fun, you just make it easier for me to understand.”

A little piece of your pride is broken at that, you are a history major after all, but you can understand where Mark is coming from. You sigh, “look, Johnny is right. You only need to pass this class and then your general history requirements will be met. We just need to get you to pass your midterm and your final and you’ll never have to see me again. I want to help you pass Mark, not just because I’m getting paid to help you. You’re actually pretty cool.”

Johnny chuckles, bumping your elbow with his own, “you don’t have to fluff his ego and tell him that he’s cool. He’s not. Now, up you get Mark, clean your shit up and get your ass downstairs to the kitchen so you can do some studying.”

Mark huffs, “why would I have to clean before I go study?”

“Mark, your room is a mess,” you chime in, taking a look around the space covered with strewn clothes and loose papers.

“Now!” Johnny adds snapping his fingers in Mark’s direction. He turns to you, “come on, we can wait for him downstairs. Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

You shake your head, following him back down to the kitchen where you plant yourself in a stool at the counter. He grabs himself a water, slides one over to you too before he just stares at you. He narrows his eyes and you feel like he’s judging you and you begin to get nervous and shy again, avoiding his intense gaze.

Finally, he breaks the silence, “you look really familiar. Did we have a class together or something?”

Your cheeks heat up and you nod slowly, “I think so. Maybe like a political science class a few semesters ago.”

He claps his hands and a smile brightens his handsome face, “that’s it! You sat a few rows ahead of me!”

You dig your nail into the plastic of the water bottle you’re not so subtly mauling in your grip, “there’s no way you remember me. There were like 200 something people in that class.”

“Well, you remember me,” Johnny shoots back with a nonchalant shrug.

“Because you knew everything! You answered a lot of questions and your presentations were really good,” you reply, trying to fight the heat on your cheeks with a sip of water.

He smiles at you, too cocky and handsome for your nerves right now, “and I remember you because you were the cute girl that was always in class before me no matter how hard I tried to beat you to class. I had to walk by your row to get to my seat and you always had your notes ready to go before the professor was even there.”

You freeze. You don’t even know how to respond to his flirting. It is flirting, right? Luckily, or maybe not so luckily, Mark chooses that moment to make his presence known, “oh gross, don’t flirt in front of me.”

“It’s not gross,” you immediately deny.

At the same time Johnny laughs sarcastically, “you don’t get to call the shots around here, little guy.”

Mark squints and flits his eyes between the two of you, “you guys already have a weird dynamic and I don’t like it.”

“Don’t talk to your tutor like that,” Johnny interjects with a finger pointed in his direction, “now sit down and listen so you don’t flunk a general ed history class.”

Mark plops down next to you, laying out all his study materials with an annoyed huff. Johnny watches on with a proud look, his gaze meets yours once more, “hey, don’t forget to say bye before you leave, alright?”

You nod, biting your inner lip to suppress a shy smile, “alright.”

Johnny gives you one last smile before leaving you and Mark to study. Mark rolls his eyes, “you know, I came to college to not have my parents around, not to find a younger, hornier replacement for them.”

You shove his shoulder, “shut up, Mark!”

“Yeah Mark, shut up!” You can hear Johnny yell out.

You try to ignore the look on Mark’s face that all too clearly reads ‘I told you so.’

[starsinthesky5]

I just know songbird and joe go FERAL after not seeing each other for a while!! Like they were both busy a good two months of being away from each other… she was traveling he had some things to get done but once they crossed paths again oh my god the bed HATES to see them coming. I just know they have the most romantic, slow, deep, mouth-foaming, eye-rolling, filthy-worded intimate time known to mankind. Hands? Everywhere. Walls? Vibrating. Back? Arched. They physically can't get enough a round after a round and another round? yeah they’re not holding back🤭

a/n: feeling THINGS while writing this. ily for this one anon, i was thinking about this all day <3

warnings: smut & nsfw content below! (is it hot in here or is it just me)

wc: 1.3k

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

oh my god YES YES YESSSS. you get it. YOU GET IT!!!!

absolutely. this is so them. but they’ve never actually been apart for that long. honestly, two months? it’s laughable. it’s cruel. they’d crumble by week two, if not sooner. joe’s antsy, checking flight prices at two in the morning; she’s curled up in hotel beds that feel too big and too cold without him. one of them would cave—always—and book the next red-eye without a second thought, showing up with tired eyes and open arms just to be back where they belong...together.

early on, before she moved in with him, she was constantly on the move—slipping through cities under the radar. new york, her hometown, sometimes london. music things, spending time with family and friends, slowly rebuilding her life. and joe couldn’t come along, not during the season. so they clung to phone calls and blurry facetimes, sending selfies and voice notes and little gifts to bridge the space between them. they counted every day. every hour. because being apart? it wasn’t just lonely—it was unnatural.

and the second she’s back in cincy with him?

it’s over.

for example—she went to her london house with some of her best friends for two weeks to celebrate her best friend’s engagement in october. it was supposed to be this magical, dreamy, all-girls getaway. the streets of notting hill were bright and busy, cafes buzzing with life, flower stalls on every corner, and her apartment penthouse above the bookstore was packed with laughter and champagne corks popping. they went shopping on oxford street, took polaroids in front of pastel townhouses, spent lazy afternoons in hyde park, and danced until the sun rose in tiny clubs tucked beneath the city.

she loved it—loved the way her girls filled the space with joy, how she got to celebrate love with them, how her cheeks hurt from smiling. and god knows she needed to feel that after everything she’d went through, and was still going through. 

but every time she slipped away for a second—on the balcony in the cool evening air or under the covers when the room finally went quiet—she ached for him.

because nothing about that trip, no matter how lovely, felt complete without joe.

two weeks in london with her best friends sounds dreamy on paper, but for them? for her and joe? it’s actual torture.

the nights?

the nights were the worst.

because that bed they used to share when joe was here briefly over the summer? it felt empty without his broad frame pressed behind her. she’d wake up reaching for him, only to find cool sheets and silence. and yeah, her friends teased her for how often she checked her phone, how often she snuck off to take a call or send a voice note, but she couldn’t help it. she missed him so much.

and joe? back in cincy, restless as hell. he couldn’t sleep. couldn’t even sit still. kept pacing the house in his gray sweats, wearing the hat she left behind like it was armor. he’d fall asleep with his phone in hand, only to wake up to grainy 2 am facetime calls from her with that soft, sleepy “hi, baby” that cracked him open every time.

they tried to stay normal. tried to play it cool. but by day ten?

they were spiraling.

joe’s texts were getting filthier by the hour, all groaned out “i miss your mouth” and “i’d give anything to be inside you right now,”. her replies weren’t much better—photos that never made it past the safety of their messages, audios he’d play on loop when he was alone, soft gasps and moans and whispered “wish you were here, baby,”.

it reached a point where even her friends were like “you know what? just go home to your man,” and she almost did.

but it’s joe who caves first.

because she sends a video—just her in his shirt, curled up in bed, pouting at the camera with that little “i miss you, joey”—and he snaps.

he instantly charters out a private jet for her, knowing damn well she could’ve done that herself, and even pays for the rest of her friend’s engagement celebration because he was calling her home a few days earlier than planned. it was the least he could do. 

and when she touches down in his city? texts him that she just passed their spot? joe’s already posted up by the door, pacing like a man on edge. the second she steps inside his house, that look in his eyes shifts into something carnal. like she’s the only thing he’s wanted, needed, ached for, and now he finally gets to have her again. it’s not just lust—it’s longing. it’s built up in every unread text and late-night call and empty side of the bed.

her suitcase barely hits the floor before his hands are on her. her back hits the wall. their mouths crash. it’s wild and dizzying and filthy, all teeth and tongue and breathless “fuck, i missed you” moans against her skin. his hands are under her shirt, down the back of her jeans—everywhere at once, like he doesn’t know what to touch first.

clothes? gone. scattered across the floor like casualties.

she’s already gasping, whispering things like “you feel so good, joe—missed you so bad, baby, i missed you,” and he’s groaning, deep and wrecked, muttering “been going insane without you. two fuckin’ weeks, baby? never again,”.

the first round is pure chaos. it’s desperate hips, messy kisses, her legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts into her like a man unhinged. he’s groaning into her neck, and she’s digging her nails into his back, pulling him closer, closer, closer. their bodies are frantic—needy—like they’re trying to erase every second they spent apart by fusing into each other.

and then round two?

god. 

slow. deep. raw.

he’s got her on the bed now, body stretched out beneath him, her fingers tangled in his hair, his mouth pressed to her chest as he murmurs all the things he couldn’t say over the phone.

“missed you every fucking night. couldn’t even sleep in our bed without picturing you in it. came in my hand just thinking about you, baby,”.

he grips her thigh and slides in deeper, watching her face twist with pleasure, and it does something to him. because he knows he’s the only one who gets to see her like this—completely open, vulnerable, his. and she’s whispering back, all breathy and broken, “i’m yours, joe. always. fuck…,” and he can barely hold it together.

they don’t stop. they can’t.

they go again. and again.

there’s laughter in between, forehead kisses, little jokes when he fumbles with a blanket or she nearly trips getting up for water. she teases him for how needy he is and he just smirks, pulling her right back into bed. there are marks on her thighs, her neck, soft bruises she wears like love letters. his jaw is stubbly against her skin and she loves it—loves when he gets a little rough, a little growly, when he can’t stop telling her how fucking much he missed her, how she’s everything.

at some point, they forget what time it is. maybe the sun’s rising. maybe the stars are out. doesn’t matter—they’re back together, and that’s the only thing either of them cares about.

it’s not just sex. it’s homecoming. it’s sacred. it’s love in the most carnal, intimate form.

and after?

they pass out in a tangle of limbs, hair messy, bodies sticky and sore, hearts full. joe’s got his arm around her waist, her leg slung over his hip, and neither of them lets go.

not even in their sleep.

[cbeargyu]

hihi, idk if ur reqs r open but! could u write “showing my bf im pregnant” with jaemin please? 🥹

baby on board

summary: you’ve been feeling off lately—moody, sleepy, weird cravings—but it’s not until babies start staring and onesies catch your eye that you realize something’s up. you try to tell jaemin, but the universe is dead set on interrupting you. turns out, your boyfriend is about to be the softest, most dramatic dad ever.

pairing: na jaemin x fem!reader

genre: fluff, established relationship, pregnancy au, light comedy, slice of life.

warnings: none, just soft chaos and baby fever

wc: 1,3K

notes: hope you like this anon!! i wrote it kinda fast but poured all my love into it 🥹 i’m such a sucker for parents au and jaemin as a soft, dramatic dad-to-be makes my heart melt. enjoy 💌

remember that requests are OPEN so come drop your deepest desires and i’ll make them come true 👅

you met jaemin in the middle of a rainy tuesday. it was one of those days when the universe feels a little out of sync, like everyone is moving too fast and you’re stuck in slow motion.

you had rushed into the small café on the corner of your street, trying to escape the sudden downpour, half-soaked and completely annoyed at the world. the place was warm and smelled like cinnamon and espresso. you ordered a hot drink, mumbled a thank you, and turned—only to bump into someone holding a stack of books and a muffin in his mouth.

that someone was jaemin.

the muffin fell. the books almost followed.

“shit, i’m so sorry—” you gasped, reaching to steady him.

he caught the books, looked at you, and smiled like nothing in the world could bother him. “it’s okay. i’ve dropped worse things. like myself. down stairs.”

you blinked. then laughed, unexpectedly.

“i’m jaemin,” he added, sticking out his hand.

you shook it. “y/n.”

he bought you another muffin the next day. and then one the day after that. a week later, he asked if you wanted to sit with him. two weeks in, you were watching stupid movies on his couch. by the third month, you were kissing him under fairy lights at his rooftop and wondering how the hell someone could feel like home so fast.

fast forward four years, and he still felt like home.

only now, things were a little... weird.

it started small. like, blink-and-you-miss-it small.

a baby stared at you on the bus. not in a passing glance kind of way—full eye contact, no blinking, pacifier dangling from their lips like they knew something. they just… stared. and when you smiled politely, the baby smiled back and waved.

“you good?” jaemin asked beside you, scrolling on his phone.

“that baby’s been staring at me for ten minutes,” you whispered.

he leaned forward, looked, and waved back. “maybe they think you’re pretty. babies have taste.”

you snorted. “weirdly specific taste.”

“or maybe they think you look like their mom,” he shrugged.

you blinked. “that’s oddly foreshadowy.”

“what?”

“nothing.”

a few days later, you were walking past a baby boutique on the way to get coffee. you’ve passed that shop a hundred times. never once stopped. and yet—this time—you did. you stood outside the window staring at a tiny onesie that said “hi, i’m new here!”

your heart fluttered.

“y/n?” jaemin called from up the block. “you good?”

you startled. “uh, yeah!”

you ran to catch up with him, mentally shaking off the weird softness blooming in your chest.

then came the dreams. weird ones.

you dreamt of holding a baby. always the same one. soft cheeks, sleepy eyes, giggling when you tickled their belly. in the dream, you weren’t panicking. you were calm. happy. at peace.

jaemin was there too—smiling so softly it made your chest ache.

you never mentioned them, because... why would you?

until one day, jaemin walked into the apartment holding a bag of takeout and said:

“i passed a baby crawling in the park today and thought of you.”

you blinked. “...why?”

“i dunno. you’re both soft and cute and have the same confused face.”

“jaemin.”

“i’m just saying! if you wore a tiny hat and had chubby cheeks—”

you threw a pillow at him.

you should’ve figured it out when you cried over a cereal commercial. it was a dad surprising his daughter with pancakes. you were full-on sniffling.

jaemin found you and immediately panicked. “who hurt you?”

“they were just... pancakes,” you whispered.

he looked concerned. and then distracted. “okay but wait—do you want pancakes? i can make you pancakes.”

and still, it didn’t click.

until one morning, your body said “surprise” and you ran straight to the bathroom, nauseous and lightheaded. jaemin was still asleep, drooling slightly on his pillow like a useless angel.

you groaned. “not the flu, please. i have plans.”

except… you didn’t get better. and your period? suspiciously absent.

you sat on the edge of the bed two hours later, holding the test in your hand, staring at the tiny pink lines that basically screamed “congrats, mom.”

“…oh.”

cue emotional spiraling.

attempt #1: destiny.

you’d been feeling weird for days—nausea in the morning, sudden naps in the afternoon, and emotions all over the place. jaemin noticed immediately. but instead of connecting the dots, he assumed the worst.

“are you avoiding me?” he asked one evening, arms crossed as he stood in the doorway of the kitchen.

you looked up from your glass of ginger tea, annoyed and already tired. “what?”

“you barely texted me all day, and you said no to movie night yesterday.”

you opened your mouth to respond but your phone rang. your mom.

you declined.

“who was it?” jaemin asked, immediately suspicious.

“my mom!”

“why’s she calling at dinner time?”

“i don’t know, maybe she felt my emotional crisis from another city!”

he blinked. “that was very specific. are you mad at me?”

“oh my god.”

jaemin was still staring. “so?”

“i’m not avoiding you, jaemin.”

“then why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

“because every time i try to talk, something happens!”

right on cue, the dog barked like crazy from the other room, having knocked over something. you flinched, eyes closing in frustration. jaemin blinked.

“okay, that’s actually weird timing,” he mumbled.

you stormed past him, muttering, “i give up,” and headed straight to the bedroom.

attempt #2: mark.

you made him tea, sat him down, lit a candle (for vibes), and were this close to saying the words when—

“BABE!” mark’s voice screamed from the phone. “I GOT THE JOB!”

“oh my god!!” jaemin yelled back. “DUDE!!!”

you blinked at your tea.

they screamed for five more minutes. by the time he hung up, you’d finished your tea and your courage.

“next time,” you muttered.

attempt #3: ruined by a flying bug.

“listen, i need to tell you some—”

“IS THAT A WASP?!”

“—oh my god.”

you both ran in opposite directions. it was a whole ordeal. by the time it was gone, you were sweating, annoyed, and incredibly done.

then, the surrender.

so you stopped trying.

and then you cried in the shower for no reason.

jaemin noticed. of course he did.

“okay,” he said that night, hands on his hips. “either you’re avoiding me, or you’re possessed.”

you sighed, curled up in bed. “i’m not possessed.”

“then what is it? are you... breaking up with me?”

you sat up, scandalized. “WHAT?!”

“you’ve been so weird, y/n!”

“YOU THINK I’D DUMP YOU IN THE MIDDLE OF THROWING UP?!”

“...i mean, it’d be dramatic. on brand.”

you stared at him. then got up, walked to the drawer, pulled out the test, and slapped it into his palm.

he blinked.

looked down.

blinked again.

"...this is fake, right?"

you just stared.

“wait. wait. are you serious?”

you nodded.

his mouth opened. closed. opened again. “like. pregnant. pregnant?”

you nodded again.

he looked at you.

looked at the test.

then burst into the softest, most chaotic laugh you’d ever heard. he hugged you so tight you couldn’t breathe, peppered kisses all over your face, and then said:

“i KNEW the baby at the bus was a sign.”

“you WHAT?”

“it waved at you! babies don’t just wave at strangers!”

“that means nothing!”

“IT MEANS EVERYTHING!!”

you laughed so hard you cried.

he leaned in, kissed your stomach, and whispered, “hi, tiny muffin. i can’t wait to meet you.”

you blinked. “muffin?”

“temporary nickname. subject to change.”

“please god, let it change.”

he kissed you so softly it made your chest ache. then he rested his forehead against yours. “okay. new plan. we go through this together. you rest. i panic silently in the background. then we name it something cute. deal?”

“deal.”

he smiled.

then paused. “…what if it’s twins?”

you smacked his arm. “don’t you dare.”

he laughed again, pulling you down with him, tangled in the blankets and each other.

and for the first time in a week, you felt peace settle into your bones—like maybe, just maybe, everything was going to be okay.

two hours later.

“what about naming them after me?”

“absolutely not.”

“what about us? like a name mashup? jae-...., min-....”

“you’re banned from name ideas.”

“muffin it is.”

divider by: @uzmacchiato

[yujiqi]

hiii could you write a lil something fluffy about reader and hamzah living together and what starts as you stealing his clothes turns into you guys sharing basically everything (like he steals your satin pillowcase, you use his glasses, he tries out your skincare, etc.)??

(could be an established relationship or secretly-in-love roommates <3)

the perfect pair

bf!hamzah x f!reader

synopsis: you and hamzah have been living together for so long you even start to use each others stuff!

genre/s: fluff

warnings: none!

wc: 890

a/n: coming around to requests! i literally used all your examples because i genuinely couldn't think of things LOL this was lowkey short and idk if i fulfilled what u wanted but this ones so cute i love it thank u anon :D

you and hamzah moved in together about 6 months ago and you guys have gotten much more comfortable with each other since then. for the first month or two, you guys would always ask for permission before borrowing or wearing each others things, but you really can't say the same now.

"babe have you seen my camo hat?" you hear your boyfriends voice call from your shared closet.

"yes!" you say smiling as he walks out and towards you on the bed, staring at his camo hat sitting on your small head.

"look at you," he pats your head, "always taking my hats"

"it matches my pants, see" you laugh, jumping up to give him a hug. he reciprocates and presses a kiss to your forehead.

it's not even just clothes and accessories, sometimes it's the oddest things that you typically wouldn't share. you were finishing up your night routine and as you get in bed, you notice somethings missing. you turn over to hamzah laying on his side scrolling on his phone, his head laying on the pillow with your satin pillow case.

"hamzah" you rest your chin on his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the stupid tiktok he was watching.

"hm" he hums, engrossed.

"why do you have my pillow case?" he finally looks away from his phone to look at you, flashing a cheeky cmile.

"it makes my skin smoother! and look at my curls" you begin playing with his silky dark brown locks.

"they look so good baby, want me to buy you one?"

"no no then it won't smell like you" you only let out a chuckle, kissing his cheek.

"you're so cute"

whenever you study for exams, you have a hard time reading the font and to your surprise, hamzahs glasses have the perfect amount of prescription, so you wear them!

"ugh this is so stupid" you sigh, frustrated at the question you've been on for 30 minutes. you hear the front door opening and closing, meaning hamzah's home.

"hey girl, whatcha doin hm?" he comes behind your chair, kissing the top of your head.

"i'm studying for that business exam i told you 'bout"

"oh man, i wish i could help but i really don't know what i'm looking at right now" he begins massaging your shoulders, hoping to relieve some of your stress. "that feel good, angel?"

"so good," you sigh. "thank you baby but 'm gonna fall asleep, i gotta finish this"

"ok i'll leave you to it, i'm proud of you ma" he leans down to kiss your cheek but he pauses. "are you wearing my glasses?"

you smile up at him, kissing his plump lips. "yeah, needed them to see this tiny ass font"

"you look so studious, you're serving office siren i think is what it's called? but you look so sexy i'm actually having heart palpitations" he grasps his chest, heaving jokingly.

"i love you how you say things" you laugh, pressing another kiss to his lips.

hamzah occasionally gets little breakouts on his face, and to make matters worse, he doesn't even have a skincare routine. but you do. so when this happens, he just uses your skincare!

"how the hell does she use this?" hamzah questions as he fumbles with one of your serums.

"hamzah, you okay?" you enter the bathroom, your hamzah-senses tingling. "boy what are you doing?"

"my skin was doing bad and i was feeling a lil insecure" he sulks.

"should've told me love," you sit on the counter. "c'mere, lemme do this for you" he moves to stand between your legs and you take the serum from his large hands. "what have you done so far?"

"i put this thing on" he points at your toner, before placing his hands on your thighs.

"ok good, you were on the right track!" you open the serum and fill the applicator. "you press this at the top to get the serum in the dropper"

"ohhh i thought it was the squeezy ones"

"no, but i'm shocked you know that!" you smile approvingly at him, applying some serum on his cheeks and then his forehead and chin. you begin patting it into his skin with your fingers.

"i like when you touch my face, feels good" he looks at you with half lidded eyes.

"yeah?"

"mhm, can you do this more often?"

"of course, anything for you sweetheart" you kiss his nose, "now i'm just gonna use a moisturizer then we'll do sunscreen, okay?" he nods his head, inching his body closer to you. now his arms are wrapped loosely around your lower waist.

"hamzah you're too close! how am i gonna do this?" you giggle at his clingyness, applying the cream to his face that's just inches away from yours.

"see you're doing just fine" he gives you toothly a smile as you reach the last step.

"anddd we're done!" you fix a stray curl on his head before wrapping your arms around his neck so he can help you down.

"is the glow giving?" he says as he sucks his cheeks in.

"yes but don't do that"

"oh ok so you don't love me"

"boiii get the hell out of here" you playfully push his shoulder and chase him out of the bathroom.

it really is sharing is caring with you and hamzah.

[berryispunk]

Serendipity

this is part 2 of 2. part 1 readable here

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: watch me turn smut into poetry, idiots in love, it’s so sweet your teeth may rot, all the fluff, all the feelings, playful banter, flirting, soft! Frankie, they are so in love it’s disgusting, kissing, the boys once again having an appearance, Frankie being sexy playing mini-golf ???, dual POV, established relationship, Frankie can cook, our boy is happy for once :')

summary: You decide to give Frankie a chance, and before you know it, you’re drawn into his world, discovering more about yourself and him with every passing moment.

word count: ~ 6,8k (I may went a bit overboard with this oop)

You weren’t trying to stare, really.

But it was hard not to when Frankie leaned over to line up his shot, tongue caught slightly between his teeth in concentration, hat pulled low over his brow. He made stupid plaid shorts look good. Unfair.

“I feel like you’re taking this way too seriously,” you said, arms crossed and pretending not to be flustered by the way his biceps flexed when he adjusted his grip on the tiny club.

He didn’t even look at you when he replied, “That’s because I play to win.”

Then he tapped the ball, missed the hole entirely, and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse.

You burst out laughing.

It wasn’t perfect. The fake waterfall behind you was a little too loud. Your slushy was melting too fast. You tripped over the uneven green carpet at one point and nearly wiped out in front of the windmill—but Frankie caught your elbow, steadying you like it was nothing. Like your face wasn’t heating up by the second.

“You good?” he asked, smiling in that quietly amused way of his.

“I meant to do that,” you mumbled, brushing yourself off.

He leaned in a little. “It was graceful,” he said, deadpan.

You rolled your eyes, but the moment stuck—like most things about him seemed to.

He wasn’t perfect either. He missed a bunch of shots, made dumb jokes about golf terms, and pretended to sulk when you got a hole-in-one before him. But every now and then, he’d look at you—not in a checking you out kind of way, but in this you’re actually really fun to be around kind of way—and it made your stomach flip.

By the time you reached the last hole, you weren’t thinking about how awkward the start had been, or how you’d nearly fallen on your face. You were thinking about how he still hadn’t let go of the crumpled scorecard in his back pocket. How his hand brushed yours a little longer than necessary when he handed you the final ball.

And how maybe—just maybe—you were going to stare a little harder next time. Because Frankie was attractive, yes. But also funny. And weirdly sweet. And that was dangerous.

In the best way.

He pulled up in front of your place, engine humming low beneath the silence that had settled after the playlist ran out. Neither of you had reached to turn it back on. The windows were slightly fogged from the warmth inside the car, the night cool and still on the other side of the glass.

You glanced at him, hand on the door handle but not ready to get out just yet.

“So,” you said, turning slightly toward him. “Is this your thing? Picking up girls at bars with tragic lighting and too much Pitbull?”

Frankie smirked, one hand still on the steering wheel. “Only the ones that read.”

You let out a real laugh then—sharp and surprised and a little louder than you meant it to be. And when you looked over, he was already watching you.

Not in a way that made your stomach twist with nerves. In a way that made it flutter.

“That laugh,” he said quietly, like it slipped out without permission. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”

You blinked, caught off guard. The words hung there between you like steam on the windshield.

Your fingers twitched against the door handle, and you felt the heat crawl up your neck. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?” he asked, almost playful. But there was something soft beneath it, like he wasn’t joking entirely. Like he actually meant it.

You shook your head, smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Because it’ll make me stay in this car longer.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Would that be a bad thing?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him, heart doing this stupid, unsteady thing in your chest.

You weren’t the type to let your guard down easily. Usually, there was more caution than curiosity—more distance than this.

But Frankie disarmed you in a way that didn’t feel reckless. Just easy. Like your ribs weren’t holding everything so tightly anymore.

You looked at him then. Really looked. The quiet curve of his mouth. The way his jawline caught the streetlight. The slight bump in his nose. That annoyingly perfect side profile. And of course, the hat.

“So,” you said, tilting your head. “Are you, like, secretly bald under there?”

He turned to you with a snort. “What?”

“The cap,” you shrugged, pretending to be casual. “You haven’t taken it off once. I’m starting to think you’re hiding something.”

Frankie grinned, slow and a little smug. “You wanna see my mob of hair?”

Your brows lifted. “Mob?”

“That’s what my sister calls it,” he said. “It’s tragic, really. You sure you’re ready?”

You didn’t expect to say yes. But then you did.

“Yeah,” you said softly, like a challenge. “Show me the mob.”

He hesitated just a second longer, then reached up and tugged the cap off.

His hair was tousled, messy from the day and the cap and probably from running his hand through it too much—but it suited him. Dark, thick, a little wavy. Unruly, but honest.

You smiled. “It’s actually kind of great. Nothing that needs to be hidden.”

Frankie gave you this lopsided shrug like he wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Your hand moved before your brain caught up. Lightly, fingertips brushing through the strands at the front, pushing them back from his forehead. And he let you. Just… sat there. Quiet and still. Watching you with these warm brown eyes of his.

The moment stretched, warm and vulnerable in that sleepy, late-night way.

You didn’t say anything after that. Neither did he. But something shifted.

It felt like permission. Like possibility.

You finally stepped out of the car, cheeks still warm, hand tingling from the feel of his hair. You gave him one last glance through the open door.

“Night, Frankie.”

“Night,” he said, still smiling like he was stuck in the moment. “Text me when you’re in. Just so I know your building didn’t suddenly vanish or something.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a grin. “Sure, if the elevator ghosts don’t get me first.”

You closed the door before you said anything else, afraid you’d stay. And when you reached your apartment and leaned against the inside of your door, your phone was already buzzing with a new text.

Frankie: You’re probably rolling your eyes already but… I had a really good time. Even if you did accuse me of being bald 😅

You bit your lip, fingers already flying.

You: I just think people should be honest about who they are. Even if they’re charming, unfairly attractive, and weirdly good at mini-golf. And fine. The hair’s a solid 10 😙

Frankie: Unfairly attractive?? Gonna be riding that high for a week now, thanks. But seriously. This was… really nice. Can we do it again sometime? Maybe somewhere without fake windmills and toddlers screaming in the background? 😟

You: Only if you promise to bring the mob. And maybe lose this time 😉

Frankie: Deal. But I’m still winning. Just a little slower so you don’t cry

You laughed out loud at that, collapsing onto your couch, phone still in hand.

You: You’re ridiculous. But yeah, I’d love to ☺️

The texting didn’t stop.

Morning, midday, after work, before bed. Little comments. Inside jokes. Mini rants about annoying customers (him) or weird elevator neighbors (you). It became constant—effortless.

And somewhere between memes and sarcastic commentary about his music taste, things started getting a little more… suggestive.

You: So when are you showing me your secret playlist with all the sad boy music? I won’t judge. Much 🤭

Frankie: You say that, but I’m still recovering from the “2015 template” comment about my Instagram. You’ve hurt me, deeply 😐

You: I just think you deserve better. Better lighting. Better fonts. A little thirst trap, maybe? Just for balance.

Frankie: If I post a thirst trap, it’ll only be for you. And maybe my one follower from high school who still likes every post I make.

You: You trying to flirt with me, Morales?

Frankie: Would it work if I was?

You paused a beat longer than usual before answering.

You: Yeah. It kinda would 🫣

There was a delay. Not long. Just long enough for your heart to pick up in that way it only did with him.

Frankie: Then I’m gonna keep doing it. Fair warning 😋

Late at night, when you couldn’t sleep, the banter softened.

You: Can’t sleep. Tell me something real.

Frankie: I think about that night at the bar more than I should. You, sitting there with that poetry book. I still don’t know what made me walk over, but I’m glad I did. It didn’t feel like a first meeting. It felt like a pause. Like we were picking something back up

You stared at your screen, blinking through the quiet ache that settled behind his words.

You: Okay that was unfairly poetic. Who’s the reader now? Also… same 🫣

Somewhere in there, things shifted.

The teasing never stopped, but now it lived alongside something warmer, something waiting.

And every time your phone buzzed, your heart answered like it already knew who it was.

You showed up the next morning in leggings and the oversized hoodie you’d slept in. Hair still a little wild. Face bare. Nervous as hell.

He was waiting in the doorway, coffee in hand, and the minute he saw you, his whole face softened.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and a little raspy.

“Hey,” you echoed, breath catching in your throat.

Frankie stepped aside to let you in. You could feel his eyes on you as you passed. You tried not to let it rattle you—but God, it did.

“I didn’t mean to make that weird,” you said quietly, standing in his kitchen like it was too bright for what you were feeling.

“You didn’t.” He handed you the second mug. “I wanted to see you too, don’t worry.”

You looked at him. Really looked. Hair still damp from a shower. Shirt hanging off his frame. Sleep still tugging at his features. But his eyes—God, his eyes—focused on you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice soft.

You nodded.

“I’m not perfect,” he reminded you again, even gentler this time. “But I’ll be real with you. Always.”

“I don’t need perfect,” you said. “I just need you.”

And that? That earned you a chaste kiss that tasted like coffee and quiet promises.

Frankie’s apartment was quiet. Just the hum of the coffee maker and the occasional creak of old floorboards. No loud music, no distractions—just sunlight filtering through the half-closed blinds and the steady rhythm of your breathing slowly syncing with his.

He’d pulled you into the living room after your second cup of coffee, both of you settling on his couch like it was second nature, not the very first time. His arm around your shoulders. Your legs tangled over his. One of his hands resting on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, absent circles.

You leaned into him without even thinking. Your head on his chest. The rise and fall of his breathing grounding you in a way nothing else had in a long time, making your eyes heavy.

It was supposed to be a moment. Just a minute or two.

But you stayed.

You dozed off for a while, slipping in and out of sleep as the afternoon light shifted around you—warm gold softening into the early hues of dusk. The room dimmed slowly, shadows stretching longer, quieter. You barely registered the steady brush of his fingers through your hair, his hand never once leaving you. And when you finally stirred, blinking sleepily up at him, he was already watching you with that soft, steady look—like he’d been doing it for a while. Like he was memorizing every detail.

You almost wished you had a camera to catch this, whatever this was. Because you were certain no one had ever looked at you quite like this before.

“You fell asleep,” he murmured, voice muffled against your hair.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t mind.”

You stayed like that longer than you probably should have. But neither of you pulled away. Neither of you said this is too soon or this is dangerous.

“Is this… weird?” you asked eventually, voice barely above a whisper. “I mean—we’ve only known each other for what, a week?”

Frankie’s arm tightened around you slightly. “Maybe. But it doesn’t feel weird.”

“No,” you admitted. “It feels kind of… safe.”

“Yeah,” he said, brushing some hair back from your face. “You feel like a Sunday morning.”

You blinked up at him. “That’s the cheesiest thing you’ve said to me so far.”

He grinned, unapologetic. “Not even close.”

You laughed and hid your face in his shirt, letting his smell fill your senses. “God, you’re dangerous.”

“Only in the good ways,” he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, soft, but it lingered.

And inside, you were buzzing. Because this—his arms around you, your body pressed close to his, his warmth and steadiness and that look in his eyes—felt too good. Too safe. Too much like something you could get used to.

And that terrified you.

You didn’t want to move. Neither of you did but eventually you had to.

But the sun was setting, cutting through the blinds in long golden and purple lines, and time kept ticking forward like it always does.

Eventually, you sat up with a sleepy groan and Frankie rubbed a hand over his face, like waking up without you pressed against him required more energy than he had.

“I should go,” you said, stretching.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t push or ask when he’d see you next. He just nodded, like he already knew.

Still, you moved slow—pulling your hoodie back on, gathering your things with fingers that dragged a little too long across the surface of his coffee table. Like you were anchoring yourself.

Like you didn’t really want to leave.

Frankie walked you to the door, sleepy eyes still somehow locked on you like you were the only thing in focus. And when you turned to him, your heart thudded stupidly loud in your chest.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you said, teasing gently. “And the accidental nap.”

He smiled, a hand running through his tousled locks. So much better than the cap. 

“Best part of my day.”

You wanted to kiss him again. You almost did.

But instead, you stepped out into the sinking sunlight with a half-smile and a parting glance over your shoulder.

What you didn’t see—what you didn’t plan—was the little thing you left behind.

Half an hour later, Frankie found it.

Your hair tie, wrapped around the base of his coffee mug.

You’d barely made it home when your phone buzzed.

Frankie: You left something here 😅

A pause. Then another message.

Frankie: Guess I’ll have to keep it hostage until I see you again 😌

You smirked, flopping back onto your bed like you hadn’t been thinking about him since the second you walked out the door.

You: I knew it. You lured me into your place just to steal my stuff 😨

Frankie: Guilty. Hair tie now lives here. Right next to my extremely basic coffee mug ☕️

You: God, is that mug older than your Instagram aesthetic?

Frankie: Careful. Insult my mug again and I’ll keep your hoodie next time too 😤

Your smile softened.

You: So what you’re saying is… you already want there to be a next time ?

A minute passed. Then:

Frankie: Yeah, I really do.

Your stomach did that ridiculous little flip, the kind you usually rolled your eyes at in rom-coms.

You stared at the screen for a second longer before typing back:

You: Good. Because I left that hair tie on purpose.

Only a few days later in his apartment it smelled like garlic and butter, warm and rich and unfairly good.

You leaned against the counter, watching him move around the kitchen with sleeves rolled and a focused furrow between his brows that only made him more annoyingly attractive. He was surprisingly confident behind the stove—measuring, tossing, tasting like it was second nature.

“I’m sorry,” you said, after stealing a bite of pasta from the pot, “but this is actually incredible. Like—date him for the food alone level good.”

Frankie flashed you a grin over his shoulder. “What, you thought I couldn’t cook?”

“I thought you were all hat and no apron.”

He chuckled, wiping his hands on a dish towel before leaning in to steal a kiss. Quick, soft. Like a punctuation mark.

Dinner was good—borderline too good. The kind that lingered on your tongue and made you feel a little too comfortable in a home that wasn’t yours.

But then again, everything about Frankie felt like that. Natural and effortless. Dangerous in the slowest, most tender way.

Later, you curled up together on his couch, both of you full and warm, the soft glow of an old movie playing in the background. Neither of you were really watching—your focus was on the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingers, felt through the worn cotton of a faded band tee, the print barely recognizable from years of wear. His hand rested on your hip, thumb moving in slow, steady circles, like he wasn’t in any rush to be anywhere else.

And then, suddenly—he stilled.

It was subtle. Just the way his fingers stopped moving. The way his chest didn’t rise quite as deep. The way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly beneath your cheek.

You pulled back just slightly. “Frankie?”

He blinked, his gaze flicking down to you like he hadn’t realized he was somewhere else.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, that nervous tic slipping through the cracks. “There’s something I should probably tell you.”

Your stomach pulled tight, a knot of dread winding low and sharp. Your heart thudded in your ears, too loud, too fast. Please don’t say you have a wife. Or a kid. Or some life I don’t know about waiting just around the corner. You didn’t dare say it out loud, but the thought hit hard—ridiculous maybe, but real. Because he felt real. And the idea of him hiding something like that made your breath catch in your throat.

His eyes didn’t leave yours as he spoke—steady, but there was something in them, a flicker of nerves he couldn’t mask. “I’m in recovery,” he said, voice low. “Coke. Mostly. It got bad for a while.”

He swallowed, jaw tightening before he continued. “It’s been two years. Clean. But it’s… it’s hard to talk about. Still. Not because I’m ashamed, just…” He looked down for a second, rubbed his thumb against the side of your hand like it grounded him. “I don’t want you to see me differently. But I also didn’t wanna lie. Not to you.”

Then his eyes found yours again, soft and open. “You deserve to know the whole story.”

“Thank you for telling me,” you said softly, your voice quiet but unwavering. “That doesn’t scare me, Frankie. Not even a little.”

He blinked, brow tightening like he wasn’t sure he believed you, like the words didn’t quite fit into the story he told himself. In that moment, he looked smaller—like the truth had taken something out of him.

You reached for his hand, thumb brushing over his knuckles, grounding him the same way he did for you. “It’s part of your story,” you murmured. “But it’s not you. Not all of you.”

He let out a breath, slow and shaky, like your words had cracked something open and let the light in.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” you added gently. “Just let me see you.”

His eyes met yours then, soft in a way that made something inside you ache—because maybe no one had ever told him that before. And when he leaned in this time, the kiss wasn’t urgent. It was tender. Deep. 

No walls. No masks. Just him, letting you see it all.

And you? You weren’t going anywhere.

Frankie woke first. He always did.

The light was soft through the curtains, painting lazy streaks across the hardwood floor, catching in your hair where it spilled across his pillow. You were curled against him, your leg tucked over his, fingers resting just above his chest like they belonged there.

And maybe they did.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t want to risk waking you—not when you looked like that. Completely at ease. Like, just for a night, the weight of the world had finally let go of your shoulders. You made mornings like this feel sacred. Like something worth taking slow.

He could still taste you on his lips. Sweet, a little bit intoxicating too.

Last night hadn’t gone any further than kissing—your mouths slow and exploring, hands reverent but still careful. It wasn’t that he didn’t want more. God, he did. It lived in the back of his throat, in the tension wound tight in his muscles. Every brush of your fingers, every breathy little laugh you gave him when he kissed down your jaw had lit him up from the inside out.

But it hadn’t been about that.

It had been about trust. About feeling safe enough to let each other in. He’d told you the thing he was most scared of—and you hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t pulled away.

You’d just held his hand tighter—and still looked at him. Not just the broken parts that needed fixing, but all of him.

And now, with the morning wrapped around both of you, he couldn’t stop looking at you. Your lashes fluttered against your cheeks. Your lips parted in sleep. And all he could think about was how much he wanted you—yes, physically, fiercely—but also in the smaller, quieter ways.

He wanted your voice in his kitchen. Your hoodie tossed on his couch. Your hair tie looped around the handle of his favorite coffee mug like it belonged there. He wanted you curled up next to him in bed, taking up too much space—the kind he’d complain about to anyone else, but never to you.

His fingers traced lightly over your hip where the blanket had slipped down, just enough to feel the warmth of your skin beneath his touch.

You stirred, blinking up at him, and Frankie offered a small smile.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

You gave him that sleepy half-smile that knocked the breath right out of his chest.

Yeah, he was so fucked.

The morning moved slowly, and Frankie let it. No rush, no noise—just the low hum of music playing from the speaker on his counter and the occasional clink of cutlery as he flipped pancakes with one hand, your oversized hoodie hanging off your frame as you leaned against the island, nursing a mug of coffee like you’d done it a hundred times before.

God, you looked good like that.

Domestic. Here.

His kitchen had never felt warmer.

You were humming along to the song playing—something old-school and smooth, the kind of track his dad used to play on Sunday mornings—and Frankie couldn’t help but smile at the sound. His chest felt full. Like he’d been holding his breath for years without realizing it and now, somehow, you were the exhale.

When you reached for a strawberry from the bowl he’d just rinsed, he swatted your hand playfully.

“Those are for the pancakes.”

You shrugged, popping it in your mouth anyway. “Consider it quality control.”

Frankie rolled his eyes but there was no heat behind it. Just fondness. Endless, quiet, stupid fondness.

He served the pancakes, sat across from you at the small table, and listened as you rambled about how eggs always taste better when someone else makes them and how his coffee game was finally improving.

And then, just as he was about to take a bite, your voice softened.

“I went on a lot of dates before you.”

Frankie glanced up.

“None of them ever stuck,” you said, not quite meeting his eyes. “They all felt like… noise. Like I was trying to prove I wasn’t too much for someone.”

He didn’t say anything, just waited, giving you the space to continue.

You smiled—small, a little crooked, not as sure of yourself as he’d come to know you. “I never thought I’d be the girl sitting alone at a bar with a poetry book… and end up meeting someone who actually stayed. Who really listened.”

You looked down for a second, then back at him. “I always thought I was too loud. Too sharp. Just… too much me.”

Frankie blinked, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth, completely forgotten. Something tugged tight in his chest. He knew that feeling—being too much and never enough, all at once. 

Maybe the two of you were just a pair of lost souls who somehow fit. Like you’d found something in each other you hadn’t even known you were searching for. Something quiet. Effortless. Like understanding without needing to speak it out loud.

Frankie looked at you across the table, the way your fingers absently toyed with the edge of your plate. And he realized something else too—that it wasn’t just comfort he found in you. It was hope.

You made space for him without demanding he be anything more than what he was. And that scared him a little. Because it was rare. Because it felt like something he could ruin if he wasn’t careful.

“I felt so stupid that night,” you admitted, cutting through his thoughts, voice barely above a whisper. “Sitting there alone with that book, trying to pretend I wasn’t completely gutted my date ditched me.”

You looked at him then, eyes a little softer. “But then you showed up. And somehow, it didn’t feel like such a bad night anymore. Like maybe the universe messed up just right.”

Frankie swallowed hard and leaned forward, one hand finding yours across the table, grounding it.

“You weren’t too much,” he said softly. “They were too little.”

Your eyes glassed over a little, and Frankie squeezed your hand gently.

“You don’t need to be less of anything to be worthy of something good,” he added. “And I swear to God, you—sitting there with that book like a goddamn fever dream—you were the only thing in that bar I wanted to pay attention to.”

The silence that followed was warm, weighted.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you said, “You only say that because you still want to sleep with me.” Frankie’s grin turned playful. “Well, that’s part of it,” he said with a wink. “But mostly, it’s because I’m really into pancakes... and you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh as you grabbed a strawberry from the plate and tossed it lightly at his head. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, still smiling.

Frankie caught the berry with a laugh, pretending to inspect it. “I think that was a compliment,” he said, popping it in his mouth. "I’ll take it.”

It had been almost two weeks since that night at the bar, and somehow, in the middle of stolen kisses, late-night texts, and slow mornings tangled up in each other, you had become a constant.

Tonight, Frankie was bringing you into his world.

The boys were already gathered when you arrived—music playing low, laughter echoing from the kitchen. It smelled like beer and pizza and the kind of memories that never leave a room. Frankie’s hand hovered at the small of your back as he led you inside, grounding, reassuring. You were nervous—he could feel it—but you still smiled.

And then Benny spotted you.

“You’re the poetry girl,” he grinned like he’d just cracked some long-running inside joke. “The mythical bar unicorn. I thought you weren’t real.”

Frankie groaned under his breath. “Jesus, Ben.”

You laughed, though, relaxing at the warm chaos of it all. “Guilty as charged.”

Will came over next, polite and calm with a quiet smile. “It’s good to finally meet you. Frankie talks a lot about you.” Then, after a pause: “Like a lot a lot.”

“Will,” Frankie muttered, shooting him a warning look.

Will just chuckled, passing you a drink. “Ignore him. He’s been insufferable since you showed up in his life.”

Santiago leaned against the counter nearby, nodding at you with that easy confidence. “You’re braver than most. Walking straight into the lion’s den.”

You smiled. “I figured if I survived Benny’s Instagram stalking, I could survive anything.”

“Oh, she’s quick,” Santi said, laughing as Benny threw his hands up dramatically in protest.

The evening passed with the hum of comfort. Jokes and memories thrown across the table, Frankie’s hand brushing against yours under it when he thought no one was looking. And you liked them—each of them, in their own way. Will, observant and dryly funny. Benny, loud but never unkind. And Santi—somehow both laid back and deeply perceptive.

Later, as the others argued over what movie to put on, Santi came to stand beside you in the kitchen, both of you half-watching Frankie refill drinks at the counter, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in fake concentration.

“He’s a good one,” Santi said casually.

You smiled. “Yeah. He really is.”

There was a pause. Then, soft enough you almost missed it, Santi added, “Didn’t see him that happy in forever.”

It landed quietly, threading itself into your chest. Making it feel warm, almost glowing.

You looked at Frankie again—at the little crease between his brows, the soft curve of his smile when he glanced your way, and that thing he always did when he caught you looking, like he couldn’t quite believe you were still there.

And you knew that sentence—Santi’s voice, that truth—would echo in your heart for a long time.

Frankie had driven you home. Neither of you had said much on the way—just a comfortable silence, hands brushing occasionally on the console, that soft look in his eyes whenever he glanced over.

Now, in your living room, lit only by the warm glow of a lamp in the corner, he stood close. Too close to pretend either of you wanted distance anymore.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, searching.

You nodded. “Yeah. I liked them. Your friends.”

He smiled, but it was gentler now. “They liked you too.”

You let that settle, eyes searching his face. “Santi said something.”

Frankie raised a brow. “Oh?”

You nodded. “Said he hasn’t seen you this happy in forever.”

He looked down for a beat, rubbed the back of his neck with that same boyish tell you’d learned to read. “Yeah, well. They’ve seen me at my worst.”

“And now?”

He looked up again, and you swore the world slowed down a little.

“Now I’ve got you,” he said simply, like it wouldn’t be absolutely monumental, and maybe a bit crazy too. It wasn’t polished, but it was real. All of it. Honest in a way that curled around your heart and stayed there.

You stepped closer.

And Frankie didn’t move. Just let you come to him, his hands sliding to your waist like they’d been waiting to rest there forever. His forehead leaned into yours, noses brushing, breath shared.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered, even now—always asking.

You nodded.

The kiss began like all the others—slow, sure, laced with the kind of carefulness that only comes with meaning. But then it deepened. His hands tightened at your waist, warm and steady, firm without ever asking too much. Your fingers slipped into the curls at the nape of his neck, and that was when you felt it—the subtle shiver that ran through him, giving away just how much that one simple touch unraveled him. Something shifted then. The air turned heavier, charged with everything neither of you had said out loud. When you finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his eyes found yours again. Still searching. Still making sure.

And then you were both moving, like the decision had already been made before either of you could voice it. Clothes came off in the quiet, in between kisses and glances and soft laughs at buttons that wouldn’t cooperate. There wasn’t any rush—just a slow unraveling, like each layer you peeled away brought you closer to something raw, the quiet intimacy making your heart ache in the best way.

You ended up in your bed, tangled together beneath soft sheets. The city buzzed faintly outside the window, distant and unimportant. All you could hear was his breathing, all you could feel were his hands all over you with nothing but gentleness and reverence and all you could think was this is him—this is really happening.

He moved over you like he already knew how. Not in some performative, rehearsed way, but with an intimacy that said I’m here. I want you to feel this. I want you to feel safe. Every kiss he trailed across your skin felt intentional, like a vow. Every brush of his fingertips was a quiet question: Is this okay? And your body answered without hesitation, arching into him, aching for more while still not wanting to rush. You felt like you were burning from the inside out, not just from desire, but from how much you wanted him—this man who was being so careful with your heart.

You whispered his name when he finally entered you, and something in him shifted. His eyes squeezed shut like the feeling wrecked him, and his hand found yours, fingers lacing tight as he pinned them gently above your head. He held you like he was scared you might vanish beneath him. But you were there—real, aching, undone in the best way. His expression was a fragile mix of hesitation, wonder, and that quiet fear of getting it wrong. But he couldn’t mess this up. Not with the way he touched you like you were precious. Not when everything about him felt like something you’d been unknowingly waiting for.

The rhythm you found was slow, almost achingly tender—like you were both trying to make time stretch, to memorize every second. You felt the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of each breath he exhaled against your skin. You kissed his shoulder; he pressed one to the bridge of your nose. Between sighs and shivers, you murmured quiet, silly things into the curve of his neck—words that made him smile, even as his chest rose too fast and the vein in his throat stood out from the effort of holding back, of keeping this slow, of feeling everything.

It was messy and intimate and real. Your bodies learning each other in pauses and sighs, laughter slipping between touches, and the occasional, clumsy shift of legs or arms that made you both giggle under your breath. But none of it took away from the depth. If anything, it made it more you. You both never were perfect and you didn’t need to be.

When it was over and your bodies finally stilled, his forehead rested against your shoulder, breath warm on your skin. You kept holding him like the world might shift if you let go, your hands trailing slow, soothing lines up and down his back.

His breath was still shaky as he whispered, “You okay?”

You nodded, pressing a kiss into his hair. “Yeah. You?”

He exhaled, then nodded too. “Yeah. More than okay actually.”

And in the hush that followed, tangled together in soft sheets and city light, you realized something had shifted—quietly, permanently. You hadn’t just slept together. You’d let each other in. And it didn’t feel scary.

It felt like love.

It felt like home.

The apartment looked more like a storage unit than a home. Boxes towered at odd angles, one already half-crushed from someone (him) accidentally sitting on it. The living room rug was rolled up like a giant burrito, and somewhere in the chaos, the toaster was still MIA.

It had been two years since the bar.

Somehow—without either of you noticing exactly when—you’d made his place yours too. First it was a second toothbrush. Then a drawer. Your books stacked beside his. Your coffee in the pantry. Your hoodie always draped over his desk chair like it belonged there.

You never asked. Never had to. You just… stayed. And it made sense. Like it had always been meant to be this way.

You were moving fast, your lives folding into each other with quiet ease, a kind of symbiosis that felt natural. Frankie never minded. If anything, he counted his blessings every single day.

You filled his apartment with warmth. Your laugh echoed through the walls, tinting even his darkest days with gold. Your chaotic attempts at cooking, when the kitchen looked like a war zone and you did too—hair in a messy bun, tomato sauce on your cheek—made him feel like he’d won some cosmic lottery.

He’d never been the type to believe in fate. But meeting you? That felt a lot like serendipity.

“Babe?” you called from the kitchen. “Why is the bathroom box labeled ‘Frankie’s secret weapons’?”

He stuck his head in from the hallway, hair tousled, a dust smear across one cheek. “Because that’s where I keep the good stuff. Cologne, razor, anxiety meds, backup deodorant. The essentials.”

You laughed and shook your head. Wiped your forehead with the hem of your shirt, and God, he loved you. He crossed the room, still holding a rogue coffee mug like it was some sacred thing, and kissed your temple without a word.

It was chaos. But it was your chaos.

And you were engaged.

The proposal hadn’t been some grand thing. No audience, no fireworks , no videos for the internet. Just the two of you, tucked into the corner booth of the restaurant that had become your place.

He couldn’t eat. Kept fidgeting with the ring box in his pocket until his hands shook.

Then he’d just set it on the table—right between your fries and his untouched drink—and looked at you.

No speech. No plan. Just:

“I wanna do this with you forever. If you’ll let me.”

You’d cried. He had too. Your food went cold and neither of you cared.

And it hadn’t even been a surprise, not really.

A few weeks before, you’d been curled up on the couch, your legs draped over his. The kind of silence that felt like home. He’d been tracing lazy circles on your arm when he murmured into your hair,

“Would you say yes if I asked?”

You turned to look at him like he’d grown another head. “You for real now?”

He grinned, sheepish. “Hypothetically.”

“Frankie,” you warned. “If you drop thousands on some stupid shiny rock, I swear to God—”

“Noted,” he’d laughed, yelping when you punched his arm.

The ring was simple. Nothing flashy. But it was him—understated, honest. Yours.

Now, standing in the middle of a half-unpacked future, Frankie reached into a box labeled Misc but Important?? and froze.

His fingers curled around a familiar paperback.

He pulled it out slowly. “No way.”

You looked up. “What?”

He turned the book in his hands, like some artifact from an ancient world. “It’s the poetry book. From the bar.”

Your eyes widened as he handed it over. You opened it to the dog-eared page, the one you’d been reading when he first saw you—lit by neon, too beautiful for the room.

“You kept it,” you murmured.

Frankie rubbed the back of his neck, heart stammering like it used to when he was trying to figure out what to text you in those early days. “Guess it stuck. Like you did.”

You stepped closer, pressing your forehead to his, the book still between you like some kind of lucky talisman.

“I still can’t believe I brought a poetry book to a bar,” you whispered.

Frankie grinned, eyes warm. “You say that like it wasn’t your plan to seduce me with metaphors.”

You smirked, lips curving like trouble. “You only came over ‘cause I was the only girl not glued to her phone.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Nah. I came over because you looked like you were waiting for someone to prove you wrong.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly—the kind of sound that never failed to make his heart stutter. Then you gently tapped the edge of the book against his chest. He caught your wrist before you could pull away, easing you closer until you were nestled against him.

Two years. And you still felt like the most unreal thing that had ever happened to him.

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[roses-for-rosalyn]

Cowboys

Ellie x Reader

Ch. 1, Ch. 2

Summary: things go right then wrong then right then wrong then right

Wc: 6.4 k

For the ao3 girlies

Cw: cowboy! Ellie x fem! reader, drinking, reader gets drunk, Jesse (again), lesbian touching and yearning, kissin', little fight, cleaning wounds (yea again shh), smut!, inexperienced reader (not innocent tho), oral (r! receiving), fingering (r! and e! receiving), switch! reader and Ellie, and as always no use of y/n

Minors DNI (fr)

a/n: This is months in the making. Thank you for your patience, those of you who kept supporting me through all this time even with my lack of activity I'm giving you a virtual forehead kiss. I really hope you enjoy it, I started to really love these characters, I like making them happy. I highly recommend reading the past chapters, but if you want to jump in I won't discourage you!

before you read! DAILY CLICK

★・・・・・・★

You drunkenly fumble with the buttons of your bodice, biting your lip with intense concentration in an attempt to complete the simple task. Your fine motor skills have reduced to that of a toddler. Thank god tomorrow is Saturday. 

The front door creaks open just as you manage to get to the halfway point. You look up at Ellie as she walks in, she removes her hat and places it gently on the wooden table. She looks down at the floor as she unties the bandanna from her face. When she looks back up you can finally see her sun-kissed cheeks and perfect lips. You missed looking at her. She’s staring right at you with those emerald green eyes, and you stare back, hands frozen on one of the stubborn buttons keeping you from falling into your soft bed. 

You hastily look back down before she can say anything and focus on removing enough clothes so that you can sleep comfortably. You don’t notice her approaching you until you see her boots step into your line of vision. You look up and you suppress a gasp of surprise when you register how close she was. She smells slightly of cigars and pine; it’s intoxicating. Her breathing is a little faster than normal, barely noticeable, but you tend to notice every little thing about her. There’s a nervous look in her eyes, illuminated by the moonlight pouring through the windows.

“Need some help?” Your eyes widen a bit in disbelief, you didn’t think she would touch you again after you made her feel your scar. You thought the feeling of her fingertips drifting up and down your skin would simply be something you dreamed about happening again.

“Just gimme a minute, I can do it.” And you focus on your dress once more. As much as you wanted to feel her warm hands against your skin again, part of you felt like you were forcing her into it. Some tiny piece of you was convinced there was something wrong with you for feeling like this. For wanting her to touch you in ways you had been told your whole life should only ever want from a man. 

Her hands gently grab yours and lower them to your sides. She wordlessly begins to unfasten your bodice. She takes her time, you watch her slender fingers work at the buttons one by one. You could feel the heat of her hands through the thin fabric of your chemise. She moves achingly slow like she was afraid you were made of porcelain. Your breathing grows heavier and heavier matching Ellie's as you watch her careful maneuvers. She was so close that her warm presence became magnetic in the cold desert night. You subconsciously lean towards her little by little getting so close that if either of you flinched your skin would meet with the other’s.  

Finally, she got your dress undone. You both stand perfectly still, knowing once you leave this moment everything will be different. 

Maybe you didn’t have to.

You look up at her, she feels you staring, her eyes meet yours. You slowly move one of your hands to cup her jaw, encouraging her to look directly at you. Her gaze flicks from your lips back up to your eyes. You lean into her, pressing your forehead against hers. Your lips are so dangerously close. She looks almost scared. 

“Y-you don’t wanna do this darling.” she’s practically out of breath, as if she’d just run 10 miles. You could feel her soft lips move against yours. 

“I think I do,” you reply. And with that, your lips meet hers. 

This was it; the feeling you had been searching for your entire life, and it felt so much better than you could have ever imagined. You feel her hands cup your face and her featherlight touch gives you butterflies. She had always been so careful with you. You never knew you were missing that gentleness until you felt the way she would hold you, the way her fingers would glide across your skin with such caution. She never touched you without wanting, without purpose. Until these couple days spent with her, you didn’t know that someone could care for you like that. 

You could swear you felt her everywhere. She deepens the kiss a bit, getting hungrier. She laces one of her hands into your hair while the other presses you impossibly closer to her by the small of your back. Your hands snake into her soft auburn hair, earning a quiet groan from the cowgirl. 

Every breath that she releases you breathe back in, becoming completely immersed in her, feeling her, smelling her, seeing her, hearing her all around you. You wanted to stay like this until you knew nothing else, until you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore. 

And then she pulls back, taking all of it away. She presses her forehead to yours.

“We should stop.” She says breathlessly, looking at the wooden floor. 

“Why?” you ask with slight desperation in your voice.

“You don’t even know how to keep going from here or what it means if we do. I know that.” She says with defeat. “I can’t do this to you.” She looks up at you with a barely suppressed grin, “Plus you’re a little drunk.”

“But I want you to,” you almost whine, you want her so badly. She gave you a taste just to rip it away, “I promise I do.” You fiddle with the buttons of her shirt in a desperate attempt to convince her to keep going. “Besides, you don’t get to decide what’s best for me.” 

“Alright, alright” she smiles a little at your stubbornness, “we can talk about this tomorrow, but for now you should get to sleep.” As much as you hate to admit it she was right, you could barely keep your eyes open. 

“Ok,” you whisper. You give her a quick kiss on the cheek before you walk toward your bed. You sit on the edge and watch Ellie take off her shoes, then her belt, then her suspenders. You felt something start to flutter in your stomach as you saw her undress. She didn’t notice you staring until she was done, she looked at you, waiting for you to say something. “You wanna sleep in a bed tonight?” You ask, hoping she would at least do that if she wouldn’t keep kissing you. 

Her eyebrows raise in surprise for a moment, “I’m more than ok sleeping on the fl-”

“Please?” 

She must have seen the desperation in your expression because she barely hesitated before saying, “Move over.”  You do as she says and she sits on the edge of the bed. She takes a moment to just look at you, her eyes moving across your body as she allows herself to see you how she’s always wanted to. “Turn around.” You’re confused but you turn onto your side, facing the wall. Then you feel her lay down behind you. She wraps an arm around your stomach and pulls your body to slot perfectly into hers. You’re sure this was the best thing you’ve ever felt- besides the kissing. You’re not sure if you could go back to how you were living before now that you know what it’s like to be held by someone so strong and so, so softly. Her warmth becomes yours and it just feels so nice. 

** **

You wake up feeling a presence behind you. You almost panic until the memories of last night flood your mind. You weren’t used to the feeling of someone wrapped around you. You’re not sure you would ever get used to that feeling. 

Her chest rises up and down against your back and you can feel her breath on the back of your neck. Very slowly you try to turn around to face her, trying your best not to wake her up. The bed frame was squeaky, but thankfully the only sound you made was the rustling of sheets against your skin as you turned towards a sleeping Ellie. 

The sunlight filters through the window, illuminating her delicate features. You’ve never seen sunlight compliment someone so well. Her long eyelashes rest against her cheeks, and you notice they match her hair, a little red tint exposed by the unfiltered sunshine. You haven’t seen her this relaxed before, it almost felt too vulnerable, too intimate. 

You lightly touch a strand of her soft hair to ensure you’re not dreaming. You tuck it gently behind her ear and she stirs a bit. You freeze, feeling caught. Her eyes slowly blink open, a lazy smile forms on her face. You can’t help smiling back at her. 

“Mornin,” her voice is heavy with sleep and the sound of it makes your heart skip a beat. 

“Good mornin’, how’d you sleep?” 

“Reeallyy good.” she sounds like she’s still half asleep with how her words lazily flow from her lips. Her eyes haven’t left yours.

“Good.” You can’t help the smile that seems to form on your face everytime she looks at you. before you can blink she’s sat up and looking down at you and your lips. “Whatcha doin’?” 

“Can I kiss you again?” You can’t help but blush and let out a nervous giggle, “Please?” You nod and without missing a beat she leans down and presses her lips to yours. So soft and gentle, she takes a deep breath through her nose like she’s relieving a desperate craving. She cups your jaw and furthers the kiss, you sigh and melt into her. You swear you were made for her. 

She moves so she’s straddling your hips. One hand slowly travels down your body, while the other laces into your hair. Her fingertips graze down your neck, over your breasts, down your stomach, sending a pleasurable shiver down your spine. 

“Was dreamin about you.” She whispers. Her hand sneaks under your dress, she makes her way up your leg ever so slowly so you can feel the way her skin moves against yours. You sharply inhale through your nose when you feel her fingertips graze the hem of your underwear and she takes it as a sign to tease a little further. 

“Was it a good dream?” You manage to squeak out as she lightly grazes her palm over your clothed center. She continues up your body and lightly grasps your bare waist with her warm hand.  And before you could blink she was back to kissing you hard, like she was starving for it.  

“Mhm realllyy good.” Her voice is still gravelly from sleep. 

She breaks the kiss and just looks at you for a moment. She had this expression on her face you’d never seen before, seemed like a mix of admiration and hesitation. She tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear and sighs before her eyes wander from yours. Her hand retracts from under your nightgown, she pulls it down making sure it’s back in its place. The absence of her hands was so jarring. 

You couldn’t help the “what-” that slipped from your lips at the loss of her intoxicating touch. 

“I have someplace to be.” She smiles gently before kissing your forehead and rolling out of bed. 

“Will you tell me where? Where have you even been disappearing to?” 

“I’m looking for someone.” She says simply as she begins to put her clothes back on. 

“Who?” A bit of frustration comes through in your tone, tired of her mysterious behavior. 

“You- uh- you remember what I said about Joel last night?” She clips on her suspenders.

“Yes, you said he was your friend.” You sit up in bed.

“Well, someone killed ‘em,” She sits down and begins harshly putting on her boots, “and I know if it happened to me he would hunt the person down and make sure they paid for their crimes, so-”

“You want to find his murderer and murder them?” 

“Well, I’ll make her pay for what she did in a way that I see fit, so yes.” Her voice becomes tight with frustration at your questioning. 

“Who do you think is gonna come after you for murdering her, Ellie? This isn’t going to help anything-” 

“How the fuck would you know that?” She looks up from her half-laced-up boots, her voice is laced with venom. 

You’re too stunned at her tone to respond, you’d never heard her like this. She’s so blinded by guilt and anger that no one could stop her; that much you could tell. You just watch as she finishes tying up her shoes and leaves, grabbing her hat on her way out. 

An unwelcome silence falls over your small house for the first time in a while.

** **

Maybe she won’t come back. 

You’ve been going back and forth between reading and staring out the window. Hoping you would see her horse appear somewhere on the desert horizon. 

You decide to distract yourself by making a little batch of tea. Each step takes up your entire brain, you carefully calculate every leaf needed, and every muscle movement, making the task take as long as possible. 

You move out to your front porch with your book and a cup of tea and settle in the rickety rocking chair facing the desert landscape. The sun begins to settle in the sky and as it sinks lower, you get angrier. You put your book down and storm inside, making a beeline to your precious bottle of moonshine. You crack it open and fill the teacup to the brim with the foul liquid.

You settle back down on the porch and sip the bitter drink until the sunlight disappears and the words in your book begin to become a little blurry. You trudge inside and settle at the dining room table, wondering what to do to occupy your time. Maybe you were too drunk to make a fire, but it’s worth a shot. You begin piling wood and twigs in your small fireplace, your movements are clunky but eventually, you get a flame going. You giggle in celebration. 

A knock rudely interrupts your accomplishments. You don’t even care who it is anymore, you’re just annoyed you have to get up from the floor. You groan as you move your body to stand up. You manage to walk to the door and open it up. 

It’s Jesse. The alcohol hits you all at once now that you’re standing and you have to lean against the door to keep yourself upright. 

You blurt out a confused, “Hi,” 

“Hi… I thought you had your “bodyguard” staying with you.” Damn, he remembered.

“Yeah sh- he- he uh left.” Jesse just looks at you, confused by your drunken behavior. “What are you doing here?”

“Is he coming back? I- uh just wanted to check on you after last night, make sure you got home ok.”

“Okay, well thank you but I’m fine… a lil’ drunk that’s all. And I don’t know if he’ll come back. Not the best communicator.” You don’t move to let him in, frankly, you don’t want the company right now. 

“I can’t leave you here drunk and alone in good conscience.” He says with feigned concern. He steps closer to you, closer to the doorway.

“Oh, I’ve lived out here alone for a while now I think I’m ok-”

“At least let me stay until your bodyguard comes back.” He’s officially invading your space with his eagerness, you suppose no isn’t an answer he will accept right now.

“Um, alright then.” You hesitantly turn your body to make room for him in the doorway. He walks right through and makes himself comfortable at your small dining room table. You did not like the space he took up in this house. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“What do you have?”

“I’m afraid I’m limited to moonshine at the moment.” 

“Moonshine is fine.” He nods. “You make it yourself?” The last thing you desired right now was small talk. You prayed Ellie would come back at this point simply to get him to leave. She sleeps on the floor whereas he might force himself into your bed. 

“Yes, it passes the time. And does the job better than any whiskey I’ve had.” You turn around, grab a glass from the small cabinet in your kitchen, and fill it a fourth of the way up. This man was a waste of moonshine. 

“Who taught ya how to make it?” 

“My daddy taught me the recipe before I got married.. before he died.” You almost successfully hide the wavering in your voice at the mention of your father. 

“Oh, sorry for bringin’ it up, sweetheart..” You turn around and see him looking down at his hands in his lap in embarrassment. 

“It’s alright,” you fake a smile, “I don’t mind talking about him.” And you really didn’t, you just did not want to talk to Jesse about him. You set the moonshine in front of him and he takes a swig. His face screws up a bit at the flavor but he smiles at you and invites you to sit down across from him.

** **

Jesse’s told about 10 different boring stories about his travels, getting drunker as you sober up. You poured him a couple of glasses of moonshine hoping he would get tired and leave, but he seems to get more and more settled in his chair as time goes on. His mannerisms get more and more outlandish as the minutes pass. 

In the middle of his sentence, your front door bursts open. Moonlight floods into the small house and a familiar silhouette stands in the doorway. Ellie’s eyes meet yours for a split second before she rushes to stand behind your chair. The cowgirl possessively places her hands on your shoulders. She glances at you and greets you with a gentle “Hello darlin’” before she looks down at Jesse with narrowed eyes, “I think it’s time for you to leave.” She says in her deep “male” voice. It takes every fiber of your being not to smile in relief. 

Jesse’s eyes widen as if he’s been caught. He stands up abruptly  “Yes, sir.” He replies in a meek voice, “Goodnight ma’am.” he tips his hat bidding you farewell. One day you’ll have to ask her what she said to Jesse that made him so terrified of her. 

“Goodnight, Jesse.” You keep your voice sickly sweet until he swiftly makes his exit, closing the door behind him a little too hard. 

You both silently watch him clumsily climb atop his horse and begin to ride away. He can barely hold himself up, but he’ll survive. You look at Ellie as her narrowed eyes observe the man-child riding his horse back to town, barely able to hold himself up. Her face had a few scratches and new bruises. A thin layer of dust coated her whole body. Her shirt has specks of blood covering it and you aren’t sure if it’s hers. 

Your hand reaches for her cheek, your palm meeting with the scratchy fabric of the bandana still on her face. You gently turn her to face you and her whole body relaxes at the sight of you. You take your other hand and reach behind her head, loosening the knot of fabric at the base of her skull. You allow the bandana to fall slowly and you realize how sunken and bloodshot her eyes are, her lip is slightly busted, and a small gash lines her freckled cheek, and yet she’s looking at you like a cold glass of water on a hot summer’s day. 

You cup her cheek and rub your thumb along her soft skin. She leans her head into your palm, surrendering to you.

She whispers a meek, “I’m sorry, darlin’” as she places a gloved hand over yours. She won’t meet your eyes. You can hear her exhaustion through her voice. God knows what she’s been through today. 

All you can do is smile sadly and say, “Let’s get you cleaned up.” You pull your hand away, even though everything in you is protesting against it. You walk over to the small tub you keep by the stove and dip a cloth into the cool water. The feeling of the cold liquid dripping down your arms grounded you. You take a breath as you wring out the excess. Turning around you see Ellie sitting in one of your wooden chairs, hunched over in exhaustion. She takes off her boots and then places her hat and gloves on the table and turns to look at you. You can’t read her expression and you’re not sure you want to. You tentatively walk toward her and pull up a chair across from her. You sit down so close to her that her knee rests between your thighs. You lean forward and begin carefully wiping away the grime from her skin. 

“Feel like you’re always takin’ care of me.” She says softly, slightly wincing when you start cleaning up the gash on her cheek. 

“You’re always givin’ me a reason to take care of you.” You won’t tell her that you didn’t mind being the person she came to to wipe her face clean, the person she trusted to tend to her wounds- big or small. 

“Yeah, but then who takes care of you?” 

“I suppose I just never needed it.” You move the washcloth gently across her forehead.

“Would you ever let me?” Her voice is almost inaudible.

“Let you what?” You pause your movements. 

“Let me take care of you.” She gently lowers your hand from her face, her eyes unrelentingly staring into yours. She forces you to realize how close she is to you, her face is mere inches from yours. 

“But,” She leans even closer to you, her chapped lips brushing yours, causing you to have to catch your breath, “I don’t need it.” Her breath grows heavier, smelling of whiskey and a hint of something sweet.

“I think you do.” You can feel her lips move against yours as she speaks. You linger there for a moment, waiting for her to give in. Her hands thread into your hair, and she pulls you into a desperate kiss. You put your hands on her chest to steady yourself at the impact. Her warm tongue makes its way into your mouth and you let out a little whine at the feeling. The sound seems to motivate her further, she reaches for your bodice and begins fumbling with the buttons, slowly undoing them. You use one hand to unlatch your overskirt as the other remains on Ellie’s chest. As you both stand your clothing practically melts off of you. Ellie encourages your bodice off your shoulders and onto the floor, doing the same with your skirt, leaving you in your thin chemise.

As she inelegantly leads you to the bed you begin undoing her stained button-down. You run your fingers under her suspenders and pull them off her shoulders earning a hungry groan from Ellie. The back of her legs hit the edge of your bed and she sits down. You look down at the disheveled cowgirl and feel something flutter in your stomach at the sight of her. She’s looking up at you like a starved woman, her eyes are dark, her mouth hangs slightly open breathing heavily. You mindlessly bring your thumb to her lips, tracing the plush skin. Her expression grows hungry at your small touch. 

Ellie’s hands grip your waist encouraging you to straddle her lap. You grab her shoulders for stability and kneel on the small bed, settling yourself on her thighs. She gives you a quick peck on the lips before dragging her own gently down the side of your neck.

“You know,” she takes the soft skin into her mouth evoking a gasp from your lips, “I wasn’t gonna ask,” She kisses her way across your collarbone and she’s so gentle until she begins sucking your skin into her mouth, sending a surprisingly pleasurable feeling through your body. She’s ensuring there would be remnants of her left on you- even after this. “But what was he doing here?” 

You snap out of the trance her soft lips inflicted on you at the mention of Jesse. “I-I don’t know,” She won’t stop kissing you, moving the neck of your chemise down to gain more access. Your brain is almost too scrambled to form a response. “He-” She reaches a hand under your nightgown, moving her palm up your thigh slowly. “He said he wanted to check on me.” You take a much-needed breath, trying to get your heart to stop beating out of your chest. 

“Mm,” she murmurs, sounding doubtful. “Sounds like he wanted to catch you alone.” She moves her hand up higher, brushing against your underwear, your hands clutch at the fabric of Ellie’s button down, a futile attempt to ground yourself. 

“Maybe,” you manage to squeak out.

“Looks like I was the one who ended up catching you alone.” She smirks.

“Good,” you breathe out.

Every little thing she does earns a reaction from you. She smirks at you, enjoying your struggle, “You’re pretty sensitive huh darling?” 

“Sounds like more of an observation than a question.” You were like putty in her hands. 

She lets out a short laugh, “You can still talk back though, huh?” She smoothes her hand up your stomach, stopping just under your breasts- she was hesitating. 

But you didn’t want her to stop, you couldn’t take her walking away again. “And?” You place your hand on top of hers and guide it over the plush skin of your breasts. “What are you gonna do about it?” 

“Oh darling,” She moves her fingers gingerly over your nipples, shooting an electric feeling right between your legs. “You have no idea what you're askin’ for.” She grabs both of your thighs and swiftly moves to stand up with you in her grasp. You let out a surprised squeak at her movements. She spins around so your back is to the bed and gently lays you down. The Cowgirl crawls on top of you and slowly drags your chemise upwards. She takes in every newly exposed inch like you were a detailed work of art, taking note of every freckle and birthmark. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” You’ve never been this exposed to anyone before. Instinctually you start to move your hands to cover yourself up but she catches them. “Don’t.” She protests with a gentle sternness. She bunches the fabric up on your collarbone, keeping you bare for her. 

She moves impossibly closer, slotting her knee between your legs. She inches it up higher, higher, and then- oh. The pressure was perfect, it relieved the ache between your legs just enough to keep you wanting more. She places gentle teasing kisses between your breasts. You could lay here just savoring the feeling of her lips on your skin for the rest of your life. As if on queue her lips pull away for a moment but then you feel her warm tongue tentatively lick your nipple. She teases around it in circles before taking it into her mouth. 

“Oh god,” You gasp as you lace your fingers into her auburn hair. She lets out a beautiful little whine when you lightly pull. Now you understand why she likes your whines and whimpers. You would do anything to get her to make that noise again, it made your stomach flutter in a way that felt so good. You begin mindlessly moving against her knee as the ache between your legs grows stronger. She moves to your other nipple, teasing it before entrapping the sensitive bud into her mouth. She uses her free hand to pinch and tease the opposite one. Your back arches towards her, your body silently begging for just a little bit more. 

And Ellie obliges. She trails her free hand down your stomach and traces a finger lightly under the hem of your underwear, your stomach jumps at the feeling. Her slender fingers tease you over the thin fabric of your underwear. You quietly moan as she finds the sensitive bundle of nerves desperately craving her attention. She adds just a little more pressure and you tilt your head back as you take a deep breath. All of these new feelings are almost overwhelming- almost. It was the type of overwhelming where you wanted to see how much you could take, see how far the feeling could go. 

You begin to urge Ellie’s shirt off her shoulders exposing her bandaged chest as she continues her pleasurable assault of your nipples. You wanted to be able to see her too. You wanted to memorize the placement of every individual freckle on her body, you wanted to be able to draw her from memory, to know every part of her so well you could know her by touch alone. 

You reach for her belt buckle, blindly attempting to unclasp the metal as she overwhelms your senses. You throw the belt somewhere in the room, the sound of it falling to the floor is drowned out by the mix of your whimpers and Ellie’s labored breathing. You’re about to attempt to unbutton her pants when she halts her movements, “I can’t fucking take this anymore,” she quietly groans to herself.

“What-” You can’t even comprehend her statement-  until she makes her way down your body, dragging her nose down your abdomen, leaving a little kiss above your belly button. She leisurely pulls your underwear down your legs, exposing you completely. Before you can attempt to try and close your legs Ellie settles in between them, wrapping her arms around your thighs like it was second nature. She uses her grip to lift your thighs, forcing you to bend your knees, opening you up further for her. You watch as she litters kisses all over your inner thighs, occasionally marking the silken skin. 

“So perfect for me,” She runs her fingers through your drenched folds, your breath hitching at the foreign feeling. She teases her digits around your entrance before moving back upwards and circling around your sensitive bud. Your hands grasp at the sheets like a lifeline, not knowing how to react to this feeling. It felt so, so good. Almost too much but not enough at the same time. 

“Feel ok, baby?” She asks, seeming a little concerned at your almost panicky breaths. 

“Feels-” she doesn’t stop her movements to allow you to respond, you have to gather your wits to form a sentence. “-feels really, really good.” you say breathily. She seems to enjoy challenging you, she likes watching you stutter as she debilitates you with her expert hands.

“Wanna feel even better?” She challenges with a tinge of mischief in her voice. 

“How?” You barely form the question before Ellie traces her tongue up your slit. Your surprised gasp melts into a moan. Her warm tongue caresses where you crave her most, gradually picking up speed as you get accustomed to the feeling. She proceeds downward circling her tongue around your tight entrance, sliding it in and out of you at a steady pace. You mindlessly moan and buck your hips towards her, needing her deeper. 

You’re sure she can read your mind at this point because she pauses her movements and crawls back on top of you. She kisses you sloppily before encouraging your lips open with her ring and middle finger. “Get them nice and wet for me darlin’.” Your inner walls clench around nothing at her words. You swirl your tongue around her digits until she smoothly removes them from your mouth. 

She sinks back down between your legs and resumes her movements. She circles your dripping entrance with one finger and slides it into you at a painfully slow rate, opening you up for her a millimeter at a time. The pleasurable pressure in your abdomen begins a steady climb upwards. You cry out as Ellie curls her finger to hit the perfect spot. Her tongue and her fingers are turning your brain and body into jelly. 

“That’s it, you’re doing so well for me baby,” she praises. You are completely at her mercy as she sucks your clit into her mouth. Your hand swiftly reaches for her auburn locks, tugging on her hair the way you did before and she whimpers into your cunt, sending vibrations through your lower body.  

Just as you think you are at the height of the pleasure you could ever possibly feel she adds another finger inside of you, sinking her digits deep into your cunt. Pressure builds in your abdomen as she curls her fingers right into that spot that makes stars cloud your vision. The feeling in your stomach grows to an overwhelming peak. 

“You almost there darlin’?” She asks as she continues pumping her fingers in and out of you at a steady pace.

“I-,” She somehow moves her fingers faster, purposefully interrupting you. You knew because she couldn’t even hide her smirk when she did it. “I th-think so,” you mutter, not even really knowing what she means. What you did know is the feeling was getting tighter and tighter and something in you told you that when you finally released it, it would feel like heaven. 

Your moans grow louder as you lose control of your body. Ellie continues pleasuring you as the feeling finally peaks, “Come on baby let go for me,” And you do. Waves of pure ecstasy crash over you, your hips buck against her over and over uncontrollably as the sensation washes over your whole body. Strings of obscenities and Ellie’s name escape from your swollen lips as you ride out the high. 

She doesn’t stop until you're whining from sensitivity, weakly trying to pull her away from your aching center. You stare at the wooden ceiling while trying to catch your breath, processing whatever just happened to your body. You can feel Ellie sit up between your legs before she leans on top of you, placing her hands on either side of you so she doesn’t crush you. 

And of course she’s smiling. 

“You ok?” She asks as she cups your cheek. 

“Mhm, very ok,” you’re almost slurring your words. You nuzzle into her hand, wanting to be closer to her. She gently pinches your chin between her thumb and index finger, urging you slightly upwards so her lips could catch yours. You give in to her like second nature, tasting yourself on her lips. 

Your body is so tired and heavy- but you’re not done yet. 

“You want a turn, cowgirl?” You’re only half teasing. 

“Um, no you don’t have to- I don’t need-” She’s blushing, if you didn’t know better you’d say she was flustered. 

“What if I want to?” 

“Uh, then yes I suppose we could try something.” 

“So shy all of the sudden, baby,” you sit up- slightly startling Ellie, but she follows your movements, “You sure you’re ok with this- we don’t have to do anything I just-”

“No,” she interjects, “no I want you to.” 

“Good,” you smile, cupping her cheek before pulling her in for a kiss. You do as she did earlier and trail down the side of her neck, letting your hand wander downwards to trace mindless shapes along her abdominal muscles. You pick a spot and suck the skin into your mouth, her breath hitches at the feeling. Ellie shifts so she’s straddling your thigh, you feel her softly grinding against it and the feeling gives you butterflies. 

“I’m guessing we’re not getting this off tonight,” you graze your hands over her bound chest, watching it rise up in reaction to your touch. 

“N-no, that would take too long, I need you now,” she grinds against you a bit harder, silently urging you to continue. She nuzzles her face into your neck and whimpers a desperate, “Please,” against you. One day you would get that thing off of her, be able to enjoy her fully, but you wouldn’t make her wait any longer. 

“Just show me what to do, Ellie.” 

She wordlessly responds by unbuttoning her pants and then placing a hand on top of yours, steadily guiding it down her abdomen and underneath the hem of her pants. Your fingers drift past her warm pelvis and slide into her dripping folds. You hold in a gasp at the state of her, she must have been aching for this for so long. “Poor baby,” you mock pout as you look at her, eyes squished shut at the feeling of your fingers finally where she needed them. “You wanted this so bad, didn't you pretty girl?” She can’t even respond, just moves faster against your hand, her whimpers growing louder. You decide to try to give her more, you move your fingers towards her entrance. They slide into her with a surprising ease and she gasps as your digits slide deeper. She continues moving her own fingers in circles around her sensitive bud as you begin to curl your fingers towards yourself as she did to you. 

You watch her thoughtlessly rock back and forth against your fingers, her hair messily framing her flushed face, she looks beautiful. Now she was finally a mess for you, the feeling was addicting. 

You place a hand on her abs, tracing your fingers along the muscles feeling them flex and relax at your touch. She begins moving a bit faster. She whispers a mixture of fuck and your name in a whiny desperate voice that has you dripping down your thighs all over again. 

“Do-don’t stop,” She mewls, her head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, completely lost in pleasure. You feel her walls start to clench around our fingers, she softly moans at every thrust of your digits into her. Suddenly she contracts hard around you, “oh fuck,” she moans. She thrusts hard against your fingers as she reaches her high, you watch her face as she experiences the same ecstasy you just had, you almost came again at the very sight of her. 

You don’t stop until she slows down, practically collapsing onto you. “You are so perfect,” she whispers into your neck. 

You smile, “I know,” you softly comb your fingers through her hair, taming the kinks you created just moments earlier, “so are you.” You lean back, encouraging her to follow. Her head rests on your chest and you run your fingers through her auburn locks until her breathing becomes slow and steady. You count her breaths until your eyes grow too heavy to keep open. 

★・・・・・・★

Tags:

@elliewilliamgfooc @bready101 @sakiigami@wishbones999 @a-little-bit-of-everybody @ellabssweetheart @lily-fics-11 @shiimer @spring-sparr0w @doeyedbambi @darlingoutlaw @4ntifanyx @tokiioryuii @hater1sthuman2nd @elliewilliamsblunt

I appreciate you all, it's been a rough couple of months lol. Just had some time on my hands because I got my wisdom teeth removed- gross. I'm sorry if this was bad I promise I tried my best to make up for how long this took and what better way to make up for it than some smut ?😈 <3

[1d1195]

The Lottery - Extra I

Read The Lottery here | ~2.5k words

From me: takes place within days of the last part (maybe even the next day?) I missed them; I know some of you did too 💕

Warnings: none, they're just going to love each other now (although FINE, maybe a TINY bit of angst)

Summary: One peach and one white chocolate chip pancakes with a side of Harry please. --Peach to Harry, probably, 24/7.

“Can I have one peach and one white chocolate chip pancake?” She batted those pretty eyelashes at him so excessively. Today wasn’t a reading day, so she was dressed in her normal clothes and yet Harry thought she still looked stunning. Not that it was particularly difficult to do so. She made the Cat in the Hat look good for God’s sake. Dressed as an elf made him have inappropriate thoughts. So a plain shirt tucked into jeans made him nearly lose his mind. The way she fluttered her lashes was downright sinful. She was so sweet it was nauseating.

And she was all his.

“No,” he rolled his eyes and headed toward the other end of the counter to pour coffee for another person.

She pouted. “Really? There’s no perks to this boyfriend thing at all?”

“Nope,” he shrugged a shoulder. But within seconds he placed her cold coffee in front of her. She reached over the counter for the plate of cream and sugar, but he smacked her hand gently. She sighed.

“What was the point,” she mumbled.

He rolled his eyes and leaned over the counter, cupped the side of her face, and kissed her forehead letting his lips linger there for a second. “So dramatic,” he muttered brushing his thumb over her cheek.

She smiled sweetly and sipped her coffee. Her face felt warm with the display of affection in front of everyone. She didn’t mind in the slightest but wasn’t sure how Harry would approach it.

Given the entirety of the regular breakfast diners watched their exchange, she thought he might not like all the attention. “It’s about time,” Alice sighed and sipped her coffee satisfied at last it seemed. She giggled at the older woman. “We were all beginning to lose hope,” Alice nodded knowingly and nearly everyone else in the diner responded with nods of agreement.

Harry ignored their teasing and headed back to the kitchen to make the love of his life the pancakes she so desired. But there was that twinge of a smile at the corner of his lips that felt so much harder to hide this morning. “Alice,” Ed rolled his eyes. “They’re kids, let them live.”

“Well, it’s obvious to anyone with eyes they belong together,” Alice grumbled to her husband. She laughed again as she took her notebook from her bag and settled it on the counter to make her list for the day. She glanced at Harry longingly as he hid in the back, only catching sight of his forearm as he worked at the grill. She wondered how he really felt about the attention. Would he be different? Was he okay with the spotlight back when he was young? She didn’t think he would change all that much and that was fine; he was exactly who she loved exactly as he was. She didn’t want him to think he had to change though.

But maybe he would smile more. He had a great smile, and the town deserved to see it, they probably missed it. She bet it reminded them of his mother and that had to be a treat for them. However, selfishly, part of her liked being the one that drew smiles out of him. Getting to enjoy his dimples in private.

Was he touching her because he felt like he had to? That was the last thing she wanted. She wanted Harry to be himself and nothing else. That was why she loved him.

“We like when Harry smiles like that,” Alice whispered loudly.

“Don’t get used to it, Alice,” Harry deadpanned from behind the kitchen wall.

She rolled her eyes. “Men are stubborn, Miss Peach,” Alice reminded her. “Even the cute ones that make you breakfast.”

“I agree,” she nodded as Harry returned with that heavy sigh of his; the very one that quite possibly made her fall in love with him and the very stool she sat on so many years ago. He settled the plate of pancakes in front of her (one of each of her favorites, of course, not that anyone could tell). He leaned over again and kissed her temple. “Extremely stubborn,” she said pointedly as she poured syrup onto her plate.

“M-hmm,” he hummed going around to the tables to refill coffees while she worked on her list. She pulled her phone out to check her calendar, examined her emails, and looked over her messages to see if there was anyone she needed to text. Which was probably plenty, actually. Bailey, Louis, and her family needed a message sharing the news. “Busy day?” He asked putting a hand on her lower back as he peered over her shoulder. She melted into the touch a bit, shifting ever so slightly to sink a bit into his hand.

“Think so,” she smiled. “Lucky me.”

“Mm...”

“Do you say anything besides mm and m-hmm, and nuh-uh.”

He shrugged. “Not really.”

She tilted her head up at him. “You don’t have to touch me if you don’t want to in public. I like it, but if it’s not your thing...”

Harry bent so his lips touched her ear, the hand at her back slid forward wrapping around her waist and he pulled her toward him to half-hug her as he spoke. “I like touching you very much, Peach. Don’t worry,” he assured her and pressed another kiss to her cheek. “S’easily going t’be m’new favorite thing,” blood rushed to her face, making her feel utterly warm all over. “Eat your pancakes, Peach. Y’got a busy day,” he reminded her with a squeeze and headed back to the kitchen to cook.

“Stubborn isn’t necessarily a bad thing, Alice,” she felt a bit flustered as she felt the gaze of her neighbors and friends all over her blushing face.

“Never said it was, Miss Peach.”

*

She missed him. If she stepped outside, she could probably see him in his diner, and yet, she still missed him. It was insane. She was craving him, and it felt nearly idiotic to feel such a way. There were kids at the table studying, there were people milling around for books, and she was sitting at the register trying to maintain her composure at how ridiculous she felt for missing Harry after a couple hours of being apart. She never missed him before, and it seemed silly to start now.

She would see him later, of course. They would order pizza or eat leftovers. There would be a movie or a show. Snuggles on the couch or and maybe she would make out with him. There was no reason to miss him when he was hardly far away.

Her phone vibrated. At the risk of sounding a little insane... I miss you.

Her heart burst. I thought I was going crazy. 😅 I miss you too

Good ❤️

I’ll come by after I close.

I might need a pick-me-up sooner than that. I’ll have to come in for coffee before I head home.

I’m walking across the square now.

She couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across her face as she looked up to see Harry carrying a coffee tumbler and a pastry bag. There was a small smile on his lips. Not the full blown smile she saw when he was alone or the one he always managed around Gemma, but the one she was sure the town knew. He was stunning and he was all hers.

She sighed with relief and met him outside because even the extra ten seconds it would have taken him to walk inside seemed ludicrous. Ten seconds she would never have again. Maybe it was because it had been so long without being a couple. Or because she was finally able to know and acknowledge what Harry had gone through to know life was incredibly short. She wasn’t wasting any additional time without the love of her life.

“Hi Peach,” he chuckled at her as she held the door open.

“Hi.”

He ducked his head to press a gentle kiss against her lips. “How’s your day?”

“Better,” she sighed.

He smirked, shaking his head. “Well, I gotta get back, but...”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“See you later,” he grabbed her hand, squeezed it, and brought it to his lips. His eyes watched her the entire time and she felt so adored and loved by the emotion it seemed almost too intimate for the middle of her bookstore. But it was exactly what she needed to satisfy the craving of needing Harry. “Bye Peach.”

“Bye,” she smiled.

*

“Peach?” He called into her house.

“Out back!” She answered. Harry dropped his keys and a bag for overnight items in her front room. He made his way to her backyard. He found her between two trees, lounging in her hammock. She had a can of bug spray cradled beside her as well as a book, with a small light attached to the front cover and illuminating the page. “Hi baby,” she grinned as he approached. “Wanna lay with me?” She asked.

His heart skipped a beat. Yes, always. Every minute of every day. “Yeah,” he nodded.

She scooched slightly as best she could in the unsteady hammock and Harry fell in beside her. Carefully he coaxed his arm under her neck, and she turned slightly dropping her head to his bicep and she sighed contentedly. “M’gonna spray this, close your eyes and mouth,” she ordered.

He smiled and waited while the smell of bug spray settled over him. “How was work?” She asked.

“Good,” he shrugged. “Same as always.” She brought a hand to her necklace and pulled the charm along the chain for a moment. “Y’nervous?” He asked, bringing his fingers to her cheek and he skimmed his knuckle across her jaw.

“Why do you think I’m nervous?”

“You play with your necklace when you’re nervous.”

She tilted her head. “I didn’t know that,” she mumbled.

“Hmm,” he hummed. “It’s subconscious to touch the necklace I got you?” There was a smile in his voice that was a little hidden by the setting sun.

She snorted. “Wouldn’t peg you as the possessive type.”

There was no hiding the warmth of his beautiful smile at the sound of that. “For you, Peach? M’very possessive.”

“Good to know.”

“Why are y’nervous?”

“Do you remember the day Bodie broke up with me?” She asked.

He nodded. “I know y’were upset...but anytime y’broke up with someone made me happy.”

“Very kind of you,” she laughed.

“Possessive,” he repeated. “I remember.”

“Why were you upset?” She asked quietly.

He frowned. “Uh...”

“I guess you don’t have to tell me. It’s just I was thinking about how you said there’s not a lot of living here. Which I think is unmistakably wrong. There is so much life in this town and I love it so much but I worry that you’re going to continue thinking it’s not enough for me, because I know you. So I just want to know what about that day got you so sad that when some guy that doesn’t even matter anymore told me this place wasn’t everything—”

“S’the date m’mum died.”

Her voice died in her throat. “Oh,” she managed.

He smirked. “Sorry t’bring y’down. You asked.”

“You were so upset.”

“I missed you,” he shrugged. “Hadn’t seen y’much.”

“So... you’re not... not going to try and talk me out of this town?”

“Honestly, Peach. I’ll probably try t’convince y’to move away every day of our lives.”

She held his face in both her hands and pouted. “What if I don’t want to go?” She whispered.

“M’not going t’be very convincing,” he assured her with a grin and bumped her nose against his.

“You have the best smile, Harry Styles,” she sighed.

“S’for you, Peach. Y’brought it back to the surface,” he reminded her. “Did y’see the moon?” He asked pointing up. “Saw it on m’way over.”

It was the entire reason she was out there, but she was never going to tell Harry that ever. She would let him point out the moon every day of their lives because it was the sweetest thing in the world, and he was the only person in her life that cared to look for it on her behalf. “She’s so pretty, isn’t she.”

“Stunning,” he murmured but he was looking at her and kissing along the length of her hairline.

She laughed. “Harry,” she giggled. “I meant the moon.”

“Mmm... I love you,” he whispered.

She sighed deeply, her heart feeling so warm and so happy. It seemed unfair that they took all this time to get to here, but God did it feel worth it. “I love you,” she answered. Harry cupped her face and pressed a kiss on her mouth the way he imagined kissing her for the entire time he knew her. She tasted like syrup, and it had been over twelve hours since she ate pancakes. She was just that sweet. As much as she reminded him of the moon, she was warm like the sun, and he loved holding her so much. She was light, love, and simply perfect for him in every single way.

“M'a lucky guy, Peach,” he mumbled into her lips.

“Feeling is mutual,” she whispered back breathlessly.

There was a snap, and they were on the ground with a thud.

“Fuck!”

“Ow!”

“Jesus,” she hissed and then laughed. “That hurt.”

Harry laughed. “Are you alright?” He asked, turning on his side to look at her.

“I think my butt is going to bruise,” she giggled. “Are you alright?”

“M’hip is definitely going t’be sore, but m’fine,” he assured her.

They continued laughing at one another and the situation. The sound felt foreign to Harry and yet natural at the same time. It was a gorgeous sound, and she loved it so instantly that she wished she could record him and make it a ringtone every time he called and texted.

“You’re happy?” She asked once the sound of their laughter died long enough for her to speak.

Harry smiled and nodded. “God, Peach. Yeah. M’always happy around you.”

“Am I enough though?” She asked. Her voice sounded happy, positive. The way it always did. But it broke his heart to know she felt she had to ask.

Harry said he didn't hate the men she dated in the time he knew her, but right then he did. He hated every man that ever made her feel small. Hated the way they made her feel like she wasn't enough and that she was this burden or something. But he was so glad they felt that way because it led her right to him. “You’re more than I could ever imagine, Peach.”

--

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[godslino]

2:45a.m. | minho established relationship. fluff. dad!minho.

pairing: minho x fem!reader word count: 2.5k summary: when a storm hits, minho makes sure your daughter is able to fall back asleep

· · · ♡ masterlist · · · ♡ taglist · · · ♡

You’re not sure what wakes you first: the crack of thunder or the resulting cry.

Your entire body jolts, the room painted in a flash of white that disappears just as quickly as it came. The weather report had stated that there would be a storm, however ones this bad were uncommon, especially in Seoul.

Another cry. It crackles through the baby monitor on the nightstand at the same time it echoes off of the walls of the other room. You move to kick the covers off when an arm stops you, warm and heavy where it’s thrown over your waist. You instantly relax into the touch, sighing when the tip of a nose brushes against the shell of your ear.

“I got her,” Minho mumbles, his voice raspy with sleep.

“It’s okay. You have an early morning, I can do it.” You argue, but make no move to get up.

Minho doesn’t respond, instead he knocks a kiss to your temple and tightens the blanket around you once he’s out of bed. You hear the soft pads of his feet against the floor and crack one eye open just in time to see him slip out of the room, his voice floating into the hallway, ‘Uh oh, what happened to the princess?’

The way the crying stops almost immediately is proof enough that it was a good thing Minho went in place of you. Seola is a fussy baby; she cries loud and wants incessantly—more than the usual ten month old. She can’t go anywhere without her elephant binky and hates wearing hats, if she doesn’t like a food she’ll snap her lips shut and turn her head until her face is pressed into the back of the high chair, when she’s angry she shakes a tiny fist in your direction and pounds it against your arm. But perhaps the most difficult thing, the one that has you wanting to pull your hair out most of the time, is that sometimes the only way to calm her down is if Minho is the one to do it.

A part of you always knew that your baby would favor Minho, as funny as it sounds. When you first got pregnant, one of the things the two of you were most excited for was being able to feel the baby kicking. Minho sang to your belly every night after you first broke the news, even as you laughed and told him that he or she didn’t have ears yet.

“So?” he questioned, glaring at you from where he had his head pressed against the bare skin of your stomach.

“You also know you don’t have to lift my shirt up, right?”

“Yeah? Well then I can’t do this,” he’d said before blowing a raspberry straight onto your belly button. His laughter then quickly turned into a string of apologies as he came to the realization that the sound might have been too loud, his hand rubbing soothing circles along the lower part of your stomach while you watched with fond eyes.

Minho never missed a night. He made sure that he was always home before you went to bed when he could be, oftentimes fighting with his manager to be let out early or skip practice entirely, promising to show up early the next day and put in the work on his own time. On the nights where he couldn’t make it or the two of you were separated by distance that made him want to give it all up, he called and made you press the speaker into your gradually hardening baby bump.

You and Minho found out that you were having a girl on the day of the first snow. The two of you watched with tear-filled eyes as the ultrasound technician pointed to the monitor in excitement, her smile detectable even beneath the mask she had covering her face.

“Congratulations! It’s a girl!”

Minho called his mom first. Her shouts of joy were so loud that he had to hold the phone away from his ear, his smile the brightest that you’d ever seen. Pride. He was so proud of his little family that he thought his heart might burst.

You called your parents next, and Minho held the phone up so that the two of you could give them the news through the camera, his free hand squeezing yours tightly as you cried and told them that you couldn’t wait for them to come visit once the baby came.

The members were last, all seven of them piled on top of one another on the couch in the practice room, Hyunjin and Changbin fighting over the fact that ‘I can’t see, asshole!’ and ‘You’re tall enough just stand in the back!’

Finding out the gender of the baby made everything more real. Bows and dresses and frilly socks—every time Minho came back to the apartment he had a shopping bag hanging from his arm. He spent most of the time on his phone looking at baby things and stuff that was completely unnecessary.

“What about this?” he asked, pointing his phone down to where your head was resting in his lap.

“Minho,” you scolded, glancing up at him with furrowed eyebrows, “I am not buying a booger straw for the baby.”

“It’s not a booger straw—”

“That is one hundred percent a booger straw. You literally have to suck the boogers out of their nose. Can’t we just buy a nasal suction like normal people?”

“What if it’s not efficient enough? I hate when my nose is stuffy, what more our baby? She won’t even be able to communicate with us, I feel so bad for her.”

“Oh God,” you groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over your face as Minho continued to explain in thorough detail why a booger straw was a necessity in that very moment, even though your due date was still months away.

As time passed and your stomach grew, so did the nerves Minho had about not being present enough. With the nature of his career, it was hard for him to not feel like he wasn’t excessively absent most of the time. Stress took a toll on him, mentally and physically. It wore him thin until the circles under his eyes were the worst you’d ever seen and his mornings couldn’t start without a mandatory dosage of ibuprofen to dull the headache he had the minute he woke up.

Minho was doubtful. He had dreams that his daughter wouldn’t know who he was and that his moments with her would be spent through a phone call rather than with his arms wrapped around her tiny body. He felt like he had already failed a million times without ever even having the chance to prove himself.

On the night the baby kicked for the first time, Minho came home late.

Pregnancy fatigue had taken its toll on you that day. You’d remained in bed, too nauseated to move and aching throughout the entire expanse of your back. Minho worried the moment he woke up, but you’d urged him that you were okay and sent him on his way to the company, practically begging him to leave rather than to deal with another earful from his manager about absences. Luckily for you, his mom was able to come over, and you let her dote on you as well as cook and clean as much as she pleased.

You’d fallen asleep early, your stomach full of homemade food and blankets freshly washed, leaving Minho in a frazzled state because you hadn’t picked up his calls for his nightly belly-singing session. To top it all off, dance practice ran late because of a last minute formation change that needed to be perfected before the next day’s performance.

When he finally made it home, Minho booked it to the bedroom, dropping to his knees next to the bed to place his hands on your stomach as you slept peacefully on your side, your head tucked into the crook of your elbow.

Sometimes, unbeknownst to you, Minho would wake in the middle of the night and talk to your stomach, talk to the baby. It was a little self-indulgent, some alone time for him to speak all of his worries, fears, hopes, and dreams out into the world. That night, it was just them again. Just Minho and the baby.

“I’m home,” he’d said quietly, rubbing soft circles into the material of your shirt, “Daddy’s sorry he’s late. It’s snowing outside, so I couldn't drive too fast.” He waited a few seconds before starting to sing, his voice soft, quiet enough that he wouldn’t wake you up:

펄, 펄, 눈이 옵니다

peol, peol, the snow is falling

하늘에서 눈이 옵니다

the snow is falling from the sky

하늘 나라 선녀님들이

the heavenly seonyeos

송이 송이 하얀 솜을

the white cotton

자꾸 자꾸 뿌려 줍니다

it keeps sprinkling

Minho had moved forward once he was done, resting his cheek against your stomach as gently as possible. He let his eyes focus on the snow falling outside the window, the city covered in a thin blanket of white.

“You’re gonna need a name soon, huh?” he asked, lightly drumming his fingers against your belly. “We found out you were a girl on the first snow, did you know that? My little snow girl. My—wait. Seola means snow girl. That’s pretty, right? Do you like that?”

Minho, not expecting a response, nearly screamed when he felt the softest of thumps against the skin of your stomach, just beneath the palm of his hand.

“What—” Kick.

“B-Babe.” He said, louder this time, sitting up straight to stare at your stomach with wide eyes. You stirred awake, shifting slightly to crack an eye open.

“Minho? You’re home? What are you—”

“Has she been kicking?”

You shook your head, pushing yourself up to rest your back against the headboard. “No, of course not, I would’ve told you if she did. Why? Did something—” You were cut off by the strongest kick yet, your hand flying to your stomach.

“Seola.” Minho had said again, his voice cracking halfway through when another kick came before he could even finish speaking.

From that moment on, Minho knew in his heart that your daughter’s name was always meant to be Seola. He’d talk endlessly about how he would always treat the first snow of the year like a second birthday, and he’d always make it a point to say her name whenever he was talking or singing to your belly.

Much like now, with his back turned to you, Minho’s voice is still as gentle as ever.

“Sometimes when the air is angry it makes electricity,” he says, swaying back and forth as Seola rests her cheek against his shoulder. Her eyes are droopy, heavy with sleep as Minho talks to soothe her back to bed. “And then the lightning makes the air really really hot, and it goes boom.” He pats her back a few times, shushing her when she brings a fist up to her face to rub it angrily. He hums a soft melody, something nonsensical, quiet enough to lull her to sleep but also loud enough to overpower the sound of heavy rain hitting the window.

You watch as he lays her back in her crib, black hair fanned out around her head as he places a warm hand on her stomach to keep some added weight on her body until he’s certain she’s sleeping deeply.

“Oh look,” you say from the doorway, making him jump, “You bored her back to sleep.”

Minho laughs, light and airy, walking over to wrap his arms around you and rest his cheek against your head.

“Jealous that she likes my voice more?”

Minho’s voice, still deep with sleep, rumbles beneath his chest, right where you have your face pressed into it. You take a deep breath, inhaling him as best as you can, his cologne mixing with the smell of baby powder and Seola’s soap.

“No, I just wish you would come back to bed now and bore me to sleep too.”

A hand runs up and down your back, Minho’s adam's apple bobs when he swallows too hard. “I wouldn’t have to if you stayed there like I told you to.”

“I just wanted to check on you,” you sigh, “Also it’s nice to see the two of you together. I don’t get to see it a lot, y’know?”

Minho stills on his feet, and you pull back in time to catch the ghost of a frown on his face.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, “I know. I’m—fuck, I have to be gone tomorrow too.” He runs a hand through his hair, and you can practically see the guilt worming its way into his head.

Determined to stop the inevitable self-loathing, you bring your hands up to cup his face, your thumbs running gently along the corners of his mouth. He melts into the touch immediately, closing his eyes and exhaling out of his nose.

“That’s not what I meant. I just like to cherish the time we have when all three of us are together, that’s all. This isn’t a ‘you versus me’ thing, okay? This is me and you making do with what we have.”

“Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah I know. Me and you.”

“Always.” You smile, leaning up to press your lips together.

With the thunder no longer rumbling overhead and the rain lighter than it had been earlier, you and Minho deem it safe enough to retreat into your bedroom without running the risk of Seola being woken up again.

“Do you want me to explain the force of gravity?” He whispers, playful but weak where his fatigue is starting to seep into his bones.

You laugh and tuck your face into his neck, his arms tightening around you on instinct. When you don’t answer, he knows that he doesn’t have to speak for you to drift off to sleep; knows that no matter what you’ll always be at home tucked into his side, and eventually lets sleep overtake him too.

When morning hits the sky is cloudy and the room is painted in a pale gray. The spot next to you is cold, sheets still tousled from sleep where Minho had been. You frown, glancing at the baby monitor on the nightstand that’s oddly quiet. It’s not normal for you to wake without the sounds of Seola beating your internal clock to it.

Your confusion only grows when you step into the hallway, the sounds of light snoring drifting out from the nursery. When you breach the doorway, you stop short, your heart doubling in size at the sight before you.

Minho is there, slumped against the side of the crib, his head leaning on one of the slats of wood and his arm shoved through the gap, Seola’s hand wrapped tightly around his finger. He must’ve gotten worried at some point in the night, scared that the rain would wake her again.

You inch forward to kneel beside him, running a hand through his hair and smiling when the touch makes his nose twitch. Seola’s own does the same when she sleeps, a little mole on the tip of her right nostril, just like her dad has on his left nostril. A direct reflection of one another; of love in its purest form.

On the floor beside him, Minho’s phone lays open:

To: Chan [2:45a.m.]

I won’t be in later

Find a way to manage without me

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